by Nicole Fox
As I go down to the cellar, I think about the fractional shift in the dynamic between Renata and me. One thing remains obvious: it’s going to be a tug of war, a fight for dominance and control. Hell, it’s always been like that—before I even knew it was happening. It began the day I killed her father. It probably won’t end until one or both of us is dead, too.
It’s surprising how much that turns me on.
Donovan is standing guard outside Drago’s door. He stifles a yawn when he notices me. “Boss,” he greets.
“How’s the prisoner?”
“Fucker complains a lot, especially about his broken arm,” Donovan replies. “I told him, ‘What do you need it for anyway? You aren’t goin’ anywhere.’ He’s whiny for a mafia brat.”
“‘Brat’ is definitely the right word.”
“Boss, you should know that his sister was down here earlier.”
I frown. Maybe I should have thought twice before giving her freedom of the entire fucking house.
“Don’t worry,” Donovan reassures me. “I didn’t let her into the cell.”
“Did they speak?”
“A little, through the partition,” he replies. “I tried to stop her and she threatened to cut off my balls.”
I smirk. “She’s a feisty one.”
“You don’t even know the half of it.”
I walk past Donovan’s post and over to Drago’s cell, pushing the door open on silent hinges. Drago groans loudly, his body seizing up as though bracing for a hit. His eyes land on me. The fear in them is obvious.
“Had a good night’s sleep?” I ask innocently.
“Let me go,” he says. There’s no threat in his tone. It’s just desperation, pain and fatigue all rolled into one.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
“Where’s Renata?” he croaks. “I want to speak to my sister.”
“Your sister isn’t really in the mood to talk to you.”
“She came down here earlier, you know,” Drago tells me. “She wanted to check on me.”
“Your point?”
“She cares.”
I scoff. “What good does that do you?” I ask. “She can care about you as much as she wants. Doesn’t mean I do.”
“You want her,” snarls Drago. “I can see it in your eyes. Do you really think she’d accept you if you killed me?” He must really be desperate if he’s pulling out the big guns.
Unfortunately for him, all I do is laugh. “I’ll take the risk.”
Despite the lack of light filtering into the cell, I can still see Drago pale. “My men will attack if they don’t hear from me soon.”
“It’s been over twenty-four hours. What are they waiting for? A red carpet welcome?”
“My men are loyal to me. And there’s more of them than you know.”
I snort in contempt. “Your men don’t give a shit about you.”
“I am the fucking don!” he whines petulantly.
“No, you are a fucking child,” I retort. “Just because you’re playing pretend doesn’t mean everyone else has to humor your delusions. In any case, I know they won’t make a move on me. Not when they know I have Renata.”
His eyes spark and I catch a glimpse of some secret that Drago’s been holding all these years. I decide to pull at that thread.
“She’s important, isn’t she?” I press. “More important than you, somehow.”
His eyes narrow. Even in his weakened state, he doesn’t like being compared to his sister. Even worse, he hates coming up short. “She’s a fucking useless whore.”
My fist snaps across the air. CRACK. Drago’s head falls limply to the side. I’m worried I’ve knocked him out completely, but then he coughs up some blood and blinks hard.
“I want answers,” I tell him. “Why is this marriage pact between Renata and Rokiades so important to both mafias?”
Drago looks at me wearily. When he says nothing, I sigh with exasperation. “Fine,” I sigh. “You don’t want to talk? Maybe a little waterboarding will help loosen your tongue.”
Drago’s eyes spark with panic as they widen. “No! No… not that…”
“Donovan!” I call. “Get me a towel and a bucket of water. We’re going to have a little—”
“Wait!” Drago all but screams. “Wait, just… what do you want to know?”
Jesus. He hasn’t even seen the fucking water. “Pussy” doesn’t even begin to do it justice.
“Let’s start simply. When did the alliance between you and Rokiades begin?”
“A… a few months ago,” he spills. “Rokiades approached me.”
“The Greek approached you?”
“Yes,” Drago hisses. “I told you, the Lombardi name—”
“Spare me,” I interrupt. “What was his plan?”
“He wanted to unite our families,” Drago says grudgingly. “He wanted Renata.”
“Hmm. What aren’t you telling me?” I ask, leaning in a little. “And I’d think twice before you decide to lie. We’ve got an endless supply of water here, believe it or not.”
Drago snarls for a moment before his courage gives way. “Because… because of her mother.”
I freeze. “The fuck did you just say?”
“Her mother,” Drago repeats through gritted teeth. “Isabella Mariani.”
“Mariani,” I repeat under my breath, trying to place the name. “Mariani, Mariani…”
Then realization dawns.
The Marianis were big players in New York decades ago. Long before the Clan showed up on the scene. Long before the Lombardis rose to power. They were small-time, but well respected across the city. The patriarch of the family was known for helping struggling Italian immigrants. He was also known for being content with his lot, happy with the family’s pull, their power, and their territories. Which is the only reason I’ve allowed them to coexist with the clan in New York these past two decades.
They’ve never craved power before. So why now? And where does Rokiades come into all this?
“The day the Clan stormed the house, my father was getting married,” Drago tells me, as if I’ve forgotten. “The woman he was marrying was Isabella Mariani.”
I frown. “Renata was five years old at the time. What’s this got to do with her?”
“Yeah, and?” Drago asks. “My father stuck his cock in the Mariani bitch long before they got married. She made him wait. Or she needed to be convinced, maybe; I don’t know the whole fucking story. But I do know that, when she got pregnant, my father insisted the baby live under his roof. Five years later, the demanding bitch finally agreed to marry him.”
I’m starting to see the bigger picture. It was all about power. Giorgio Lombardi knocked up the daughter of a rival so he’d have a bargaining chip. A way to coerce an alliance with the Marianis. To force them into the game.
The details surrounding Renata’s conception are extremely vague, not to mention troubling, but I doubt I’ll find answers by interrogating the pathetic fuck in front of me.
“Except that he never got the chance to tie the knot,” Drago sneers, a twinkle of malice in his eyes. “Because your beasts descended on the house before he had even left to the church.”
“I’m familiar with that part of the story,” I reply dryly. “So Rokiades is trying to rally Lombardi and Mariani men under his control. Interesting.”
“They would be under my control, too.”
I want to laugh, but instead I bite my tongue and decide to let him keep believing in that particular fantasy—if only for a little bit longer. “I understand why the Lombardis would agree to this. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose. But why would the Marianis?”
Drago curls his upper lip at me. “Why do you think? Isabella Mariani died the same day my father did,” he snarls. “At the hands of your men.”
“My men don’t kill women or children.”
“How noble,” he mocks. “Except that she was found bleeding out in one of the rooms upsta
irs. You think that was a coincidence?”
Fuck. That can’t be right. My heart is thudding in my chest, but I keep my expression neutral.
“So that’s why Rokiades has his sights set on Renata,” I say. “She isn’t just a Lombardi. She’s a Mariani, too. She is more important than you are.”
“I told you want you wanted. Will you let me go now?”
Frowning, I leave him in his cell as he screams obscenities at my back.
“If he keeps yelling, feel free to shut him up,” I tell Donovan on my way out. “By any means necessary.”
I leave the mansion and make my way to the dock, where my personal yacht floats serenely by the water’s edge. I climb aboard, feeling my tendons tense with renewed anxiety, and go down to the lower deck.
Up top, everything is gilded, refined, luxurious. The lower interiors are nothing but austere and functional practicality.
But that’s exactly the point. A vessel that hides more sinister secrets.
I ignore the door on my right, though I do shiver a little as I pass it. When we first brought Renata here, I had a plan that involved the room behind that door. A quick route to breaking her spirit.
Now, things have changed. The purpose of that room has shifted, become more straightforward. But that will come later.
I keep walking past it, straight to the dark red door that stays locked at all times. I have the only key. I unlock it and slip inside. Immediately, I’m hit by the smell of metal and oil. The cache here is tiny compared to the weapons vault I have in Manhattan. But it holds everything I need to do my job. Not to mention that the whole boat is rigged to detonate at the slightest sign of forced entry. Which means any cops who decide to snoop on my property will never be able to procure evidence. Nothing to pin on me. Just another precaution in the life of a don.
I’m picking out my weapons of choice when I hear the distinct sounds of footsteps on the top deck, just above my head. Then they start thunking down the stairs—towards me.
No one else has permission to be aboard. Whoever’s here most definitely does not work for me.
Drago swore his men were coming for him. Is this the first sign of that assault? Or maybe they’re here for Renata.
Raising a gun, I step out of the door and prepare to shoot.
37
Renata
Kian’s Yacht
It’s not the first time I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun. But the fact that Kian is the one holding it up to my face feels wrong somehow. I freeze before my foot can take the next step.
Kian freezes, too. Then his expression flutters with relief. He straightens up and drops the gun. “Goddammit, Renata,” he huffs. “I’m gonna need to get you a bell or something.”
I roll my eyes. “I thought you were more into collars.”
That earns me a reluctant smile. “What are you doing here?” he grumbles.
“What are you doing here?”
He glances at the weapon in his hand. “Looks to me like I’m holding a gun.”
“Anticipating company?”
Kian’s expression betrays nothing, but I can tell he’s on edge. Or maybe he’s just not telling me something. “The Lombardis and the Greeks will know by now that I have both of you,” he answers me. “That makes this place a target. I don’t intend to be a sitting duck.”
He’s looking at me intently, trying to gauge my reaction. I just shrug. “Fair enough.”
“Right. Fair enough. Were you looking for me?” he asks.
“I noticed you walking up to the dock from the pool. So I followed.”
“Did you want to handcuff me to anything else?” he jokes. But the anxiety never fully leaves his eyes.
I glance around the private cabin we’re standing in, surprise by how bare bones it is. I’d expected a lounge area, a fully stocked bar, maybe even a bed. There is a bar in the corner, but it’s clearly empty and untouched.
“Only if you give me a reason to,” I say distractedly. “Why exactly is it so depressing down here?”
“Because I use the yacht to store weapons and get from Point A to Point B,” he tells me. “I don’t need it to look pretty. I need it to do its job.”
The explanation makes sense, but I’m still getting the feeling that he’s trying to get me off of here as fast as possible. “Wait,” I say, sniffing the air. “What is that smell?”
“Renata,” he says impatiently, “why did you follow me here?”
I frown. “I wanted to talk to you about my brother.”
He can’t quite hide the automatic eyeroll that follows any mention of Drago. “What about him?”
“His arm is broken.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t break more.”
“Kian!”
“If you expect me to suddenly care about that fucker just because you do—”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” I interrupt angrily. “I’m just asking for a little humanity.”
He scoffs at that as he ushers me back to the staircase that leads to the upper deck.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“We can discuss this back in the house.”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“It’s stuffy down here,” Kian replies, but his eyes dart to the door opposite us.
I follow his gaze. “What’s in there?” I inquire. I dart forward, but when I try the handle, it’s locked.
“More weapons.”
I frown. “No, it’s not.” Sudden panic flushes through me. I don’t know how I know that, but I’m suddenly one thousand percent sure that he’s lying to me. “What the hell is in there, Kian?”
He gives me an abrasive look laced with impatience. “You really want to know?”
“Am I going to walk in there and see my brother’s body?” I ask bluntly.
He raises his eyebrows and regards me calmly. “I wouldn’t lie about killing your brother,” he says.
“Open the door, Kian.”
I expect him to fight me, but he pulls out a small silver key and opens the door.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. An overpowering mix of chemicals that I can’t quite distinguish from one another. As I step deeper into the room, my eyes adjust to the darkness and I realize that the walls are portioned out into compartments that look like beds. Except that they’re spaced too close together. Stacked one on top of the other, actually.
They’re not beds. They’re containers.
And I have no doubt about what’s inside of them.
“Oh my God…”
“Renata.”
I whip around, my eyes wide horror. “These are bodies.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What the fuck is this, Kian?”
“It’s a… morgue,” he admits. “Sort of. The bodies are embalmed.”
I shake my head, feeling suddenly dizzy and nauseous. “I don’t understand. Why would you keep your enemies’ bodies like this?”
“Because they’re not my enemies,” he explains coldly. “These are my men.”
I look around with a confused frown. “What…?”
“These are all my men that have given their lives in the ongoing conflict between the Clan and your family’s supporters,” he tells me. “I’ve prepared their bodies to be transported back to Ireland so that their loved ones can bury them.”
I freeze in place. Body after body after body… It’s morbid. It’s maybe the most nauseating thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
But at the same time, I feel… relieved, maybe? I don’t know if that’s the right word, but it’s close.
“Okay,” I say, doing my best to breathe and stay calm. “But why are they here? Shouldn’t they be, like, on their way to Ireland?”
His eyes cloud over, and I realize I’ve unwittingly stumbled across the secret he’s been trying to keep from me.
“Kian?”
“I was going to bring you in here,” he tells me tonelessly. “I was going to show you the cost of
your brother’s pointless war. To rub your nose in the blood and teach you how things work in the real world.”
My mouth pops open. It’s unspeakably cruel. Foul. Heinous. What kind of man could even dream up such a thing?
“It was at the beginning, Renata,” he tells me as he reads the horror on my face. “Before we… Before things changed between us.”
I turn around, feeling bile rise up in my stomach. I stumble out of the room and towards the staircase. But even when I clumsily step onto the top deck, the fresh air I suck into my lungs does little to calm me down. The salt only reminds me of the chemicals in the room full of dead men just a few feet below.
“Renata,” Kian says softly at my back.
I head straight to the boat’s railings and grip the edge as I heave my guts over into the green-blue waters. I stare down at the ripples the wind is making until I feel a little better.
When I finally straighten up, wiping the stringy spit from my lips, Kian is right there by my side. “Are you okay?”
“Okay?” I repeat furiously. “After what you just told me, how could I be?”
He frowns. “I explained to you why I planned it. And why I changed my mind.”
“Why you changed your mind is immaterial,” I say dismissively. “You wanted to hurt me, guilt me… blame me.”
“I wanted you to see reality,” he corrects. “You needed to understand—”
“Bullshit! This wasn’t about me understanding anything,” I snap. “This was another way for you to control and manipulate me. You just wanted to see me suffer.”
His expression hardens, but that only infuriates me further. Had he really expected me to understand? To empathize?
“No, no, no. Cut that shit out. You don’t get to be mad right now,” I say, jabbing his chest with my finger.
“Don’t I?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Kian’s eyes spark dangerously. “Your brother can sell you to a monster. Beat you repeatedly. He can set the fucking world on fire and you’ll make excuses for him. But when it comes to anyone else—”
“Don’t try and twist this around,” I snarl at him. “It’s completely different.”