by Bethany-Kris
Kaz smirked, shaking his head. “No.”
Violet just stared at him. “Even after what you just said?”
“Even after that,” he confirmed.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not that bad of a guy, even for a Russian,” he said with a grin, “and I was taught that every lady deserves to be treated like one. Even if she isn’t being a very nice lady.”
Violet decided after that statement to sit still, be quiet, and hope the rest of the hour-and–a-half-long drive went by as smoothly as possible. It was probably unlikely that her father wouldn’t somehow find out where she had been, but maybe—just maybe—she could keep Kaz and the fact that he drove her home a secret.
Maybe.
When they finally did get into Manhattan, Violet didn’t have to say a thing about where she lived. Kaz navigated the streets like he had done it a hundred times before.
If she had to guess, she would say he had spent time where he wasn’t supposed to.
Just like her.
Park Avenue was a great deal quieter in the middle of the night than it was during the day. There was still traffic, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it usually was. Besides the occasional passerby, the street was practically empty.
Violet didn’t say a thing when the car rolled to a stop in front of the apartment building that belonged to her father. The fifteen-level complex held several condos of varying size and expense. It was older, the exterior lending credence to a time when gold detailing and warm shades were all the rage. Hers was one of the biggest and most costly, and at the very top. Her parents had used it on and off for years, but once she starting taking classes at Columbia, they handed the keys over to her to make travel easier.
“Thank you,” Violet said.
Kaz smiled. “Don’t say a thing about it.”
“Quite literally, huh?”
His laughter came out dark and rich.
Violet chose that moment to get out of the car before her errant, half-drunk thoughts might notice something else about the man she found attractive.
Wasn’t his appearance, attitude, and charm enough?
“Until the next time,” Kaz murmured from inside the vehicle.
Violet’s hand tightened around the passenger door. “There won’t be a next time.”
She heard the smirk in his tone when he replied, “There wasn’t supposed to be a next time after the first time we met, and look how well that turned out for us both.”
Violet blinked awake at the hard hammering coming from her left side. At first, she thought it was the throbbing in her head that was making all the noise, but she quickly figured out it wasn't.
Right about the time her brother cursed from outside her bedroom door.
“Cazzo Cristo. Violet, I swear to Dio. Get your ass out of that bed before I come in there and force you out of it.”
Violet pushed up from her pillow using one hand, but everything swam in her vision and the massive beating her head seemed to be taking increased enough to make her sick. She dropped right back down to the bed with a groan, burying her face into the pillow.
“Go away, Carmine,” Violet grumbled.
“Oh, good. You’re up.”
Her brother’s snarky, arrogant self was not what Violet wanted to deal with first thing in the fucking morning. Wait—was it even morning? She couldn't tell what with the way the light coming in from the window seemed to burn the eyeballs right out of her skull.
Hangovers were the devil.
“Violet, stop making me stand out here like a fool,” Carmine barked.
Violet glared at the bedroom door, willing her brother away. She turned over in the bed, hoping her silence and lack of response would make him think she had gone back to sleep.
It didn't work.
He started banging again.
Louder.
“Oh, my God,” Violet mumbled. “Stop, Carmine.”
“I will if you get up.”
But getting up meant being sick and dizzy.
The bed was better.
“No deal,” she said loud enough for her brother to hear. “And no one said you could just come into my condo whenever the hell you wanted, asshole. That’s not why Daddy gave you a key.”
Carmine scoffed. “That is exactly why he gave me a key, princess. Get up, or I will open this door up myself. You have exactly three minutes, Violet. Don’t test me. I will break it down.”
Violet briefly considered ignoring her brother. Carmine was a lot more mouth than he was action, and he wasn’t allowed to be a dick without some kind of good reason. She wondered why he was even there at her place as she crawled out of bed with enough slowness to rival a snail.
Her mouth was dry, but she quickly found the glass of water and two Tylenol tablets she had left sitting on her bedside table the night before. Popping the pills back, she chugged half of the room-temperature water before setting it back down.
Maybe it was the placebo effect of having taken something, but her headache lessened almost instantly. Glancing down at herself, Violet realized she had managed to put something appropriate on before falling into bed.
Her brother started pounding on the door again.
“Are you up?” he asked loudly.
Violet’s irritation shot up another few notches. Enough to make her stomp over to the bedroom door, unlock it, and swing it open regardless of her very hungover, less-than-perfect appearance.
“Listen, you stupid ass. You don’t get to come into my place this early in the damn morning demanding that I—”
Carmine cocked a brow, shutting Violet’s rant up instantly. The fact that there wasn’t even a hint of amusement on his features only made Violet’s stomach roll a little more.
And it wasn’t from the alcohol she drank the night before.
Her brother was pissed. She could see it in the way his familiar brown eyes darkened as he looked her over.
“You look like shit,” Carmine said.
Violet balled her hands into fists. “I went out last night for my birthday.”
Her makeup was probably a mess, and she was scared to touch her hair for fear she might feel a rat’s nest going on up there.
“How much did you drink?” he asked.
“A bit, Carmine. Why, is that a problem? Because you drink yourself nearly to death every damned weekend.”
Carmine’s gaze narrowed. “Maybe I do, but I sure as fuck don’t go down to Coney Island when I do it.”
Fuck.
The events from the night before flooded Violet’s memories. Her friends, their stupid choice to go to the hottest new club in a place where they shouldn’t be, and the events that followed.
Kaz.
More than anything else, she thought about Kaz.
Violet realized her silence was not what her brother was looking for, so she tried a different approach. “How mad is Daddy at me?”
Carmine sneered. “He’s spitting bullets.”
Shit.
“I just wanted to have a little fun,” she tried to say. “I didn’t go into Brighton Beach, I promise.”
“No, but you did leave your friends with a bunch of Russians to take them home, and then skipped out with another Russian yourself,” Carmine said.
How did her brother know all of that?
“And both Nicole’s and Amelia’s fathers are ready to …” Carmine trailed off, scowling. “Never mind, let’s go. Dad wants you in Amityville before nine.”
Violet’s throat felt like someone was squeezing it. “Just let me take a shower and get dressed.”
“No, you can come like that.”
She glanced down at her sleep pants and too-large sweater ensemble. Not to mention, she knew her face and hair was a mess.
“Carmine, I am not going out on Park Avenue looking like—”
“You spent the whole night partying?” her brother interrupted.
So this was how he wanted to play that game, huh?
“Daddy will
have a fit if I show up to the mansion looking like this,” Violet warned.
Her father was a stickler for appearances. From very young in her teenaged years, Violet had been taught what foundation was for and just how to use a makeup brush. Clothing had to be the latest styles, and she needed to look the part of her father’s daughter each and every time she stepped out of her condo.
No matter what.
“Actually,” Carmine drawled, still sneering, “he thought this might be a good lesson for you.”
“What?”
“A good lesson. Shaming him with your behavior also means you’re shaming yourself, after all. Get your coat, sis.”
The Gallucci mansion had never felt quite as foreboding to Violet as it did when her brother parked his Mercedes in the driveway. She recognized the other vehicles in the circular driveway as belonging to her parents, and another white Lexus that belonged to Nicole’s father, Christian, who was also her father’s consigliere and his personal doctor.
Her nerves picked up a notch when her brother turned off the car and stepped out without a word, slamming the driver’s door behind him. He likely knew that Violet would follow behind when she was ready to face the music. After all, with a protective iron gate behind them closing, there was no where she could go unless her father let her back out.
Violet pulled down the visor and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Embarrassment bubbled through her as she took in her messy, disheveled appearance. Her makeup was smeared, she needed a fucking toothbrush, and her hair looked like it had been put through more than one round of …
She shook her head, wanting to get away from all that.
As quickly as she could, with nothing but her fingertips to work with, she tried to soothe the waves of her hair enough to be presentable and wipe the bits of smeared makeup away from under her eyes and around her mouth. It didn't help all that much.
Fuck Carmine for not letting her make her face and hair more presentable.
Maybe she finally understood her father’s goal when he demanded she feel the shame she had caused him by her reckless actions. It still pissed her off.
Getting out of the car, Violet hugged her bomber jacket a little tighter to keep out the chill of the wind. She kept her head down as she walked across the large driveway and up the intricate marble entryway of her parents’ four-level, two-wing mansion.
The front door was already open.
Inviting, almost.
Violet just wanted to turn around and bolt.
The cold air forced her inside where she knew was warm. Violet was greeted by a long, empty hallway that led into spiral staircase wrapping around the entrance of the mansion. The stairs separated off into one of two wings. She thought for sure that her father would be waiting to meet her, but not even her mother was there.
And her brother had already disappeared.
Violet took her time to remove her shoes and coat, before putting them away in the large closet with the rest of the outerwear. She walked slowly through the ground level of the mansion, finding the large kitchen and dining room empty, as well as the entertainment room and living room.
If her father wasn’t waiting for her in one of those rooms, then she knew exactly where he was.
His office.
That didn’t bode well for her at all.
Violet decided not to put seeing her father off for any longer than was necessary. It was only drawing out the inevitable bitch-fest he was sure to level on her. Better to get it done and over with so she could get back to her condo and sleep this awful day off.
It was only when Violet was up onto the third floor of the second wing and standing outside of the large oak doors that led into her father’s office did she realize how much trouble she was really in.
His office was closed.
Which meant closed to her.
Alberto, in all of her twenty-one years, had never once closed his office doors to her when he called upon Violet for something. A thick lump lodged in her throat as she stared at the doors, knowing what her father wanted her to do.
Knock.
Wait.
Enter only at his will and direction.
Not like she was his daughter, who could come in any time and was always welcome, but instead, like one of his men who had to be deemed worthy enough to be seen.
It was like a punch to her gut.
Violet had always been her father’s little girl, even when she was an unruly child. Alberto often proclaimed her to be his favorite between his two children, even if he did so in a joking manner. He spoiled her with anything and everything she asked for.
He had never shunned her.
Not like this.
Violet took a deep breath, hoping it would calm her nerves. She again smoothed out her hair and swiped her thumbs under her eyes. Stepping forward, she raised her hand and knocked on the oak doors hard enough that she knew it would be heard within.
Silence answered her knock.
She didn’t knock again. Instead, she waited like she knew her father expected her to do. Her back straightened a little more as minutes ticked by, and tears started to well in the corners of her eyes when yet another couple minutes passed in total silence.
Alberto’s message was clear: she was not worthy of his time or attention, not yet.
Her father’s lesson was being learned, if the shame compounding in her heart was any indication.
By the time the doors finally opened to expose her mother, Andrea, standing behind them, Violet had been left waiting for fifteen long minutes.
Yeah, she had counted.
“Ma,” she greeted quietly.
Andrea raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow as she took in her daughter’s appearance. Wearing one of her signature blue dresses that she personally designed, her mother was the picture of beauty and grace. If only Andrea’s inner self reflected what she portrayed on the outside. Violet refused to let her mother’s silent disapproval add to the shame she was already feeling.
“Violet,” Andrea said smoothly. “Your father is waiting inside.”
Not saying anything else, Andrea moved gracefully out of the office, leaving the doors opened behind her. She didn’t even glance over her shoulder back at Violet as she glided down the hallway toward her own private office.
Violet hesitated at the entrance of her father’s office, unsure and wary in her heart.
Alberto quickly remedied that when he boomed, “Do not keep me waiting a second longer, Violet.”
She took the three steps needed to enter the office, trying to hold her head high at the same time. Inside, she found her father sitting behind the large, cherry oak desk that dominated the room. He sat in his high-back, black leather office chair. Behind him, a painting of her grandfather rested proudly. In the painting, Alberto Sr. drank from a glass of cognac, barely an emotion on his face, as he stared the person painting him down.
He looked exactly like her father did at that very moment while Alberto stared her down.
Alberto’s spacious office was decorated in warm, earthy tones with bookshelves lining one entire wall from floor to ceiling. A sitting area with a leather loveseat and matching chairs sat in front of a floor to ceiling window that nearly covered another wall and overlooked the entire front of the property.
As a child, her father’s office had always been a safe place for Violet. She would hide under his desk as he made phone calls or shuffled through papers. She remembered being about six and finding him counting stacks of money; he gave her one so she could count, too.
The office did not feel like that safe place today.
Sitting on the loveseat were her brother and her father’s consigliere, Christian. While her brother was looking over his phone in his hand, Christian was scowling into his glass of whiskey.
“How do you feel?” her father asked.
Violet found her father’s brown stare to be cold and hard as he looked her up and down, taking in the mess she clearly was. Swallowing har
d, she felt the wetness prickle at her eyes again, and she dropped her father’s stare.
“Awful,” she admitted.
“Fifteen minutes was long enough, I suspect,” Alberto noted. “You have another five to explain exactly what happened last night that led you, Nicole, and Amelia down to Coney Island where you are well aware you are not permitted to go.”
Violet didn’t even hesitate to start talking like her father wanted. Alberto’s tone brokered no room for argument, and when he was in that sort of mood, it was not time to start testing her father’s limits. As it was, she had pushed them enough.
“After we had dinner here for my birthday, we went back to my place,” Violet said.
“And?” her father pressed.
“Amelia—”
Alberto held up a hand, stopping her.
“What?” she dared to ask.
“Do not put blame on one of those girls, Violet. Do not tell me that they convinced you to do something you already knew was wrong. Years, ragazza. I have explicitly forbade you for years from entering the lower part of Brooklyn. And if, for one second, you say it was someone else’s fault that you went down there—knowing that you could have refused and chosen a venue I approved of—then we’re going to have a problem.”
Violet corrected herself immediately. This was not the man she was used to. Only a handful of times in her life had she come face to face with this man.
He wasn’t Alberto Gallucci, her father.
No, he was Alberto Gallucci, Cosa Nostra Don.
“We decided to go to the club in Coney,” Violet said quietly. “It’s a new place. Everyone is talking about it. We didn’t know it was owned by the Russians. I swear, Daddy—”
Again, Alberto held up a hand. This time, he stood slowly from his desk, keeping his sharp, cold brown eyes on her all the while. Violet flinched away from her father when he walked around his desk and came a little closer to her. Even when she was an unruly child, he never raised a hand to her.
She shouldn’t be afraid of him.
But right then? Yeah, she was.
“Violet,” Alberto said harshly, coming close enough to grab her chin and force her head up. “You will look at me right now while we’re speaking. Do you understand that?”