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

smile and pray to God my act holds up.
It’s methodical insanity.
“We’re Fabio Botelli’s guests,” I say, gesturing to the slender man beside me. Just like I’d told him, he keeps his mouth shut, his smile as dumb as mine.
One look at these guards, and I know they’re no bumbling rent-a-cops. Ex-soldier is written all over their stiff posture and the cautious way they glance me over. Considering the reputation of the man who owns this property, I’m not surprised.
Nerves ripple through my belly, catching me off guard. I feel like a punk again, stepping up to the head of the famiglia for the first time, wearing my Sunday’s best. Little did I know, the dress shirt sported a fucking pizza stain on the collar. Old Giovanni had taken one look at me and scoffed, seeing through my act. He’d turned me away that time, warning that he didn’t work with “boys.” He only hired men.
This inspection feels no different, though one would hope a couple decades of experience would improve my chances. A week after that initial meeting, I’d returned to Giovanni, but with the added prestige of having shot one of his rivals at point-blank range. Bloodstains carry a bit more weight to them than pizza sauce. The old man had taken me on then and taught me the importance of casting an image. Of sowing a reputation based on fear. He bought me a brand-new shirt, and I made sure never to stain it. Hell, I still have it, a reminder of that valuable lesson.
If he could see me now, Giovanni would shake his head in disbelief. “You look plain, Donny,” he’d scold. “You are a lion among men dressed like a fucking sheep.”
In this city, aptly named Hell’s Gambit, sheep wear Italian designer suits and grease their hair to shine. They smile awkwardly before those in authority and simper just long enough to go undetected. Those sheep? They dine with the wolves, a position preferable to figuratively starving. Hell, I’d bleat if I thought it would help.
Luckily that aspect of this ruse doesn’t seem necessary. The guards share searching glances, and then one inclines his head. “This way, Sir.”
He gestures to the massive oak doors propped open to allow guests inside. With a few tense steps, we’re in, joining an advancing line of other guests.
Relief surges through my blood, mingling with the shot of whiskey I’d taken for good luck. I fall into step behind a woman dressed in a black gown and catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the wall. A crazy son of a bitch stares back, his eyes only slightly bloodshot, his hair the neatest I’ve seen it in days. His smile is charming, but the strain in his expression gives it all away—he’s desperate. In a sense, he looks like Mr. Hamlet did when he pled for his life before me.
What supposed method might explain this man’s madness?
That’s easy. Survival.
I’m here because the only other option is to lie down quietly and let the brutality of this city swallow me whole. I can’t, not even newly reformed as I am. Luckily, Mischa Stepanov, owner of this massive residence, has done the one thing worth prostrating myself at his mercy. An act powerful enough to change the entire Vanici legacy for the better.
He’s decided to present his daughter to the world on a silver platter.
So, call me insane. I’m here, ready to grovel.
And apparently, I’m not the only one. A queue of well-dressed guests extends both ahead of me and behind. On polished shoes and pointy heels, we tread over a floor burnished to shine, and into a home displaying breathtaking gothic architecture. A large central staircase dominates the entryway, and past that is a winding set of corridors capped by vaulted ceilings and grand arches. Eventually, we’re herded into a massive grand hall, every bit as impressive as the name would imply. Instantly, I find the rumors were true after all, and this isn’t some elaborate trap. The fearsome leader of the Russian mob has decided to throw a birthday party of all things, in honor of his eldest daughter. Fresh roses litter nearly every available inch of space. Soft white accents lessen the intimidating atmosphere cast by the house itself and the security presence out front. As the swell of elegant music reaches my ears, and I spot dedicated servers mingling with trays of food, some of my unease lessens.
“You see, Vincenzo? There’s a method to my madness,” I tell the boy beside me. He doesn’t look convinced, an eyebrow cocked, his mouth flat in a hard line. Balancing the gift on one hand, I flick his nose the way I used to when he was a kid, always giving lip. “Stop your pouting and smile, damn it. You have a principessa to charm.”
“A princess, huh? You’ve lost your mind,” Vin grumbles while tugging at the collar of his tux. Hell, it might be the first time in years that he’s worn one—I know for a fact that he spends more time hiding in the library of his fancy school these days, than dressing to impress. If he didn’t share my eyes, and the signature Vanici grin, I’d doubt we were related. My heir, the genius, who’d have thought?
What he makes up for in ambition—to become a doctor, of all things—he lacks in political savvy. Sadly, even a doctor must learn what this world comes down to in the end—filthy, dumb politics.
“It’s like a game of chess,” I explain for what has to be the millionth time. “You make your connections to stay ahead, or you’ll be the pawn in some other motherfucker’s game of checkmate.”
As usual, he rolls his brown eyes from behind the wire rims of his glasses. Apparently, the ways of the mob aren’t as interesting as medicine.
No better time to learn than now.
“This little party could change your entire life,” I insist, adopting the gravelly baritone of old Giovanni. “Sonny, with a move like this,