Mikhail is waiting for me outside, leaning casually with his back against the hood, but the moment he sees the mark on my face, he straightens and stares intently into my eyes. I bow my head and keep walking, a wave of shame engulfing me. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed—it’s not my fault that I have an asshole for a parent—but I still am.
Mikhail’s hand enters my field of vision as he places a finger under my chin and tilts my head up. He turns my head slightly to the side, inspecting my cheek.
“Your father?” he asks through clenched teeth, and I nod. “You know, I changed my mind.” He takes my bag and throws it onto the passenger seat through the window. “I would love to have a word with my father-in-law.”
“No,” I mouth and shake my head.
“I’m going to talk with Bruno,” he says in a calm voice. “You can stay here, or you can come in with me. There is a much better chance he’ll get out of that conversation alive if you come.”
I take a deep breath and lead him into the house.
Mikhail enters my father’s office without knocking, leisurely walks to his desk, and sits down in the chair I frequented quite often. I close the door and lean on it, not interested in getting any closer to my father than absolutely necessary.
“How dare you come in here unannounced?” my father barks. “Get out of my house!”
“It looks like I missed spelling out some ground rules for you, Bruno.”
“Rules? Are you serious?” My father laughs, stands up, and hits the table in front of him with his palm. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
It happens so quickly I barely manage to follow. Mikhail takes the decorative letter opener with one hand and my father’s wrist with the other, and plunges the thing right through the center of dear old Daddy’s palm and into the wooden desk.
The cry of pain that leaves my father’s mouth is chilling, and would have brought everyone inside the house rushing to his office if it wasn’t soundproofed. He was always paranoid about someone overhearing his secret conversations.
“Shut up, Bruno,” Mikhail says and leans back in his chair. “And don’t even think about pressing the alarm button I know you have under the desk. I’ll snap your neck before anyone arrives to save you.”
Miraculously, my father stops yelling, and the only remaining sounds are his labored breaths. He grabs the handle of the letter opener and tries to pull it out, but it doesn’t budge.
“Now, let’s clear up a few things,” Mikhail says. “You touch my wife again, in any way, I cut off your hand. I hear you speak bad about her, I cut out your tongue. You dare to even think about hitting her ever again, I cut off your head. Am I clear, Bruno?”
Instead of answering, my father just stares, his eyes wide like a madman’s.
“I don’t think you heard me, Bruno. How about now?” Mikhail takes the handle of the letter opener that’s still embedded in my father’s hand and starts rotating it.
“Yes!”
“Perfect.” Mikhail stands up and heads toward me. “Have a nice day, Bruno.”
I throw a look at my father, who is staring at Mikhail’s back, smile, and follow my husband out of the room.
I park the car, turn off the ignition, and look at Bianca. “Why did he hit you?”
It took me close to an hour to calm down enough to be able to speak about it. If I asked her while we were still close to her father’s house, I probably would have turned the car around and returned to kill the son of a bitch.
Bianca is staring ahead, her eyes are glassy as if she's debating with herself on whether to answer me or not. After a moment, she takes her phone, types a few words, and turns the display toward me.
He wanted me to spy on the Bratva for him. I declined.
Well, it’s nothing I wasn’t already expecting. “Why did you decline?”
She raises one eyebrow, types again, and gives me the phone.
I am not suicidal.
“Wise decision.”
I reach out and trace my finger down her cheek, keeping the touch light. Her skin is so soft, and touching it doesn’t bother me. Just the opposite. I brush her cheek once more, with the back of my hand this time. The redness vanished almost completely. I should have killed that bastard anyway.
The look on Mikhail’s face as he caresses my cheek is extremely puzzling. I can’t describe it. Maybe somewhere between surprise and confusion, but I might be wrong because neither of those make sense. He notices me watching him and removes his hand. I wish he didn’t.