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

his grip becomes on the world around us. God help the poor men who fall for Jona or Marnie.
Or me.
“I’m going to find the others,” Eli declares, apparently bored with our reunion already. “Go get some sleep.”
I watch him skip off, and a part of me throbs in a subtle, aching way. I miss the days when I could have raced off with him and wrestled in the dirt with the others. Our gap in ages never really mattered, until one day it did.
And it became more apparent than ever what an anomaly I am in this family. Like an off-note in an otherwise flawless aria. You don’t notice it at first—perhaps one might assume it’s part of the song. But the more you play the piece, the more pronounced that one note sounds.
Until it’s all you can hear, grating above the rest.
Destroying the otherwise harmony.

5
Willow
I can’t sleep for long. Restless, I start to wander the halls, scanning the shadows that drape the hallways and the occasional painting I pass. Judging from the quiet, everyone else is already asleep this time of night, leaving the manor an eerie shell of its daytime chaos. It feels so strange to be alone in the heart of such a bustling hive of activity.
Until suddenly, I’m not. A figure appears near the top of the grand staircase, his silhouette recognizable even in the dark. With a nod of his chin, he beckons me closer. “Mouse,” he says, his old childhood nickname for me, given my obvious silence. “Come.”
He descends the steps, leaving me to follow him into his study.
“I’ve had to learn pretty damn quick how to read your expressions,” he declares, observing me from behind his desk. I doubt he’s even gone to bed yet, considering he’s still wearing his clothing from earlier. Sharp with intensity, his dark eyes scan my face. “You’re thinking about something, and I doubt it has anything to do with a party,” he gruffly surmises. “You and I never mince words, so tell me what’s on your mind.”
He’s right, but I don’t even know how to broach this topic. What to say. That I’ve been thinking too much of the past? Wanting answers I shouldn’t pursue.
“I know that look,” Mischa grumbles, apparently more perceptive than I’ve given him credit for. “You have the same look about you that Eli did when he asked me what happened to the bastard who sired him. It’s only understandable; you’re thinking about the past.”
I swallow hard, caught off guard by the admission. Eli never once mentioned his biological father, at least not to me. Mischa has always been “Papa” in his world. As far as I know, his real father had been a monster who separated him from his own mother at birth.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told him,” Mischa says gruffly. “I’ll answer whatever questions you have, but I will not coddle you, and nothing I may say will ever change my love for you.” His eyes shine in the dim glow cast by a sole lamp, and I feel a painful mixture of hope and dread crawl up my throat.
With a wave of his hand, he indicates the leather chair before his desk while he claims the one across from it.
“What is it you want to know?” he asks, folding his hands before him as I sit.
I feel my fingers twitch helplessly, unsure of where to start. Unlike Eli, signing is not his forte, so I reach for a slip of blank paper resting on his desk, and he hands me a pen.
Cautiously I write a single question—what do you know about me?
It’s a question I’ve dreaded proposing for so long. I’m holding my breath in anticipation of his answer.
“About the man who sold you?” he wonders, cutting to the heart of the matter.
I wince. Hearing it out loud triggers a wave of emotions I didn’t expect. Pain. Confusion. Sadness. Rage…
Donatello. Once upon a time, he could have been known only as the man I admired more than anyone else in the world. The man who labored to acknowledge my birthday every single year in lieu of my parents. Who swore to protect me.
All lies. He’ll forever be regarded merely as the man who sold me.
I’ve never asked Mischa about him, because I never wanted to know just how much my new guardian might know about my past. About Donatello. And if he did know…
Why let him live so close to us, in a city just a car ride away? Why let him live at all? Why let him thrive?
The thoughts are vengeful and childish, but they fester no matter how hard I try to ignore them. Mischa loves me; I know he does—but an irrational sense of betrayal makes it harder to think clearly.
Because if he does care for me so much, then why hasn’t he hunted down Donatello on his own? Why hasn’t he punished the man who hurt me?
All I can see is his face. His smile, mocking me seven years later.
“Nicolai never told me his name,” Mischa says, referring to another man I’ve strived to forget—Nicolai Baryshnikov, a slave trader, among other things. The same man he unwittingly rescued me from. “What do you remember?”
I lift the pen, pressing the nib to the page, but as the seconds pass, I can’t bring myself to write anything more than a faint, hollow line. Shaking my head, I set the pen aside altogether.
“I won’t tell you what to feel,” Mischa says with a heavy sigh. “But maybe it’s for the best that you don’t remember.”
He rises and approaches me. His hands settle over my shoulders, urging me to my feet, and I’m in his arms again, crushed to his chest.
“You are my daughter,” he tells me. “Mine. No one will ever harm you. Never. Do you understand?”
I can only nod, burying my face against his shoulder the way I would when I was a child. My eyes burn, welling with tears