It would be even better if she had Stepanova branded across her fucking forehead. Though, hell, I could always do it for her. Get a knife and carve that name into her pretty flesh, letter by letter. My fingers twitch against my desk, and I picture the dagger I left somewhere upstairs. Her blade, the perfect tool to do it with. A bloody brand would ensure there is no forgetting who or what she is.
A toy.
A distraction.
An albatross around my fucking neck.
Instead of branding her, I could always just kill her. Wrap my hands around that pretty throat and squeeze. Mischa no doubt has a trust set aside in her name. As her husband, I could stand to collect it all.
Though what use would I have for a fucking fortune? The only reasonable answer is a name, just one. Vincenzo. At the end of the day, marrying her is a distraction. My only goal is to give my heir the life he deserves.
No matter the cost.
I lean back into the leather seat as my attention rightfully turns to him. Vinny. As I see it, two factors dictate his future—money, and security. The second should be the easiest to accomplish. Once I marry Willow, I’ll propose an out to Mischa—a divorce in exchange for a promise. The fucker will have no choice but to uphold his word. I play my cards right, and Vincenzo will have his balls in a vice for the rest of his life.
As for the money…
Killing the girl could garner him more than enough, but it’s too risky. There’s another way, though. Another time, I might have shied away from it, but not anymore.
I already owe Vincenzo my life. Why not let him profit from it?
“I wouldn’t be so concerned about the Stepanovs as I would be about yourself,” Fabio scolds from the doorway of my office. He’s smiling, but it’s strained at the edges. I recognize the look.
“Am I in for a scolding?” I raise an eyebrow. “Or is that your idea of a threat, Fab?”
“You know what? I would threaten you to take care of yourself if I thought you’d listen. You look like hell, Don.”
I use his change of subject to ignore the suspicion eating away at the back of my skull. He was upstairs for a few minutes, at least. With her. Scheming?
I wouldn’t put it past him in his quest for peace and harmony.
“We can’t all spend our days shopping,” I counter, noticing the bag he had before is gone.
“Even the finest tailor can’t help you if you don’t brush your hair and shave, at least.” Laughing, he enters the room, but I never trust Fab’s brand of charm. He’s better than anyone at concealing his true feelings. You have to hunt for the truth in what he doesn’t say.
“I’ve been sober for too damn long,” I counter, playing along. “We could always move your little rendezvous to the bar?”
“And while I’m glad that you’ve laid off the drink,” he adds as if I never spoke, “there is the matter of withdrawal…”
And there it is, the truth he’s been dancing around—he’s worried. Perhaps for a good reason. A dull ache throbs behind my temples despite my best attempts to ignore it. Still, I shrug.
“I’ll try to find time to check into a rehab in between this insane wedding stunt and making sure that Mischa doesn’t try to finish off Vincenzo. Or that his daughter doesn’t lead his personal army to our door—”
“Rehab would be a good start after everything you’ve been through,” Fabio interjects, suddenly serious. “For now, we can start with this—” he withdraws a small brown vial from his pocket, rattling the contents within.
Given its size, I take a wild guess. “Pills? I thought drugs weren’t your thing.”
“Unprescribed pharmaceuticals are not.” He crosses to the desk setting the vial within my reach. “These, however, were suggested by a doctor whose opinion I trust. Librium. It’s a taper, just for a few days to keep you from seizing on your path to sobriety. You’re a tough son of a bitch, but no one can quit cold turkey. I wasn’t kidding before—you look like utter hell.”
“I think I’m more of an expert on that dominion than you,” I say, picturing the fiery abyss awaiting the end of this long, fucking life.
If all goes to plan, I’ll be there soon enough. What’s a seizure from withdrawal compared to a bullet to the brain?
“Don’t be a masochist,” Fabio snaps, slamming his hand against the desk. “You’ve got that look about you. I don’t like it. Take a damn pill.”
I snatch the vial and tap out a green capsule onto my palm. “Happy?”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns. “I specifically told him to put you on the smallest dose possible. You won’t be getting high on my watch.”
“Thanks, Mama Fab.” I salute him before choking down the capsule.
“Good. Now we can discuss the real reason why I’m here, apart from mothering you.”
I sigh at his tone. Dramatics aside, I’m not in the mood. My head is throbbing like a motherfucker, my tongue buzzing. I could chalk the discomfort up to withdrawal, but the true cause is deeper than that. I still taste her. Feel her. Smell her. She’s the only substance infecting my blood, turning my own body against me.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this hard for this long. Hell, I should just get myself off, if only to smother the lust. Drive her out of my skull some way.
Because I’ll never experience that body in person. Those slender thighs and whatever lurks between them will forever remain a mystery—because I won’t fuck her.
I staked our engagement on it.
“Don?”
I look over to find Fabio staring, his smile replaced by a frown.
“You going to gape at me all day or get to the point?” I snap.
He tugs on his collar. “To get the trivial matters out of the way first, I don’t want you
