by Lana Sky
I grit my teeth at the mental image, catching my bottom lip between them. The harder I bite, the sharper those images become. I taste copper by the time I finally relent to the mental assault. Fabio be damned, I should have dragged her here by her hair and demanded an explanation.
Waking up to find her gone was a godsend, prolonging the moment I have to face the aftermath. Hell, I wish she had escaped—it would be easier to write off last night as nothing more than a nightmare.
Some sick part of my soul craves to rewrite the narrative, anyway. I’m the aggressor in this new version. I pinned her down and forced her to perform for me. I held all the cards.
Not her.
I might have believed that until she crept from the shadows this morning—still wearing that blue fucking dress—playing the innocent victim at my expense once again. I could almost hear her laughing; she won that round.
She got my attention. What was her aim? To taunt me? Toy with my head? Test how much I really meant my vow to never fuck her?
Stubborn as always, she showed me what I’d be missing in excruciating detail.
If only she resembled Gino—may the bastard rot in hell, right alongside Antonio Salvatore. It would be easier to hate her, then. As pathetic as it is to admit, if she had his eyes, I could look at her and see him staring back.
It would be even better if she had Stepanova branded across her fucking forehead. Though, hell, I could always do it for her. Get a knife and carve that name into her pretty flesh, letter by letter. My fingers twitch against my desk, and I picture the dagger I left somewhere upstairs. Her blade, the perfect tool to do it with. A bloody brand would ensure there is no forgetting who or what she is.
A toy.
A distraction.
An albatross around my fucking neck.
Instead of branding her, I could always just kill her. Wrap my hands around that pretty throat and squeeze. Mischa no doubt has a trust set aside in her name. As her husband, I could stand to collect it all.
Though what use would I have for a fucking fortune? The only reasonable answer is a name, just one. Vincenzo. At the end of the day, marrying her is a distraction. My only goal is to give my heir the life he deserves.
No matter the cost.
I lean back into the leather seat as my attention rightfully turns to him. Vinny. As I see it, two factors dictate his future—money, and security. The second should be the easiest to accomplish. Once I marry Willow, I’ll propose an out to Mischa—a divorce in exchange for a promise. The fucker will have no choice but to uphold his word. I play my cards right, and Vincenzo will have his balls in a vice for the rest of his life.
As for the money…
Killing the girl could garner him more than enough, but it’s too risky. There’s another way, though. Another time, I might have shied away from it, but not anymore.
I already owe Vincenzo my life. Why not let him profit from it?
“I wouldn’t be so concerned about the Stepanovs as I would be about yourself,” Fabio scolds from the doorway of my office. He’s smiling, but it’s strained at the edges. I recognize the look.
“Am I in for a scolding?” I raise an eyebrow. “Or is that your idea of a threat, Fab?”
“You know what? I would threaten you to take care of yourself if I thought you’d listen. You look like hell, Don.”
I use his change of subject to ignore the suspicion eating away at the back of my skull. He was upstairs for a few minutes, at least. With her. Scheming?
I wouldn’t put it past him in his quest for peace and harmony.
“We can’t all spend our days shopping,” I counter, noticing the bag he had before is gone.
“Even the finest tailor can’t help you if you don’t brush your hair and shave, at least.” Laughing, he enters the room, but I never trust Fab’s brand of charm. He’s better than anyone at concealing his true feelings. You have to hunt for the truth in what he doesn’t say.
“I’ve been sober for too damn long,” I counter, playing along. “We could always move your little rendezvous to the bar?”
“And while I’m glad that you’ve laid off the drink,” he adds as if I never spoke, “there is the matter of withdrawal…”
And there it is, the truth he’s been dancing around—he’s worried. Perhaps for a good reason. A dull ache throbs behind my temples despite my best attempts to ignore it. Still, I shrug.
“I’ll try to find time to check into a rehab in between this insane wedding stunt and making sure that Mischa doesn’t try to finish off Vincenzo. Or that his daughter doesn’t lead his personal army to our door—”
“Rehab would be a good start after everything you’ve been through,” Fabio interjects, suddenly serious. “For now, we can start with this—” he withdraws a small brown vial from his pocket, rattling the contents within.
Given its size, I take a wild guess. “Pills? I thought drugs weren’t your thing.”
“Unprescribed pharmaceuticals are not.” He crosses to the desk setting the vial within my reach. “These, however, were suggested by a doctor whose opinion I trust. Librium. It’s a taper, just for a few days to keep you from seizing on your path to sobriety. You’re a tough son of a bitch, but no one can quit cold turkey. I wasn’t kidding before—you look like utter hell.”
“I think I’m more of an expert on that dominion than you,” I say, picturing the fiery abyss awaiting the end of this long, fucking life.
If all goes to plan, I’ll be there soon enough. What’s a seizure from withdrawal compared to a bullet to the brain?
“Don’t be a masochist,” Fabio snaps, slamming his hand against the desk. “You’ve got that look about you. I don’t like it. Take a damn pill.”
I snatch the vial and tap out a green capsule onto my palm. “Happy?”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns. “I specifically told him to put you on the smallest dose possible. You won’t be getting high on my watch.”
“Thanks, Mama Fab.” I salute him before choking down the capsule.
“Good. Now we can discuss the real reason why I’m here, apart from mothering you.”
I sigh at his tone. Dramatics aside, I’m not in the mood. My head is throbbing like a motherfucker, my tongue buzzing. I could chalk the discomfort up to withdrawal, but the true cause is deeper than that. I still taste her. Feel her. Smell her. She’s the only substance infecting my blood, turning my own body against me.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this hard for this long. Hell, I should just get myself off, if only to smother the lust. Drive her out of my skull some way.
Because I’ll never experience that body in person. Those slender thighs and whatever lurks between them will forever remain a mystery—because I won’t fuck her.
I staked our engagement on it.
“Don?”
I look over to find Fabio staring, his smile replaced by a frown.
“You going to gape at me all day or get to the point?” I snap.
He tugs on his collar. “To get the trivial matters out of the way first, I don’t want you staying here. Not in this—” he glances around with a look of disgust. “Goddamn house.”
I croak out a laugh, dragging a hand through my hair. Part of my reflection is visible in the metal base of a nearby lamp, proving Fabio’s initial assessment accurate; I look like shit. “If you’re cursing, it must be serious.”
“You’re damn right I am. It isn’t good for you. And Willow? What do you think must be going through her mind to be back here?”
Oh, but I know exactly what’s on “Willow’s” mind, and it has nothing to do with the past. Just revenge. The little witch aims to torment me. Punish me. Drive me fucking insane.
And after last night? I think she succeeded.
My eyes drift to the bottle nearby, and I curl a fist to keep from grabbing it. Though, hell, why shouldn’t I take more? I’d down every last pill just to wipe that moment from my memory.
Fabio snatches the p
ills first, returning them to his pocket. “Don’t tell me I’m going to regret giving you these,” he grumbles. “The last thing we need is to have you relapse in any shape or form.”
“Speak for yourself.” I’d kill for a sip of liquor right about now. I’d go out and find one too, if it weren’t for Vincenzo. I should be by his bedside as he recovers, not playing house with some mafiya witch.
“Maybe I should overdose,” I suggest coldly. “At least then you couldn’t bar me from the fucking hospital—”
“And now,” Fabio says gently, “we cut to the heavy stuff. There’s a reason why I didn’t want you to see Vin. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to be angry?”
I’m not ready for the fear that slams into me like a gut punch, and I grapple for the edge of the desk. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Fabio’s smile is tired but authentic. “Better than fine, actually. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but the nurses have already noted a marked improvement. Far better progress than even the most optimistic predictions.”
I feel a corner of my mouth twitch upward. My Vin was always a fighter. Yet, Fabio’s own actions undermine the good news.
“He’s doing better,” I rasp. “So why keep that from me?”
“Because I don’t want you barging in there and camping out by his bedside, that’s why.” I’ve known him long enough to guess what he’s too classy to say out loud—You’ll fuck it all up.
He thinks I’ll do more than visit Vin—perhaps take a detour and pay Mischa’s family the same respect he’s shown toward mine.
Is he wrong? I scoff rather than dwell upon an answer. “Glad to see you have so much faith in me, Fab.”
“I do,” he counters, “and I want you to keep a clear head and squash this mess between you and Mischa. That will keep Vincenzo safe. You can’t help him by scowling around his wing, intimidating the nurses—”
“Bullshit.” I recognize the significant dip in his inflection. Fab rarely lies to me outright. Primarily because he’s piss poor at it. “You learned something,” I say, a suspicion confirmed by the way he’s averting his eyes. “What?”
“First, I need to know how well you trust what little fragments of the famiglia remain—” he jerks his chin toward the doorway. From deeper in the house, a series of footsteps betray the movements of someone else. I’d almost forgotten we aren’t alone. At least four famiglia men patrol the property, scavenged from the ranks of Antonio Salvatore.
“You know Antonio was potentially working with whoever wanted you dead,” Fabio points out. “What about them?”
A damn good question. Luciano, Antonio’s second, is the only one who seems to hold any real sway. He denied knowing about the attack and, for what it’s worth, I believe him. He’s already had more than enough chances to kill me outright.
Though I don’t believe that he’s stuck around out of the goodness of his heart, either.
“I’ll vouch for them,” I say finally. “For now.”
“Alright, then.” Fabio braces his hands against my desk and takes a deep breath. “I did some digging into the financial records of Paulie Vanetti. Whoever bankrolled his little operation definitely wasn’t Antonio Salvatore. They’re smart. Very, very clever. Hid the transaction behind a million different fucking hidey-holes. Even the best sleuth couldn’t track the original bank account for a few years at least.”
“Anyone but you,” I point out, crossing my arms. “So where did it lead?”
He frowns. “Nowhere definitive yet. There were a few offshore accounts thrown into the mix. The kind deeply embedded in several European nations that can’t be easily accessed by just anyone.”
“Anyone like Antonio Salvatore,” I admit. That bastard didn’t have that kind of political pull. Though I can think of someone who does. “That kind of intel isn’t out of the realm for someone like Mischa Stepanov.”
“Exactly. I will give you that.” Fabio strokes his chin, his brows drawn in concentration. “It doesn’t seem likely that he would accidentally mastermind an attack on his own family—”
“But it’s in his wheelhouse,” I say, sitting straighter. Renewed hunger for retaliation surges through my blood, banishing any discomfort. Fuck withdrawal. I feel better than ever. If Fabio himself can deem Mischa a threat, he couldn’t stand in my way. “Foreign influence. Dark money. It has his hallmarks.”
“It does,” Fabio admits. He would know. “I didn’t want to feed your paranoia, but remember his interest in your harbor? Well, it seems several listings on the city’s west end have suddenly been bought up. In cash. Even after the accident that happened at your port office—”
“You mean Mischa Stepanov setting it on fire?”
Fabio winces. “It’s still prime real estate. I bet whoever wants it, still does. Especially when they’ve spent over ten million to secure a bunch of rundown warehouses and random businesses.”
“Ten million?” My eyes widen. It’s an impressive sum. “That’s a lot of dark money.”
If not Mischa’s, then whose? The city’s west end is known only for abandoned warehouses from the steel mill days. Nothing worth developing.
“What about that bitch, Vanetti? He mentioned a J.W.,” I say, picturing the bastard I tortured. That name was the one bit of information I managed to get from him. “Does that mean anything?”
Fabio shrugs. “Whoever this puppet master is, he went through a lot of lengths to cover his tracks. Meaning that he has not only the resources, but the intelligence with which to do so. I found another alarming clue, though. Something unexpected.”
“What?” It takes more than the usual gambit to surprise Fab.
“I got curious and had my informant run a search across the international database for anything that caught his eye. It might be unrelated, but—” He starts to pace, still stroking his chin.
“If you’re mentioning it, I’m guessing it might not be so unrelated after all.”
“Perhaps. A rash of sudden deaths at a firm overseas has rattled the corporate world. A plane crash, it seems, killed the entire board, leaving a slew of new investors in charge. The company isn’t major, mind you. It only controls a small fleet of cargo shippers—far too small to matter in the international trade, but—”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Exactly,” Fabio agrees. “If that hunch pans out, then something big is afoot, which is why I want you to stay focused. And to stay clean—” he pats the pocket where the pills reside. “Let Vin heal and find whoever did this so we can end the threat permanently.”
“You sound like me,” I say. “Usually, you’d be prattling on about peace and love and healing.”
“I preached peace and love once,” he says softly. “And it didn’t turn out so well in the end, did it?”
He’s referring to an event well beyond the shitstorm with Mischa Stepanov. Back when I, to put it nicely, went off the fucking deep end, leaving him to pick up the pieces. Did I ever thank him for that? Acknowledge it out loud? Knowing Fab, he wouldn’t even want to hear it if I did.
“Who knows where the hell I’d be without your peace and love,” I tell him.
He scoffs, lightening the mood again. “Don’t get sappy on me, Don.”
“Sappy or withdrawal, who can tell the difference?”
“Let’s try to avoid both then, shall we?” Fabio continues to pace, nearing the window by the time he finally looks my way again. “I need to ask you something.”
I stiffen. He’s serious. “About what?”
The way he’s staring has me on edge. I can’t even begin to name the expression on his face.
“Have I grown three fucking heads or something?”
“Why would you give her that stuff?” he demands hoarsely. “What did you even tell her? I know it wasn’t the truth, or she would have burned it all—”
“Tell her what?” Her, being the girl. At least one hunch is proven correct—something happened between them. “What are you
talking about?”
“Damn it, Don…” He sinks onto a nearby chair, but the lack of usual poise ages him decades.
“Whatever I’ve done, spit it out—”
“Olivia.” His knuckles white as he grips the hand rests. “Those clothes. I didn’t realize you gave her those clothes. Why would you give her those—”
“I didn’t give her shit.” It’s the only thing I can think to say, but it’s the truth. Luciano was the one who dredged up that box from only God knows where. “I’m sorry if you—”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Fabio counters, his gaze on the floor. “I just don’t understand why you would… Never mind—” He stands, composed again. “Anyway, I’ll escort the girl to the hospital.”
“Alone? Hell no. Take Luciano and—”
“Yes, alone. I think it will be a better show of faith than marching in there armed to the teeth. I also took the liberty of bringing her some more suitable clothing. While I’m there, I’ll check on Vincenzo and update you on his progress. In the meantime, you will?” He phrases it like a fucking pop quiz question.
I offer him another mocking salute. “I’ll stay out of trouble.”
“Stay focused, Donatello.” His sharp tone heralds yet another damn scolding. “I know you’ve been reformed, but I wouldn’t mind a new, improved, sober Donatello Vanici, the famiglia leader for a few days. At least until this mess is sorted.”
I have to chuckle. “Shit must be worse than you’re saying if you want Il Mostro back.”
“Not the monster you became,” he corrects. “The real you. Confident, cocky Donatello, full of life who loved his line of work. Remember him?”
He makes it sound like something out of a goddamn fairy tale. Maybe it was. A perfect man with a perfect life who just so happened to run an organized crime syndicate on the side. What a goddamn aspiration.
“Yeah, I remember…” I’m on my feet, approaching the window on autopilot. I used to spend hours in this spot, eyeing the overgrown yard beyond it. Once, two children played tag beneath that old oak tree. They were cocky and confident, too, trusting that their uncle Don would always protect them…
And he failed them both.