by Lana Sky
But as his teeth pull back from his upper lip, I realize that something more egregious than that is what really has him on edge. A sight that enrages him beyond Vanici’s supposed guilt in harming his wife. A crime that outweighs the man’s supposed innocence.
He approaches Willow, speaking to her in a low, unsettling tone. “You feel it too,” he murmurs. “Hate. That sick need for revenge—and not mere ‘justice,’ either… You want pain. You want him to suffer, just as you suffered. Am I wrong? I can see it written all over your face… The hate—and not just for me, either. How should we punish him?”
Alarm builds in my gut. “What the hell is he doing?”
“Watch,” Mischa warns.
“Don’t deny that you want to,” Vanici tells her. “So what will it be? A slit throat? A beheading? Name your choice, principessa. You wanted to play in our world, so play.
Willow’s face is barely visible from this angle—a dark brown eye blazing fearlessly, riveted to the man before her.
“He threatened your family, your mother, your brother. You want more than just his pain. You want more than justice, don’t you?”
Vanici turns to one of the men nearby. “I asked for a knife.”
“Shit!” I rock on my heels, my jaw clenched to the point of pain. Will he hurt her? Are pieces of that morbid “present” from Willow herself? Again, Mischa’s face doesn’t give me an answer, but he’s more animated than before, his gaze blazing.
Warier than ever, I force myself to keep watching as Vanici is finally given a blade. He raises it…
But I sway with relief when he turns away from her.
“You’re going to tell me how to kill him,” he says. “Every cut. Every scream. It will be all on you. Your face tells me everything I need to know. Your eyes… I see the hate in them. You want this—Don’t! You watch me. You watch all of it. Now… Where should we begin? Ah, of course. We need a name,” he suggests, toying with the blade. “Should we start with his tongue?”
It’s a cruel, sadistic mental game. One I know all too well, and a skill Vanici masters—manipulation. It’s all in his tone—a mocking, stern rasp that can make the insane seem logical.
The unconscionable bearable.
The kind of charm that can sway a young, stupid boy to commit the unfathomable.
“You promised me your loyalty, Geno. Do you want to live up to your father’s legacy? Then stop questioning…” The voice echoes through my brain as if spoken aloud—but not by Vanici. Regardless, I tear my gaze from the screen for a split-second, eyeing the doorway as if expecting someone else to come strolling through, his features untouched by time.
My heart races, and I have to grit my teeth to refocus. Vanici is my current target, and I wrench my gaze back to the video.
“I said watch me, Safiya.”
A part of me reacts to that name before I realize why. He knows Willow’s name. Why call her that? Safiya…
“This is your game, after all. Tell me where to cut him. Play your role. Look at me!”
“The son of a bitch,” I croak, forming a fist though I know it’s a futile gesture. It’s all I can do, digging my nails into my palm as he makes her watch. He toys with her. Taunts her while threatening to kill a man.
But it’s the familiarity between them that alarms me. An unspoken weight that enhances every glance they share between them, Willow and Vanici. It’s uncomfortable, triggering an unease I can’t name.
“You’re angry. You have every fucking right to be. But you’re suppressing it. Bottling it up nice and neat. Why?” He leans closer, bringing his mouth near her ear…
Mischa hisses in a way I’ve never heard, his eyes slits. Still, his restraint is remarkable—especially when Vanici shoves Willow to the ground, placing his knife against her throat.
I grit my teeth, lurching on tip-toe as if I could leap into the recording itself and stop him.
“Wait,” Mischa says. “Keep watching.”
Watching as Vanici continues his sick game, playing with Willow’s head, goading her into cutting the man. Killing him. Until finally, he grows bored enough to do the job alone.
“So you choose to be a puppet. Fine. You can watch. Hold her,” he snaps to one of the men who grabs her arms. “Don’t let her turn away. Not for a fucking second.”
By the video’s end, several points are painfully clear. The first was that Antonio Salvatore ordered the hit on the Stepanovs, not Vanici, or so this stunt was meant to prove.
That should be a good thing, right? It follows what I’ve suspected all along, but I don’t feel pride in this moment. Disgust rips through me as I glance at the “present.” The head is distinctly masculine—not Willow’s. Still, the implied threat is obvious.
That bastard’s gone insane.
And he’s hellbent on taking Willow right along with him. If I didn’t suspect as much before, I do now—there is more between them than some silly debutante ball. A history, that Mischa is fully aware of.
An accusation of as much is on my lips. Only prudence holds me back—there are more important things to worry about for the time being.
“Who sent this?” I demand, though the answer is obvious. “How did it get through?”
“I allowed it,” Mischa says tiredly. “That’s not all that came.”
He gestures to a corner of the room I previously overlooked. There a pile of documents lies discarded. Warily I cross to them, and at a glance, I instantly come to a conclusion that has me cursing under my breath.
“You were right,” Mischa calls from over my shoulder, narrating what I’ve been able to read. “Vanici didn’t order the attack. Supposedly this is what’s left of the man who carried it out at least—” He nods to the grisly box. Presumably, he’s the man from the video. “And I already confirmed that Salvatore is dead.”
“So you believe it,” I suspect. “Salvatore set up the hit along with someone else. Not Vanici.”
Which leaves the origins of the attack even murkier than before. The only lead? A figure mentioned briefly, J.W.
“Yes.” Mischa nods, hands in fists, teeth bared. “The bastard sent those documents to verify. Bank transfers. Phone records.” He inclines his head, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I hear from my contacts that he’s already in the process of contacting the famiglia’s old allies.”
“Fuck,” I say. The part I hold back is the kicker—in most men’s eyes, Vanici has every right to. Still, I’m in no mood to gloat. I was right. Mischa was reckless.
All that matters now is Willow’s safety, and the rest of the family’s. “Do you think Vanici will mount an attack on his own?”
This time he’d have more than enough cause—a life in exchange for his nephew’s.
Mischa’s expression wavers for a split second before his frown becomes a terrifying smile. “Let him try. Attack aside, he still went after Willow. Only God knows what he’s done to her.”
Real concern breaks through his stoic façade. Despite everything, the man loves his daughter.
And he’s right. Only God knows what’s been done to her already. I eye the tablet still in my grasp, stroking that faint glimpse of blond hair.
“Do you know where this was taken? If Donatello went to the famiglia, maybe—”
“You are needed at the hospital,” Mischa says over me. His eyelids lower as if he remembered something. Something he doesn’t want me to know.
“Sir, I think I should be here—”
“I want security on my wife tripled,” he commands. “Eli is being brought home tomorrow, and he and Anna are to be protected around the clock. I want you to split your best guards between them.”
Reluctantly, I nod. “Of course. But…”
He cocks his head, raising an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”
“Antonio Salvatore ordered the attack? You think he would really mount something like that alone? With no motive other than maybe gaining the harbor?”
“According to Donatello Vanici,” Misch
a says coldly.
I look over at the so-called evidence again, but see nothing definitive beyond numbers and inferences. Antonio Salvatore ordered the hit, but was he working entirely out of his own interest? Vanici’s proof alone suggests he wasn’t.
“The bastard just went by J. W. That’s it! That’s all I know. I swear to fucking God…”
“Sir—”
“I thought I told you to handle the arrangements for the hospital?” Mischa snaps.
“Yes, sir. But… The man in the video mentioned someone else. What if there was another motive to the attack, apart from merely harming your family?”
A motive that a certain Winthorp returned from obscurity to hint at.
Mischa hisses. “What? Forcing my hand so that I look like a goddamn fool?”
“No,” I say softly. “But what about any other leads? I think your wife was connected to the Winthorps. Could they have a motive?”
One in particular. Her name is on the tip of my tongue, but for whatever reason, I don’t voice it. Yet.
“The Winthorps?” His eyes narrow. Does he find such a theory plausible? His expression is nearly impossible to scrutinize.
“Most of them are dead,” he says finally. “And those who aren’t don’t have any claim to any influence, let alone money.”
It’s a fair point, one that festers as I mull over the potential reasons. All of them, I suspect, lie within the mind of a certain Winthorp.
“What about Ellen?” I ask, still on the man’s heels. “Didn’t she have a sister? Briar, I think, was her name.”
He scoffs. “She ran off with one of my men seven years ago. There’s been no word of her since, but I frankly don’t give a damn. You know who does have my full concern? My wife.”
I nod in respect. “Yes, sir.”
But I’ve been in Mischa’s employ for too damn long. I know when he’s reaching the end of his patience—and I know when he’s deliberately provoking someone. He wants me gone, and quickly. Why?
The state of the guards outside might give me a clue.
“You’re expecting someone,” I say softly. “A visitor?”
Or a potential ally. If Donatello went to the famiglia alone, he wouldn’t bother with reinforcements—the mafiya outnumber the dwindling outfit by more than two to one. But if Donatello managed to sway others to his side, Mischa might be driven to only one person.
Someone he swore to never associate with.
Rather than dance around the suspicion, I voice it outright, “You summoned Nicolai Baryshnikov—”
“I would summon the devil if it meant protecting my daughter,” he bellows, his voice booming.
Instinct—and common sense—warn me to pause. Tread carefully.
But I can’t. Not when that bastard is the topic of conversation. “I think Willow would prefer you work with the devil instead.”
“What did you say?” He stiffens, his hand forming a fist. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did strike me. A part of me braces for the blow. Instead, he turns to me directly, his expression strained.
“I trust you, Evgeni. Above everyone else, your opinion is the one I trust—”
“But not on this,” I interject.
“No.” He levels me with a piercing stare. “I think your past is clouding your thinking. I’ve never ordered you to commit a massacre, have I? I’m not ordering you to stay, either.”
I blink. It’s the first time he’s ever directly mentioned it. I never ordered you to commit a massacre…
Because one man did—but Mischa doesn’t give a damn about the blood that may or may not be on my hands. He references it merely to prove his point. That’s why he doubts my resolve. My ability to be trusted. My loyalty.
“If you mean my past when it comes to Nicolai Baryshnikov, then I don’t think that is a bad thing.” Anger tinges my voice, and I can’t even begin to hide it. The memories swarm on the fringes of my psyche. It’s harder than ever to push them back. Forget.
“I have always been able to rely on you,” Mischa says with a sigh. “Always. But I’ve learned throughout the years that there are some lines certain men cannot cross. No matter the price, no matter their loyalty, and I am sorry, my friend, but when it comes to protecting my family, I will be cowed by no one.”
“Is a war really what you want?” I ask. “Even if it’s against the wrong man?”
He places his hand on my shoulder, letting the contact linger before he finally turns away, crossing to the center of the room. “Show me the man who has my daughter in his grasp, and I’ll turn my attention to him,” he says. When I remain silent, he gestures to the doorway with a violent slash of his hand. “Now go. From now until further notice, the hospital is your main post.”
His tone alone makes his motive painfully clear. Whatever he’s planning, he doesn’t want me anywhere near it.
Because he knows I’d try to stop him.
15
Don
No one spared their praise while I was rising in the ranks of the famiglia. I heard it all, from mindless worship to having grown men pledge their lives to me.
Fuck modesty—it felt good to be king.
No one warns you what happens when you fall from that high perch, though. Life isn’t the same at the bottom as it is on top—and sure, you thought you knew that from the outset.
But you didn’t.
The truth is that hardly anyone experiences what it’s like to have it all, and fewer understand the pain of losing it. Not just the money or the prestige—that shit is secondary. It’s the stuff you put by the wayside on your ascent that you miss the most. The people you took for granted, the memories you minimized, and the lovers you exploited for your own gain.
Their silence is deafening, and no amount of money or power or booze can fill the void.
All you can do is bury the agony and fixate on useless distractions. Like plotting your ascent back to the top, even if you gotta kiss a few asses on your way there. Or stab them. Butcher.
Bloodied hands are a sight preferable to an empty house and full graves any day.
I lack the foresight of a Giovanni Rossi this time around, though. Forget power and influence. My focus is restricted to one target—Mischa. Now that I have his daughter in my grasp, the world is figuratively mine to take all over again via checkmate.
I could always kill her to achieve that aim—or go a step further and bind her to me in a way that humiliates him more than her death would. I could marry her…
A part of me scoffs at the notion, though I’m the one who proposed it, initially as a way to fuck with her head. But now? It’s an insane gambit. Only a true madman would actually go through with it—a wedding for my new bride with her father as the honored guest. You can’t make that shit up.
Forget her. I shove the Stepanovs aside for the moment, returning my focus to Vincenzo. His safety is all that matters tonight, dominating my thoughts as I exit Giovanni’s old apartment into the cool night air.
I’ve wasted enough time already. The “one hour” I promised Luciano unintentionally stretched into several—all spent staring at myself in the closet mirror, pondering the figure staring back. Who was that bastard?
A stranger I barely recognize with the face of an old man and the eyes of a murderer.
I’ve spent seven years too drunk to function, but sobriety feels more disorienting than the worst hangover. It’s like my entire body is a shell that no longer fits, though I could blame the discomfort on my clothing. Antonio’s old suits just enhance the feeling of wrongness I haven’t been able to shake since losing Vin. I can’t even keep the days straight anymore. Or the time.
“You’re late,” a voice calls disapprovingly. I look down the wooden steps leading below, surprised by the change in the landscape. It’s dark out now, and Luciano stands near the railing, his expression barely visible in the absence of sunlight.
“Got caught up,” I lie, smoothing my hand over the front of my jacket. “I’m ready.”
>
“It’s about damn time,” he remarks. He’s changed, wearing a suit, his hair slicked to his skull. It’s a throwback to the old days and the dress code Giovanni preferred. Professional, or so he called it. You may act like an animal, but you dress like a man.
Two other men lurk behind him, similarly dressed. Parked a few yards back is a car that looks like it was taken from Antonio’s harem of them. While I’ve been daydreaming, Luciano’s been busy putting the plan into action—it’s time to go on a field trip. If I’m going to make headway against the mafiya, then I need an audience with the Saleris.
Putting that aside, for now, I refocus my attention on the task at hand—getting there in one piece. “Is everything in place?”
Luciano nods. “This is Ash—” he points to a man beside him with black hair pulled into a ponytail. “And Sanders,” he adds, gesturing toward another figure standing further back. “They’ll play point on your crazy ass fucking trip.”
I feel an eyebrow go up. “You aren’t coming?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll hold down the fort here. That is if you aren’t blown apart by Mischa, in which case, I’ll be waiting my turn.” He laughs before clearing his throat. “Saleri is at a club he owns on the Strip—”
“Felicità,” I say, running my hands over the front of my suit. I swapped the gray for the black, and I prefer the fit. Tucked in the inner pocket is a certain knife, along with a pistol stolen from a stash Antonio kept behind his minibar. The drinks, however, I left untouched. My brain buzzes in the absence of alcohol, my thoughts clearer than ever. Sharp. This has to be the longest I’ve been sober in…
A long damn time. I inhale, relishing the tension in the air. Much like tonight’s unofficial dress code, the mood reminds me of the old days. The perilous calm before preparing to do a job, knowing that the only thing at stake is power.
The one currency every man puts stock in.
“Don?”
“Yeah,” I say absently. “I remember the place.”