“You probably have a better idea of that than I do,” he says ominously. “Seeing as how you claim you didn’t touch her.”
“I said I didn’t rape her,” I clarify. “And I didn’t drag her kicking and screaming into my room either. She came at me. Besides, I’m still not even convinced the girl I was with is Willow Stepanova. Attacking an unarmed man with a knife doesn’t sound like the actions of some innocent, sweet little pianist, daughter of a mafiya lord or not.”
But it’s starting to sound more and more like the actions of a spurned daughter, alright—just not Mischa’s. Gritting my teeth, I glower from the window and try to refocus on what matters. Making it through this meeting with my hide intact, for one. Doing whatever it takes to keep Vin out of any potential feud.
In short—be on my best goddamn behavior.
“Well, let’s be sure before the man comes, why don’t we?” Fabio reaches into his pocket and withdraws a folded slip of paper. A photograph.
And the woman staring up from the glossy surface renders me silent.
“So, it was her, you son of a bitch,” Fabio snarls, shoving the picture into my hand. “God damn it, Don! I got that picture from her fucking school files. Look innocent and sweet enough for you?”
And by God, she does. Pale as snow, hair like spun gold, eyes that soul-sucking shade of brown. She cleans up nice, the little tigre, her hair in a neat bun and a starched white blouse in lieu of a low-cut dress—but even as she smiles, I’d recognize that stern tilt to her mouth anywhere.
“I don’t understand,” I blurt out loud, swiping my finger across that beautiful face.
Fabio laughs. “You fucked up, Don,” he says, fishing yet another cigarette from his pocket. He lights it up and inhales deeply, flicking the ash into the base of a nearby potted plant. “To be honest, you were probably drunk. I wouldn’t blame you if you were, but now you need to make this right. Wait for Mischa; I don’t care if it takes him a fucking week to show. You wait for him, and you make this right. Understood?”
I hiss out a sigh of agreement. “Yes, Mama. I’ll be a good boy.”
Fabio jabs the lit butt of his cigarette toward me and nods. “I’m going to hold you to that, Don. As for addressing Mischa, do you remember what terms to use?”
Now I really feel like a scolded schoolboy. “That outfit of his likes to refer to their leaders as Pakhan.”
“Good,” Fabio says. “I suggest you practice your pronunciation as we wait.”
Trailing a cloud of smoke in his wake, he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
I slump into the chair, still eyeing the picture in my grasp. With the pad of my thumb, I trace the pouty line of the woman’s mouth, imagining it curled into a snarl, those eyes filled with hate.
“What the hell did I do to you, little tigre?” I murmur.
But the potential answer is too insane to consider seriously. I swat it away for as long as I can before it unfurls in my mind regardless.
Safiya Mangenello, all grown up, somehow rescued from her fate by a man with a reputation fearsome enough to strike terror into the devil himself. It sounds too surreal. Too much of a fantasy. Not to mention that even if Safiya did survive, her birthday would have been months ago, not days.
And if Mischa did get a hold of the girl, then it was probably with an aim in mind more sinister than adoption. Nicolai Brayshnikov certainly isn’t known for fostering a nurturing environment for children or women.
Regardless, Mischa bought her, and despite how impossible it seems to believe…
His Willow could be my Safiya.
After seven years, the tables have finally turned. With Mischa on her side, my girl has the power to destroy me.
And Hell…I can’t blame her if she did.
17
Don
Nearly three hours pass before I sense the mood in the entire building shift. The place falls silent as if someone flipped a switch. Any chatter drifting from the hallway dies instantly. Hell, no one so much as coughs.
Footsteps approach next, and Fabio opens the door, followed by another man who needs no introduction.
Mischa Stepanov has been a boogeyman for so damn long that meeting him in person, I’m struck by the fact that he is just another man. A tall one, his blond hair hanging loose around his shoulders, his dark eyes cold.
He wears a pair of faded green combat fatigues, eschewing the suit and tie dress code Fabio insisted on. With a sweep of his gaze, he sizes me up without extending his hand in a customary greeting.
“Pakhan,” I say, rising to my feet. Hands in my pockets, I don’t know what to do other than incline my head in respect. “Thank you for meeting me like this—”
“The only reason my boot isn’t on your throat is because my daughter asked me not to kill you,” he says, his accent so thick the pronunciation gives his words an ominous twist.
I grit my teeth just to trap a stupid question in my throat where it belongs. Did she ask verbally? That alone would disprove the theory of her being Safiya.
And assuage my guilt.
I still can’t reconcile the obvious. The way she reacted to the girl’s name. The mere fact that she seemed very intent on driving a knife through my chest. No other reason fits unless I drunkenly laid with the man’s daughter at some party within the past year—and given that she’s been supposedly sequestered at a prestigious conservatory, I doubt that.
Not to mention I know for a fact she’s a virgin.
“I figured you would be begging by now,” Mischa remarks with a scoff. He takes a step, and Fabio lurches as if he means to throw himself between us.
“Shall we sit?” he asks, ever the stickler for protocol. “Please, allow me to—”
“On your
