Ruthless King: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 1)

is. I wouldn’t be half as fanatic a guardian as you are. But as much as you love him, you need to try showing some of that to the man in the mirror.”
I scowl at my reflection, barely visible on the polished surface of the bar counter. In that man’s dark gaze, I see only evil restrained by sheer willpower. I see violence. A lost soul destined to burn in the fires of hell where it belongs.
Then I blink, and I see a smaller face. Rounder, with wide, searching eyes and a hopeful smile. I don’t banish her this time. Reaching out, I stroke the edge of a tiny cheek, feeling only cold, hard wood in response.
“She would be nineteen by now,” I say, though I barely hear myself above the surging thump of my own heartbeat. The sound chugs away, mocking me with every steady beat. She’s dead, but I still live on. Stubbornly, this body lives, enduring the abuse I’ve put it through.
“Her birthday was in the spring. Little Safy. Nineteen.” I chuckle at the thought of it, picturing her dancing at her own debutante ball. The pain returns like a lance, ripping me apart—but still… My heart keeps beating on. “I promised her once I’d throw her a grand party, can you believe that? She was so excited. God forgive me, I promised her—”
“You’ve spent too damn long punishing yourself,” Fab snarls in disgust. “Enough. I think it’s time you strive for a little happiness, huh?”
He sets down a crisp stack of bills. It’s more than enough to cover the tab with a hefty tip to spare.
As he turns on his heel, he adds over his shoulder. “Oh, and Vin made me promise not to tell you, but he’s already used my card to charge a special gift to help cheer you up. It’s in your room.”
He winks, and I’m genuinely unnerved. Vin and Fabio’s “gifts” are rarely of the desirable variety. But hell, at least I’m distracted by the prospect enough to take another drink and clear my head.
“It better not be another glitter bomb or whatever the fuck those things are called,” I grumble, cringing at the memory of the pink sparkles I’d spent weeks trying to wash from my hair the last time the pair felt benevolent enough to give me a present.
Fabio just laughs. “Goodnight.”
When I finally tear myself away from the bar, I approach the group of rooms we rented on the hotel’s top floor. It was an expense well worth Vin’s supposed introduction to high society. I even gave him the pick of the lot with encouragement to enjoy himself with whoever he chose.
Deep down, I know the boy is too much of a goody-goody to take me up on the offer. In contrast to his, my room is a simple suite. I enter it, scanning the narrow space for any hint of Vin’s “present.”
I don’t have to look too hard. On the bed is a silver tray sporting a small white cake, upon which someone wrote in blood-red icing the phrase, “Best Papa.” Surrounding it is a crudely formed smiley face crafted out of what appears to be silver condom wrappers and a handful of the best damn cigars money can buy.
“Little bastard,” I scoff, swiping my finger through a dollop of icing. I’m smiling as I sample the taste. It isn’t bad, though it could be made of shit, and I’d appreciate it no less.
My boy. God bless his devious little soul.
Though maybe more devious than I thought…
A flicker of movement makes me pivot, instinctively reaching for my—still empty—pocket. The lack of a weapon I can easily rectify the second I can get to the safe in the closet. Though, as my eyes narrow over the intruder standing in the corner of the room, I let my hands fall, all thoughts of fighting forgotten.
Damn. An appreciative whistle escapes me as I stand straighter and inspect my visitor fully. For the first night in a while, I wholeheartedly regret dulling my senses with so much alcohol.
That’s the only explanation for why I might have overlooked the woman watching me from beside the bed. Slender and blond with dark eyes that swallow most of her delicate face, she brings a new meaning to the term present.
“Vinny, Vinny, Vinny,” I murmur on a long exhale as my gaze drinks her in. While a bit on the thin side, a tight black dress clings to her like a second skin, revealing more than enough curves to work with. Perky little breasts and a nice round ass to start.
My cock stirs for the first time in weeks, and the sensation triggers a legitimate concern. How long has it been since my last lay?
Too damn long.
“What a damn fine son you are, my boy!” Appreciation thickens my tone, but the blond doesn’t simper in gratitude for the compliment.
Instead, she raises her hand, and I stiffen as the light glints off the object she holds. I recognize the shape instantly, and—if anything—my pulse surges faster, excitement heightening my senses to a manic state of amusement.
The little minx has a knife.

Willow


Twenty-four hours earlier…
One of my composition professors is an accomplished pianist who has performed with various orchestras worldwide. Undeniably talented, he also happens to be a virulent misogynist. Working with him was a trying nine-week-long test of my patience.
I did learn something from him, though—a valuable lesson when it comes to dealing with men outside of my family—most are vain, selfish creatures unable to think beyond a pretty face. It’s an aggravating realization to come to, but there’s also power in that knowledge.
There is power in destroying some pompous lecher’s perceptions of success.
“A young girl shouldn’t be studying music, wasting her beauty away,” he’d scolded me during our first lesson. “You should be living your life, thinking pretty thoughts, and finding a husband to whisk you away.”
He’d shouted, of course, presuming that I was deaf instead of mute. With an eyebrow