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

Before…
My life was even more sheltered than it is now. Most girls would be embarrassed by the lack of traditional milestones, I think. I had no real mother to guide me then—mine was too busy partying. No, my modest presents were always clumsily wrapped by a man who could master a weapon but never understood the concept of a ribbon. Still, he tried if only to make me happy. Even my cakes, he would bake himself, coloring the icing whatever happened to be my favorite hue that year. Without fail, he’d attempt to write my name across the top and always run out of room, forcing him to condense it into his affectionate moniker—Safy. Afterward, he would sing to me in Italian despite his preference that we practice English at home. To make me laugh, he’d sing in as high a pitch as he could, straining his deep baritone so that it comically broke as the song went on. Happy birthday to you, my Safiya…
His voice has never left me. Long after he turned his back on me and walked away, I can still hear him, echoing inside my skull. “Do with her what you will,” he’d said to the stranger keeping me restrained. “I don’t care.”
My throat thickens as my eyes blur, obscuring my view from the windows. Desperately, I blink back any threat of tears, choking them down. The past is the past—and I made peace with mine a long time ago.
Or maybe I haven’t…
The billboard just gives me an excuse to confess the obvious—he will always live in my head, smiling that goofy, deceitful grin while balancing my lopsided cake on one hand and a present on the other.
“Miss Willow?”
I look over to find the back seat door open and Evgeni standing on the other end. The car has stopped, I realize. Before me looms a stoic structure formed of gray stone and creeping ivy.
“We’re home,” Evgeni says, extending his hand for me. “True to my word, I haven’t called to inform anyone. That’s bought you a few minutes of peace, but the sooner you face your parents, the sooner everyone else can pretend you won’t notice the parade of caterers streaming in through the back.”
Eager for a new distraction, I scramble out and crane my neck to take in the house fully. As my gaze drifts over the familiar architecture, my lips quirk, and my heart swells with pride.
“It might not be some fancy university,” Evgeni remarks, “but I guess it does hold some charm, doesn’t it?”
I nod. Stepanov Manor is relatively old by most standards, lacking the modern embellishments that adorn the fancy mansions of the wealthier students at the conservatory. Even so, its worn stone walls convey a familial softness no other dwelling could come close to. Expansive emerald lawns lush with rose gardens create a world apart from the harsh reality waiting beyond these walls.
It’s paradise. Always, when I’m here, it’s like being transported to another realm, one where the harsher realities of the world could never encroach. A place where someone like Donatello Vanici doesn’t exist, and where my only identity is that of a beloved daughter.
But, as I approach the servant’s entrance, I have no delusions about the cost of such peace. Much like my idyllic childhood, all of this security and luxury is made possible by the sheer efforts of one man who rules it all.
And no matter how beautiful it seems…
This paradise is paid for with blood.

4
Willow
“Pretend to be surprised,” Evgeni warns as he hauls my bags through the servant’s entrance. We’re alone in this spacious back hallway, but already telltale signs of the impending party are obvious. Stacks of boxes clutter the space, leaving barely enough room to reach the nearby breakroom beside the stairs. An audible commotion warns of a flurry of chaos taking place throughout the house. Paramount among the noises? Child-like shouting.
“Hurry.” Evgeni nods to the stairs and winks. “I’ll have these brought up and unpacked later. You have maybe five minutes before the others sniff you out, so enjoy it.”
I start up the back stairwell feeling my throat tighten. The wooden floors creak beneath my steps as if welcoming me back, and I can’t resist trailing my fingers along the worn beige walls. Excitement tinges the air, giving the old structure a renewed sense of wonder. Six months away might as well have been six years. Before I even reach my bedroom on the second floor, I have a grim suspicion as to what might await me. As expected, I’ve barely pushed my door open when I see it, draped over my bed with loving care.
My hand falls to my side as the door sways, obscuring the sight from view for a split-second before revealing it again in breathtaking glory—a gown fit for any debutante.
I’m immediately flashed back to over seven years ago, the first time someone presented me with a similar dress. That garment had been part of a ruse in which I was meant to smuggle drugs for a criminal. It might as well have been a funeral dress.
The presentation this time is admittedly far different. I creep toward it, tallying up the differences as I go. A soft, creamy off-white, this gown spans the length of my childhood bed. Tentatively, I run my fingers over a bodice formed of delicate interlocking lace and marvel at the feel. Silk, I suspect, buttery soft to the touch.
It’s beautiful—but much like my first white dress, the purpose of this newer one is more figurative than anything else. Wearing it, I’ll be a dove, finally let loose from her protective cage.
I’ll be presented to the world as a Stepanova.
“Do you like it?” a voice calls tentatively from the doorway. I turn to find Ellen, my adoptive mother, standing there, her blue eyes as perceptive as always. “I thought I’d heard someone moving around this wing two hours too early. Welcome home!”
She approaches me, cradling her swollen belly with one hand