Queen of Thorns

by Lana Sky

  “Then you know security won’t be a walk in the park—but it’s neutral territory. If you can meet Gregori in person, maybe he won’t shoot you on the fucking spot. Let’s hope he hasn’t realized what happened to his granddaughter.”

  My eyes narrow at the thought of her. Kisa.

  “She’s safe and sound,” Luciano says as if reading my mind. “I suggest you use that fact to your advantage.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you might be above such a threat.”

  He shrugs, his expression suddenly serious. “That’s the language the Saleris speak, those crazy motherfuckers. Threats. I hope you remember that. Anyway, you’ll take this car—” he gestures to the red one. “The men will take the front and the rear. Now, what about your other guest…”

  He trails off, presumably for the same reason the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Said “guest” picks this moment to make her appearance, exiting from the apartment without being called. I don’t look back, taking the stairs as if the devil is on my fucking heels.

  She could be to blame for why my head feels so damn screwy. Hours in that suite with her and it’s like recovering from a hangover to reenter the world again. A world that doesn’t smell like roses, untainted by that childish fucking presence.

  My reprieve won’t last long. Just the time it takes to set off for the Saleris’. There, I’ll have no choice but to endure her, without the benefit of being in another room.

  “Let’s go.” I snatch the keys Luciano hands to me and enter the car. As the seconds pass, I wind up eyeing the dashboard, forced to wait. For her. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute…

  It’s like she’s intentionally aiming to piss me off.

  Or it could be that I’m not giving her enough credit. She might have run? Just as I start to scan the yard beyond the windshield, a flicker of movement catches my eye. When the passenger’s side door finally opens, I say nothing, letting my hands palm the steering wheel. Though fuck, I should throw her in the trunk.

  She must have showered again. Her skin carries a freshness that floods the car’s interior as she settles onto the seat, closing the door.

  Just like that, I relapse on roses. On her.

  The only acknowledgment of her I allow myself is a single glance in the rearview mirror. Instantly, I regret it. She’s ready for me, meeting my gaze without a hint of fear. Those eyes gleam, seemingly larger than usual. Makeup, I suspect. Thicker lashes and a line of dark kohl enhance the depth of her irises. They’re endless.

  Ripping my attention away, I focus on the road and hit the gas, following the van in front as it takes off toward the main gate.

  I don’t owe her a damn thing, not even an explanation—but if I want to play this right, I have no choice but to gauge her mental state. Did my words from the bathroom truly stick?

  “I’m only going to tell you this once,” I warn, fighting to keep my tone level. “You wanted to play this game? You play. If you’re planning to escape, I suggest you think twice. That little girl…”

  I hear rather than see her stiffen; the squeal of leather gives her away.

  “Her life is on you,” I say to twist the knife. Surprisingly, that’s where I let the threat die. Why? Mentioning the Salvatore child at all is merely a formality.

  I know that now, just from the stubborn tilt of her chin I catch when I sneak another glance her way. She’ll accompany me if only for one reason, and what a childish reason it is. With her this close, I can’t ignore her. She’s aware of that. Fuck, I know she is—relishing the way I eye the road rather than look at her directly. Even as I do, my nostrils flare, swollen with her scent. Given the state of her, I might be imagining it, floral somehow without the aid of perfume or scented soap.

  Roses. Goddamn roses.

  I’d rather suffocate than breathe it in.

  Unfortunately, dying isn’t part of my plan. To outwit the Saleris, I’ll need her on my side. We’ll have to play the political games I used to hate. To his credit, I’d rather face Mischa than Gregori Saleri.

  Mischa at least claims some semblance of honor to live by. The Saleris only understand greed, a philosophy that’s allowed them to wrestle control over much of the city’s central territory despite the mafiya. Aware of their dwindling share of power, they lord over what remains with an iron fist.

  I’ve been to Felicità a few times, none remembered fondly. Smack-dab in the heart of the city’s wealthy entertainment district, the strip club serves as a notorious front for the Saleris’ rumored trafficking operation. The catch? The place is also the preferred haunt of politicians and businessmen alike, leaving no mystery as to why they’ve gone so long without being raided by the police.

  Gregori Saleri must have studied at the same school Giovanni Rossi did when it came to maintaining a façade. No one, short of the mafiya, has a better operation.

  Or a more tentative grasp on sanity. Known for both his ruthlessness and unpredictability, Gregori is an opponent I can’t afford to underestimate. Unlike Antonio, he doesn’t surround himself with five toy soldiers and a little girl, either. His men are well funded and expertly trained.

  It’ll take tact to circumvent them. There’s no chance in hell I could fight them one on one. Sneaking in is also out of the question. No point in using blackmail either if my aim is to forge a peaceful conversation—leaving only one entry route.

  To go in through the front fucking door and pray that Mischa or his mafiya aren’t already inside.

  On that point, at least, I have one note of reference to rely on—Mischa, the family man, wouldn’t be caught dead in a skin bar while his wife is still in the hospital. No, if he met with Gregori, it had to be somewhere far from here, but that within itself presents another obstacle.

  How to state my case without getting my head blown off, for one, and then there’s the small detail of the woman…

  Her scent floods my lungs, fighting for attention. It’s harder than it should be to block her out. Hell, I’m edgier than I’ve been in years without a sip of alcohol to numb the anxiety—but the feeling isn’t all bad. The adrenaline shooting through my veins recalls my early days in the famiglia. Back when Giovanni would throw me into the deep end, unconcerned whether I sank or swam. Survival depended solely on my own instincts back then. On my gut.

  And right now? Every ounce of intuition I have tells me that the woman beside me holds the key to everything. Punishing Mischa. Reclaiming my throne.

  Staying alive.

  If only I can suppress the urge to wrap my hands around her neck.

  She’s too comfortable here. Despite sitting stiffly in her seat, there’s no fight in her. We might as well be on our way to tea, given how she stares dispassionately from the windows.

  It unnerves me to think that I might know exactly why she’s so calm—for the same reason I am. Beneath the jittery tension fogging my thoughts lurks a chilling, ironclad patience I haven’t felt…

  Well, since I strangled Antonio Salvatore.

  Could the little hellcat feel it too? I’ve never actually seen her under Mischa’s spell or with her family—just a picture, that of a woman who seems worlds apart from the creature near me now. Oddly enough, I have no trouble envisioning how she must have looked.

  Tense. Uncomfortable. The way I feel when shoved into a suit, attending some fancy fucking soiree when I know it’s not where I belong. A caged bird never acts the way a wild one does—it can’t. Life in false security robs it of the one thing it needs to feel alive—danger.

  You set a dove loose, and it might fly right into the mouth of a wolf—but was it because life in the cage made it too naïve to the danger? Or was it just that damn desperate to feel the fear? The thrill. To tempt the forces, it was born to tempt.

  My little bird? She’s fluttering just beyond the reach of my mouth, too prideful to admit that’s why she’s really here—to watch me snap.

  “Listen to me,” I catch myself growling before I manage to wrestle my tone into some s
emblance of calm. “I could kill Mischa. Blow his fucking brains out.”

  She doesn’t move a muscle, but I know she’s listening.

  “Or he can stay alive if you play your part. I could drag you in there, make those men think I ripped you from your safe little bed. I could…”

  And she expects as much, her head held defiantly high. I lick my lower lip in anticipation of uttering the typical threat. If you don’t obey, I’ll kill you.

  It’s the only language anyone else would understand.

  Not her… I suspect she’s fluent in another tongue. One relying on subtler imagery. Taunts. Games. Hell, after her reaction in the barn—when I killed a man in front of her eyes—I think it’s a dialect we share.

  “You want to know how this story ends?” Dropping all malice from my voice, I speak to her the same way I’d talk to Vin. No…

  I speak to her the way I’d talk to myself.

  “You play the captive, Mischa comes for me—and I kill him. God, I want to. You know I want to.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch her turn to stone. She can hear the honesty in my voice. The excitement too.

  “But what would be the point? Your pretty little family gets torn apart,” I add. “But mine already has been. Vincenzo…” God, it stings just to say his name. “You want to help undo the damage Mischa’s done? Then help me save his life. He’s still alive.”

  Her sharp inhale triggers a reaction in me I don’t expect. Surprise? I swallow hard, forced to admit that she might have some interest in saving him as well. Good. I’ve been wasting too much time, getting distracted at every fucking turn. He needs a hospital, and by God, I’ll get him one.

  “If you want to help him, then hear me out,” I say. “When we get in there, follow my lead.” I grind my teeth as if to stave off the words I wind up hissing anyway, “Want to prove your worth to me? Then save your family. Play the game.”

  As the words leave my mouth, I park. We’re here, but I wrench open my door without giving her further instruction. Deep down, I already doubt this plan. I should make her squirm. Cry. Run.

  By making her effectively a partner, I’m giving her a taste of power. And I’m fully aware that she might get addicted…

  “So what’s your plan?” one of the men calls from the van up ahead. I’ve parked on a side lot across from the building, forcing them to find their own spaces nearby. As they do, I try to come up with an answer to that very question.

  “We go in through the front,” I finally say, tugging at the collar of my suit jacket. “One of you comes in. The other stays out. Keep close, don’t draw so much as a pair of nail clippers without my say so. Understood?”

  The look they share between them speaks volumes—This fucker is crazy.

  Without giving them the chance to argue, I step forward, jerking my chin toward the club. “Let’s go.”

  “What about her?” one of them, Sanders, nods in the direction of someone behind me.

  The soft thud of a door shutting is the only clue I have that she left the car. Her steps punctuate the air next, and I realize that I’ve yet to look at her fully. Is she wearing heels? She must be, enhancing her height enough to explain the warm breath ghosting the back of my neck.

  What about her? My thigh twitches, desperate to keep moving without bothering to see if she follows. Let her run into the street. Fly away.

  Let the little bird prove my point—that’s exactly what she is.

  Still, I find myself extending my hand out to no one anyway. A dare, perhaps. Or a test. As only cool air lashes at my palm, I get the response I want. Nothing. “Let’s go.” Curling a fist, I start walking.

  A flurry of motion flashes in my peripheral vision. At the same moment a touch softer than silk brushes my hand—slim fingers boldly intertwining with my own. My first impulse is to jerk back before I come to my senses, snatching that grasping hand in a loose fist. Far from a romantic gesture, but at least my fingers aren’t around her throat.

  Voice rasping, I repeat my last command, “Let’s go.”

  The men say nothing as I start forward, pulling a smaller body along. There’s no need for stealth. I’m sure the second I cross the street that the entire place has already been alerted.

  Predictably, the show of Saleri force is visible even from outside the building. Two men stand guard near the front door, with several more no doubt lurking nearby. Despite the intense security, it’s telling that this place lacks the long lines that form outside the rest of the clubs on the Strip. One can’t just enter Felicità uninvited. Only those who run this city have that privilege.

  I rarely took advantage of that right. Even so, my reputation must proceed me. As I approach the nearest guard, his eyes narrow, his hand moving toward the inside of his suit jacket, presumably for a weapon.

  Shit.

  “Your boss is expecting me,” I say before he can draw his gun. My tone alone makes him blink, fumbling for his headset. I hear a faint voice come from the other end, muffled and distorted. Barely recovered, he tries to wipe the shock from his face and nods. “You can head in.”

  His eyes dart from me to the woman by my side. I tighten my grip, hauling her through the glass doors, framed in gold, that make up the entrance. Does he recognize her? I can’t tell, and I’m not inclined to find out.

  Any second I expect to feel a bullet go through my skull—but at least one thing is on my side.

  Optics. Shooting me here wouldn’t go over well with the wealthy guests, and the Saleris subscribe to a different brand of extravagance than Antonio Salvatore. One that relies on maintaining a certain image.

  Even if a rival barges inside unannounced.

  Up ahead, a beautiful redhead stands guard beside a doorway leading to the main floor. She murmurs something worriedly into her headset. In the time it takes to approach her, I finally observe the figure to my right.

  Fuck. Appreciation swells in my chest. Or shock. I could cruelly describe her image as a good girl obeying my wishes, but I’m not that cocky. Or stupid. She’s an opponent, wearing the armor the war demands.

  Beauty aside, I can now admit why the others reacted to her as they did. The dress suits her, even if it’s too damn big. Paired with black heels, the effect isn’t quite so glaring. She managed to dry her hair, letting it tumble freely down her shoulders in wild, loose curls. The makeup from this angle enhances her delicate features, adding an unexpected hardness to them.

  She’s more hellcat than dove, if only for a second.

  A flurry of commotion draws my attention back through the doorway where a man now stands, his suit a deep shade of navy, his green eyes honing in on mine.

  Son of a bitch. Rather than alert their security, they’ve sent out the welcome wagon.

  “Donatello Vanici,” the man coldly greets, his arms crossed. “You have some damn nerve showing your face here.”

  I notice he doesn’t pair that statement with a threat—yet.

  “Mateo Saleri,” I reply, matching his icy tone. “Last I saw you, you were still in diapers. Don’t tell me your father upgraded you to his doorman. I want to speak to him.”

  His eyes narrow. “Bold words for a wanted man.” As he speaks, his attention flits to the woman, and his tongue traces his lower lip. “You even brought a diversion.”

  I tug her closer before I realize why. Not out of possessiveness, but prudence. To accompany nearly every rumor about the Saleris and their chosen business, is a horror story or two starring Mateo.

  He’s a fool, but a dangerous one.

  “No time to share tonight,” I warn.

  “That’s a damn shame.” His gaze slithers over the woman again, but then he shrugs, turning on his heel. “This way.”

  He marches through a doorway leading onto the main floor. It’s designed like a billiard room, with plush forest green carpeting and gold filigree wallpaper to complete the effect. A mahogany bar lines the back of the room, and positioned on either end of it are raised platforms where
two beautiful women gyrate beneath the golden glow of a chandelier. My little guest falters, and I have a suspicion as to why.

  “You’re blushing,” I warn, lowering my mouth near her ear. “Don’t tell me. You’ve never seen much beyond your little school.”

  Apparently, the women in Stepanov manor don’t prance around in tight black G-strings, their tits bared. An amusing suspicion sneaks into my skull—has she seen another woman naked, let alone a man?

  To her credit, she keeps her face positioned away from me, and I shift my energy toward taking stock of the battlefield.

  Apart from the main attraction, the layout of the club floor is nothing special. Men in leather armchairs watch the show from various positions as more women—clothed in black uniforms—circle around with trays of drink.

  Giovanni brought me here once. Young as I was, I remember palming the ass of a dancer who jumped so violently she tripped, spilling her tray of drinks. No one ever had to convince me the rumors were true. I only have to remember that woman. Her eyes. I’ve never seen so much terror in one person.

  To credit whatever good remained in my black soul, I kept Gregori and his brood at arm’s length during my time at the helm of the famiglia. Any man rumored to trade in flesh and bone, isn’t one I’d eagerly climb into bed with.

  To be fair, he’s done well enough without me.

  Just as he had over a decade ago, the man himself sits at the very back of the room in the center of a leather booth built into the wall. Like a king, he lords over his domain, stuffed into a navy suit, his graying hair neatly combed. Nearly every fat finger sports a gold ring, his wrists dripping with diamond-encrusted cufflinks. His prized adornment at the moment is a brunette in a red dress lounging across his lap, lighting the cigar sticking from his mouth.

  When his eyes settle on me, he undergoes an almost comical transformation. He huffs, his cheeks flushing red, and I spot at least ten men stiffen, instantly at attention.

  Shit. The back of my neck prickles, and I curl my free hand into a fist to keep from drawing my weapon. Coming here with only two men for backup was a brazen move. Even more brazen? Parading Mischa Stepanov’s missing daughter on my arm.