I arch a sarcastic, challenging brow. “Seeing as I was talking to Aoife, isn’t that her choice?”
“Tristan,” Aoife says, but he ignores her.
When I don’t do what he says, he shoves me—hard. “Get away from her.”
My knuckles crack when my hands tightly clench at my sides, my desire to punch his stupid face almost overpowering my rational sense. Father would literally kill me if I made a scene that would embarrass him in front of everyone. Death might be worth the satisfaction of laying Tristan Amato on his arrogant ass.
“Make me,” I taunt, needing him to strike first to give me the justification of retaliating.
One thing Nikolai Stepanoff drilled into his sons since the day we were born is to never back down from a fight, regardless of who started it. Stepanoffs are to show no weakness and no mercy.
“Tristan, don’t,” Aoife implores when he advances toward me, and I smile in victory when he throws the first punch.
My head jerks to the side at the impact, and I can already feel a trickle of blood oozing from the split lip he gave me. My retaliation in the form of a forward jab comes fast and catches him off guard. There’s a satisfying crunch of cartilage when I break his nose, the blood that pours out like a geyser even more satisfying to watch.
“Tristan! Stop!” Aoife shouts, but her plea falls on deaf ears.
With a pissed-off snarl, he barrels into me, taking us both down onto the polished stone floor.
A harsh grip fists the hair at the top of my head, just as Tristan is pulled off me, and I look up to see the severe rage on Francesco Amato’s face.Oh shit.He just saw me hit his son. The heir to the Council.
Pain erupts on my scalp when he fists my hair and drags Tristan and me across the ballroom floor like two sacks of garbage ready to be thrown out with the trash.
Knowing the punishment I’m about to receive, I struggle to get free from Francesco’s brutal grasp, not caring if he rips out a chunk of my hair. Frantically searching the crowd of curious onlookers for my father, hoping he will intervene, dread seers into me when I find him. He doesn’t do anything. Just lowers his head in subjugation when Francesco hauls me past him.
“Aleks!” Aleksei calls my name, but Mama holds him back, her beautiful face ravaged with fear as she watches with hopelessness.
Everyone in this room knows what’s about to happen, and they do nothing to stop it.
One of the servants opens a door for Francesco, and we’re carried out into the hallway. Tristan isn’t struggling to break free like I am. On the contrary, he’s completely limp, like a ragdoll that has lost all its stuffing.
Another door opens, and gravity defies me as I’m hurled across the small confines of what looks like a study. My back and shoulder slam against the unforgiving wood of an executive desk, and I scramble to my feet, grabbing the first thing I can find to use as a weapon. I’m not going to allow Francesco Amato to beat me like a dog.
“Tristan started it. He swung first,” I tell him, brandishing the letter opener in front of me.
Tristan doesn’t say anything. He goes to his knees in front of his father, arms dangling on either side of him, and looks straight ahead, his expression empty and blank.
“Kneel,” Francesco growls, the deep, threatening baritone of his voice sending shivers down my spine.
I plant my feet. I will never supplicate before this man. “No.”
The edge of the study door cracks against the wall when Helena Amato trips into it. She teeters on her high heels when she corrects herself and smooths a hand down her sequined gown.
“What’s going on?” she slurs.
Like I’m some feral animal trapped in a cage, Francesco doesn’t take his gaze off me. “None of your fucking business. Leave.”
Helena’s glassy eyes frown at me. Her China-doll face is immobile and doesn’t portray any emotion, the result of too much plastic surgery.
“You should have dealt with your twin bastards and the slut you fucked the moment Nina found out she was pregnant.”
Nina, my mother? What is she talking about?
“Shut the fuck up!” Francesco roars.
Helena is drunk enough or high enough not to heed her husband. She points a long, lacquered fingernail at me. “You think just because you’re his,” she says, transitioning her finger to Francesco, “you can take what rightfully belongs to Tristan. You will never?—”
Her words abruptly cut off when Francesco takes her by the throat and tosses her out into the hallway, then kicks the door closed hard enough to rattle the window glass.
