He says it with so much derision. Reason. How dare anyone try. I’m merely an avatar for his hate, or lust, incapable of any rational thought. My primary purpose in life is to thwart him.
Not this time. I won’t let him play the victim.
Cautiously, I reenter the kitchen and find it empty, but my hunch wasn’t wrong. He is close. Commotion comes from the main hall, and I creep there to find Donatello throwing open the front door as if he plans on running out after me, his eyes blazing.
For a heartbeat, the rest of the world mutes as I take in the sight of him.
He changed into a black suit, but it hangs loosely on his bulky frame, the collar unbuttoned, shirt untucked. In contrast, a figure standing by the steps cuts a stunning silhouette in a crisp navy suit. Fabio. The only item distracting from his ensemble is a cream-colored shopping bag hanging off his left wrist.
“I suggest we organize a more thorough search,” he says. “I’m sure she couldn’t have gone far. Have you looked everywhere—” he turns his head, spotting me. “Speak of the devil. She’s right here.”
“What?” Donatello whips around, and the force of his attention hits like a physical blow.
Somehow, facing him in the harsh light of day is worlds apart from the creature he can seem in the dark. There’s no vulnerability. No shadows to hide the worry lines etched around his mouth or dampen the intensity of his eyes. Narrowed to slits, they rake over me with none of the lingering interest he displayed just hours ago.
“Where the hell were you?” His voice penetrates my skin, infecting the muscle underneath. I jump instinctively, and yet I have enough sense of mind to tuck the letter behind my back, out of his view. Or so I think. His head cocks, following the movement of my arm. “What do you—”
“That doesn’t matter!” Beaming, Fabio advances down the hall, blocking me from view. Before I can react, he slips an arm around my shoulders, angling my body toward him. I stiffen, but he’s too busy steering me past Donatello to notice my discomfort. “What matters is she’s safe and sound. Though, apparently you weren’t the only one who forgot to get dressed this morning—” He casts my clothing a wary glance. I’m still wearing the dress I wore last night. Olivia’s, to be exact.
“Luckily, the meeting with Mischa has been canceled,” Fabio adds.
He sounds cheerful almost—nowhere near as panicked as he should be. I am. My brain jumps to the most likely reason why Mischa would refuse to meet—because he’s planning something far more thrilling than afternoon tea.
“We’ve rescheduled for tomorrow,” Fabio explains, picking up on my unease. “Though, I did manage a different arrangement for Willow in particular, at the hospital later this afternoon—”
“You didn’t.” Donatello’s tone is so cold I half-expect ice to form over my skin.
I don’t understand why he’s so hostile at first. Then I remember—he’s not the only one with family at the hospital.
“Of course, I did,” Fabio says, an eyebrow raised. “What better way to test both yours and Mischa’s commitment to this bogus engagement?” To me, he flashes the faintest hint of a smile. “Your mother is awake, my dear. Would you like to see her?”
A wave of emotions washes over me, countered only by the glare Donatello shoots our way. But even he can’t detract from a rare bit of good news. Ellen is awake. Though, who knows what Mischa has told her...
“Willow?”
Meeting Fabio’s gaze, I nod.
“Good. Then it’s settled,” he says, guiding me to the stairs. I get the sense that he’s positioning himself strategically behind me as a barrier against anyone who might approach from below. “I’ll make all of the arrangements,” Fabio says, raising his voice. “It will have to be a short visit, and contingent on your mother’s condition, of course, but it will give you at least some time.”
“And plenty of time for Mischa to mount an attack while she’s gone,” Donatello snaps.
His steps resonate through the floor, and I risk looking over my shoulder to find him mounting the bottom rung of the staircase. I make the mistake of meeting his gaze—and the house, Fabio, and the entire world vanish.
If I hoped that he wouldn’t remember last night, one look at his eyes proves the opposite. He has.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he demands now, in a tone reminiscent of crackling hellfire. “In all of your scheduling, you left out me visiting Vincenzo.”
Fabio. He’s talking to Fabio—a fact that doesn’t sink in until the other man turns to face him. “Don… I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Bullshit.”
“No—” Fabio nearly trips while mounting the next step. “He’s still recovering from surgery, but as soon as there is a marked improvement in his situation, I’ll escort you there myself.”
Donatello’s eyes flit in my direction, and I feel a sudden urge to shield myself in any way I can. With my hands. By running. Hiding. In his gaze, every inch of myself is on display. Nothing is hidden.
Nothing.
“Did you draw up the papers?” he asks, still speaking to Fabio. “Even if Mischa gets a reprieve today, I don’t think we should allow him to forget the terms. No one should forget them. I want every fucking detail in writing.”
“And you’ll get that,” Fabio insists. “In fact, wait for me in your office, and we can go over the terms one on one.”
“Terms,” Donatello hisses, his nostrils flaring. “I think it’s about time I devise a few of my own.”
He storms off, barreling in the direction of his study. I sense that the last part of his statement was directed solely at me.
“Willow?” Fabio taps my shoulder. “Are you alright?”
I’m shivering. Forcing a nod, I mount the rest of the stairs on trembling legs. That pink room is a haven I practically race for, fumbling to get the door open.
“I brought you some clothes,” Fabio says,
