Page 7 of Wicked Villain

Allegra

The stranger’s eyes linger on me, sharp and unwavering, with the sort of fuck-you stare that leaves no room for compassion.

I can’t look away from him, either, and the familiar sting of fear works its way through my veins the longer I stare.

When people say their blood runs cold when they’re afraid, it’s true. That really does happen. I’ve experienced it too many times not to recognize it now.

It feels as though the temperature in your body drops and someone injected ice into your veins.

The uncanny sensation always starts at the base of my spine, then spreads outward. The feeling is most peculiar, because my veins are still warm.

The last time I felt fear like this was the night Gabrielle died.

I try not to show it now. Though I’m moments away from pissing myself and my bones are shattering from the sheer weight of his stare, I stand my ground, steeling my spine and making my face blank. Utterly void of emotion.

The slight quirk of his lips surprises me. It’s like he finds me amusing. Or maybe the stranger can see straight through me and hear the frantic rhythm of my heart pulsing through my solar plexus.

“Dio mio, proteggici,” Mama whispers at my ear, then she starts praying.

“Sorry, Mirella D’Auria,” the stranger chants in a sing-song voice. “Not even God can help you now.”

Papa steps forward, lowering his gun. “Lev Karsavin, what is the meaning of this?”

Karsavin.

God, I was right. Russian. And Karsavin as in the Karsavin Bratva. This guy—Lev⁠—

At only twenty-eight years old, he’s the new Pakhan.

Papa used to do business with the old one—Lev’s father.

That was years ago. They fell out for reasons unbeknownst to me, and no one in our alliance has had dealings with the Russians since.

I’m usually kept out of all matters to do with business and only told things on a strict need-to-know basis, but even I’ve heard about Lev Karsavin. He’s been the talk of the streets for months. Mainly for his unhinged ways of doling out death. From what I hear, ruthless and deranged doesn’t come close to describing him.

And he’s here. Here in my home.

The devil turns his gaze to my father. Something in his stare makes my stomach twist. I can’t quite explain what it is. It looks like hatred, but a maddening amusement dances across his features.

“This is my daughter’s engagement celebration.” Papa lifts his head and speaks with the same casual ease he uses for everything. I give him credit, and maybe for the first time in my life I take comfort in his dominance. Even if we seem vastly outnumbered. “I’m sure whatever this is can wait.”

A low chuckle falls from Lev’s lips, but there’s no humor behind it. “Engagements, weddings, funerals, scratching my ass. It’s all the same to me.”

“Be that as it may⁠—”

“1685!” Lev booms without warning, his voice so loud it carries across the hall, reaching every ear and every corner.

I have no idea what the number means. It could be a code, a year, or just a number. But Papa’s skin goes as pale as the dead, a color I’ve never seen on his rich olive complexion. Then terror that mirrors my own fills his face.

I’ve never seen my father look that way before, either. Never. I didn’t know he had it in him to look afraid.

Whatever this number is or means… it has him locked down and looking worse by the second.

“What… what do you want?” Papa rasps, his voice suddenly becoming gravelly-rough, as if he’s having trouble speaking. Breathing.

Lev’s face hardens as he looks back at me, then motions to his guards with a sharp snap of his fingers. “Take the girl.”

I experience the command before I actually hear it, and process that he’s talking about me.