Chapter 4 Immovable Muscle
❦ Rosalind ❦
“That was a dangerous thing to do. He could have killed you!”
“But he didn’t.” I spun around to face Marcus, desperate to stop his grating voice and allow myself space to think.
“He knows better than to touch a hair on my head just after the death of his father. Let this be the last time you second-guess me in public.” I finished, my nails digging into my palms.
Marcus scowled, and in that moment, looked down at me like I was an unruly child. Then, he nodded and left.
Dante, my head bodyguard, followed me everywhere with his palm forever stuck to the grip of his gun. I had no doubts that he would’ve used it had any harm come to me.
After lunch at a restaurant, my stomach filled after Viktor had squeezed it dry with his gaze, I leaned against the grand piano in the living room, my heart still pounding from the meeting.
The bastard had threatened me, clear as day.
I hated how fear had made me run, but the expression in his eyes, the coldest gray eyes I’d ever seen, had chilled me to the bone.
He had watched my every movement like a hawk, searing into me and peeling back layer after layer. He was a dangerous man, and I had ticked him off.
I zoned out as Claudia led me to my room, shutting the door and locking Dante out. Immediately, as the lock clicked, my fingers started to shake, and suddenly I felt open and unprotected, glancing at the window to make sure Viktor wasn’t waiting to attack.
Claudia had stripped, washed, and dressed me before I realized why I was now robed in a charcoal-colored satin dress that cinched at the waist. She finished the chignon with an emerald hairpin to keep my hair in place. The hairpin matched a small emerald pendant nestled on my cleavage.
I fiddled with it, knowing that this charity-memorial was another act I had to nail.
Mafia elites, high-ranking families, and even politicians would be there. They would come not to mourn my father, but to see the hands in which his legacy now lay.
I stilled my hands, did my makeup, and slid into the backseat of my father’s black Cadillac. Dante and the rest of my protection, suited and heavily armed, boosted my confidence.
I was ready to be reintroduced into society.
My heels clicked as I navigated a path through floating silver trays carrying champagne flutes.
The eulogy had passed, and a few old men in expensive suits and their less-than-amused wives, jealous at the unabashed admiring gazes their husbands gave me, said soft-spoken words of encouragement and condolences to me.
And just as I’d expected, the tone soon shifted from somber to festive.
“Thank you so much for your generous donation, ma’am,” one of the fundraisers gushed. “Please fill this short form.”
I smiled at her earnest face, filling the form deftly.
A bustling blond journalist was trying to get my attention for a statement about my father’s tragic demise and the circumstances surrounding it, when I noticed him.
His broad shoulders filled a tailored black suit. His hair combed back in a style that tried, and failed, to soften the harsh lines of his face. His pleasant-to-look-at face.
I stole a glance at Dante’s and my guards’ positions, and was relieved to see them already paying attention to me.
Viktor Marino couldn’t hurt me without losing his life, and that, I guessed, was too big a sacrifice for him.
I sidestepped the journalist, nodding to the Chief of Naval Staff and his pastor wife on my way to get much-needed air.
I stepped onto the terrace, gulping the champagne to drown the scream threatening to tear through my throat.
It was all fake, the dancing, the introductions, the admiring glances. Everyone wanted something from me, be it money, connection, or association. It was dizzying.
“Overwhelmed?”
The voice came out of the shadows, startling me. My palm flew to my throat as I stepped back from the alcove.
Viktor.
“I’m surprised you attended,” I said honestly.
“You can barely stand, and your skin is blotchy with exhaustion,” he noted dryly.
“Thanks for stating the obvious,” I murmured, pressing the glass to my lips once more.
Dante would have never let him through to get to me, which meant he had come here before me. I couldn’t guess if it had been a coincidence or planned. It was most likely the latter.
“I asked you a question before, and you took it as a personal attack.”
I took a casual step back. “You did threaten to kill me.”
He took a step forward, his cologne wrapping around me like an icy cloak. Through the crackling in my chest and the tremor in my limbs, I stared back at him, my face as blank as his.
“What is your game plan?” His soft tone conveyed a trap I could foresee. “The hotel is a hotspot for bad men, and you cannot hope to keep a leash on them.”
“I wouldn’t have to. I have lawyers. I have Marcus…”
“What are you trying to prove?” Irritation seeped from his voice.
“What are YOU trying to prove by getting in my business?”
“That you’ll just get yourself killed. You don’t have a plan. There’s a murderer running around just waiting for the right moment to snuff you out…”
“What time is better than now?” I seethed, the champagne mixing with the fear and anger in my blood. “You have me cornered. Kill me then.”
In my anger, I hadn’t realized how close he was. I smelled his aftershave, felt the tremors of something dark pulsing beneath his skin, and tainting his breath.
“You’re irredeemably stupid, aren’t you?”
My breath caught at the insult. Then without thinking, I shoved him. Hard. Harder than I’d ever shoved in my life. He didn’t budge. In the brief contact my palms had with his body, I’d felt a thick wall of immovable muscle, tight and solid under the deceptive suit.
Just as I’d started to recite my last prayer, the bastard chuckled.
“You just proved my point.”
My face heated with embarrassment, and I slid sideways to escape the corner he’d backed me into. He grabbed my right wrist, raising it up to his gaze.
“How did you lose it?”
He was so close, his body heat, coupled with the reminder of how hard his muscles were under his suit, eliminated the chill of the evening, making it impossible to focus on a single thought.
“Huh?” was all I managed in response.
I watched him twist my prosthetic finger anticlockwise, the silicone-covered stub separating with a soft pop. The pop brought me back to my senses.
“Hey!” I yelled in a panic. “Give it back.”
“I asked you a simple question. How. Did. You. Lose. It?”
I stretched in my heels, but it was still out of reach.
“It’s none of your business,” I snapped.
His eyes flashed with evil intent, and he extended his arm over the railing. My eyes widened as I realized what he meant to do.
“No!”
Too late. He dropped it.
I leaned over the railing, watching as the expensive and well-made prosthetic finger bounced a couple of times before falling into a drain hole.
I felt his large, warm body press in close behind me, his breath tickling my ear.
“Wear it as a badge of honor. And maybe people would respect you a little more. Mafia princess.”
I tore my gaze from the ground, whirling around to slap him, shove him, anything in retaliation for what he just did. But he had vanished.
In my anger, I threw the champagne flute over the railing, the sound of it shattering on the ground below doing nothing to placate my rage.
Resentment lodged in my throat like a knife as I walked back into the ballroom, only to run into a stiff shoulder at the corner.
I gathered myself as the figure turned, his glare sharp enough to burn holes into my skin.
I gasped, freezing in recognition as I watched his glare morph into a surprised smirk.
Orlov Conti. The son of a bitch who cut off my finger.