“I wasn’t exactly given a choice,” she interrupted softly.
Alberto scowled. “Get out of my office right now.”
Violet’s head snapped up. “What?”
Her father wasn’t looking at her. He was waving at the two men sitting on the loveseat. “Out, I said! Adesso, stoltos!”
Carmine and Christian discarded their glasses on the black coffee table and left the office without needing to be told again. Once Violet was alone with her father, the sickness in her stomach only seemed to increase even more.
“I am so sorry, Daddy,” she said.
“You are a mess,” Alberto murmured.
Violet cringed. “I know.”
“I have never been so disappointed or more embarrassed by you than I am today, Violet.”
“I’m sorry. We didn’t know, Daddy.”
Alberto tipped her chin up again with a softer touch than the first time. “You didn’t need to know, dolcezza. You shouldn’t have been down there in the first place. As you already know.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Alberto sighed, eyeing her smeared makeup. His thumb swept the corner of her mouth like he wanted to will the smudge of lipstick there away. “And now, because of your actions, I have to answer to men who are beneath me for their daughters’ injuries and other problems.”
Violet’s brow furrowed. “But Nicole and Amelia wanted to go. I didn’t force them.”
Alberto shrugged. “You seem to forget your place in my life, Violet. You’re my daughter, and when you are with other daughters of made men, their behavior is reflected from yours. Not the other way around. You will always be the one responsible because you, above anyone else, were raised far better.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I don’t doubt that.” Alberto let go of her, taking a step back. “The Russian just dropped you off and nothing else, right?”
“Sì.”
“Such a shame,” he muttered low.
Violet blinked away more prickling tears caused by the disappointment she knew her father felt.
“It won’t happen again,” she said.
“I should hope not.” Alberto flicked a wrist at the oak doors. “Go to your old room and find something suitable to wear. Fix your face and your hair before you leave this house again. Apologize to your mother for your appearance and behavior.”
“Okay.”
Was he finally done?
While it might not seem like her father had done a lot to punish her, it was the emotional impact that hurt Violet the most.
“You’re forgiven,” Alberto murmured softly. “But I won’t forget this, topina.”
Violet sucked in a hard breath, not knowing what to say.
“You have never given me a reason to distrust you before,” her father continued sadly. “And this was not a good way to start testing my limits with you. I overlook your weekends at the clubs, and your sometimes boyfriends that I don’t approve of because I knew you are too smart to end up in a bad situation or one that might shame our family and my legacy.”
God.
“It won’t happen again,” Violet repeated, stronger the second time.
Her voice was still fucking weak.
“You’ve never given me a reason,” Alberto said, “until last night.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Vasily demanded.
Kaz had barely had the phone to his ear before his father’s voice was raging in his ear. Groaning as he rolled over, he rubbed his tired eyes, casting his mind back to the day before to remember what he had done to warrant a pissed off phone call this early in the morning.
There was Marcus—no one gave a shit about Marcus—and he’d already told Vasily about that, then there was the club, his chat with Ruslan, and then …
Shit, right.
Violet Gallucci.
He hadn’t forgotten her. How could he when the smell of her had lingered in his car even after he’d dropped her off? But he had put it out of his mind.
It was inevitable that Vasily was going to find out, nothing stayed hidden forever, but he hadn’t thought he’d learn—Kaz glanced over at the clock on his bedside table, reading the time—before nine in the damn morning.
“Is this where I pretend like I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
Kaz almost laughed as Vasily spat curses, but even as he found humor in a situation that really wasn’t funny at all, a part of him knew that there was a problem. This wouldn’t be the first time he had done something his father hadn’t approved of, not even the second, but those times had never warranted a phone call. His silent displeasure, sure.
“My house, one hour.”
With that parting demand, Vasily hung up—he never was good with the proper way in ending a conversation.