Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3)

by Lana Sky

  I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. The raw hope in his voice shouldn’t affect me. Especially not now.

  Unmoved, Donatello’s grip bites deeper. “What did he say?”

  As if I could forget. Those four words circle my brain in a mocking loop. Safy…am I dead?

  The tears I kept at bay around Mischa descend at full force, blurring my vision. Deep down, I think I always knew Donatello lied about the truth of what happened to his precious Safy. I just never thought I’d have to face it. Face him.

  His betrayal was one thing, but this…

  His rejection is a living creature clawing through my chest, ripping open the wounds I’d hoped were healed. I’m left bleeding without a mark to show for it, once again forced to grapple with the depths of how little Donatello Vanici cared about me.

  When he lets me go, I inspect the ragged planes of his face, trying to imagine how I could ever see warmth in them or seek solace in that deceitful grin. He wasn’t happy with just destroying Safiya. Only a heartless monster could sell a little girl—but it takes true evil to lie.

  He told anyone who might care that I was dead. He told Vincenzo I was dead.

  I want him to gloat over that fact now. I want him to laugh. Chuckle. Spit.

  As my vision blurs, I glare at him, daring him to do so. Isn’t this what he wanted?

  He won. He hurt me.

  He swallows hard instead, his lips parting wordlessly. The shock lasts only for a second before the hardness returns, steeling his gaze. “What did he say—”

  “Donatello!” Fabio appears by his side, strategically drawing him away from me. “What are you doing here?”

  For a second, I doubt he even knows where “here” is. Helpless, his eyes fixate on Vincenzo’s door. He takes a step toward it only to stop when Fabio grabs his arm.

  “Donatello, what are you doing here? Jesus, Christ are you okay?”

  Only now do I notice the absence of his suit jacket, and the red liquid staining the hem of his shirt.

  “The girl…” He jerks his chin toward the ward’s entrance, but it’s empty. “She cut herself. I brought her in to get it treated.”

  “The hospital for a papercut?” Fabio asks, an eyebrow raised. When Donatello says nothing, he places a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “Vincenzo—”

  “He’ll be fine,” Fabio says, flashing an unexpected grin. “Better than fine, actually. The doctors have been astounded by his progress. The lead surgeon assures me that he’s improving better than he could have ever hoped for. Let them work and let him rest—” His eyes cut in my direction, conveying more alarm than his voice reveals. “I’ll bring you back myself as soon as he’s stabilized.”

  For a second, I swear Donatello will shrug him off and barge into the room regardless. Abruptly, he turns on his heel instead and starts down the opposite hallway.

  “You’ve been making a lot of guarantees lately, Fab,” he calls back. “Let’s hope you can come through on them all.”

  To his credit, Fabio laughs. “I haven’t failed you yet, have I? One day you’ll learn that, of all people, I always have your best interest in mind. Why? Because as long as you’re around, your fearsome reputation intact, I have nothing to fear from anyone. I lose you, I lose my bulletproof shield, and we can’t have that, can we?”

  Donatello grunts in a way that betrays he isn’t sure if the boast was entirely in jest or not. I suspect it’s more of the latter. Fabio is every bit as invested in Donatello’s well-being as he is in his own. So much so that he helped him spin a lie for everyone, from himself to Vincenzo, to live under.

  So much so that he’s terrified by whatever the past might reveal.

  If I give him Olivia’s letters, I might lose the chance to discover the truth for myself. Safiya might have been susceptible to his manipulation, and recently I’ve been inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt—but no more.

  He stood by as Donatello threw me away, and he helped him maintain the lie that I was dead.

  As far as my own well-being goes, I know one thing for sure—I can’t trust either of them.

  6

  Evgeni

  The outskirts of the city seem like the safest bet. Already early evening, the district is decently populated, with enough traffic to deter any shooter worth his pay.

  Though I get the sense that whoever I’m dealing with is no skittish amateur. A few potential witnesses wouldn’t be enough to dissuade them if they really wanted their target dead.

  I eye the woman in the rearview mirror. So far, she has far more pros in her column to support her story than cons.

  “Someone tried to kill you,” I say once we’re far beyond the building.

  She laughs from the back seat, her hair tussled, smile manic. “You seem surprised, soldier. Aren’t you used to danger?”

  “No,” I admit. A fact I don’t regret one damn bit. “Certainly not from someone this sloppy. They didn’t care who the hell saw.”

  Which means one of two things—the would-be killer is a goddamn rookie. Or…

  “Still don’t believe me?” she taunts, still cackling. Another glance at her betrays her bravado for what it is. She’s in shock. “Perhaps if I caught that bullet between my teeth, you’d grow bored of accusing me of lying—”

  “Enough.”

  I pull onto the side of the road.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Real fear rattles her voice as I turn to face her directly.

  “Damn.” This angle reveals what I couldn’t see from the front—blood painting a steady trail down her forehead. I lurch toward her and grab her chin, tilting it for a better look. It’s a cut, alarmingly deep. “Were you hit?”

  She attempts to shrug me off. “You sound so concerned.”

  A few more seconds of inspection, and I have my answer anyway. She must have struck her head sometime during our retreat. A glance at her pupils reveals no worrying dilation, but I wouldn’t put a concussion out of the realm of possibility.

  “I suggest you trade in that motel for a hospital room,” I tell her, letting her wrench out of my reach.

  The words must strike a chord. She stops laughing. “You wanted to know why I would come begging to Mischa? I have nowhere left to go.”

  Vulnerability on her is disarming. Her voice loses its characteristic purr, her eyes an icier blue than ever. I’m not completely fooled. Manipulation is her one last trick, and I sense she’s an expert at utilizing it.

  I try to focus only on the logistics. The man didn’t want her dead. He wanted her shaken.

  “You said he needed your son,” I point out.

  “But not me.” She presses herself against the door, averting her gaze. “In case that wasn’t already obvious. I know too much. I’m too dangerous to leave alive.”

  “What do you know?”

  Her eyes flicker, flashing a shade of blue I’ve come to correlate with her lies.

  “Tell me the truth or here—” I reach past her and wrench on the door handle. As it opens, her eyes widen. “Get out and take your chances.”

  “Not much of a knight in shining armor, are you?” she spits. Then, very deliberately, she grabs the handle and pulls the door shut. “It’s complex,” she warns, crossing her arms, her head cocked to appraise me. The blood dripping down her cheek melds with her dress. Given her lack of visible pain, the garish liquid might as well be part of her outfit. “Your brute-like brain might not be able to handle it.”

  Now I’m the one laughing. Though going off her startled grimace, maybe I growled.

  “Try me. You said he needed equity.”

  “Let’s just say that his business ventures require a lot of discretion and a close proximity to the port.”

  Going off the disgust in her tone, I take a wild guess.

  “Trafficking? Of drugs? Sex?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not exactly sure. He took pains to hide most of his plots from me, but I have my methods. He’s planning something
big. Something dealing with the harbor, but I don’t know when or what.”

  It’s more than she meant to say. She bites her lip as if irritated by the admission.

  This time, I doubt she’s lying.

  “You sure love to play with hypotheticals—”

  “You know what isn’t a hypothetical? Getting a bullet in my brain! I’ve told you what I know.”

  “So where do the Stepanovs come in?”

  She sighs, leaning back against the seat. “He wants the boy,” she says. “My sister’s.”

  “Eli,” I clarify. “The last Winthorp heir. Without him, your son would be next in line to inherit, if his bloodline was proven, that is.”

  She smirks. “I can see your suspicions forming, Mr. Soldier. Let’s hope that you won’t need to see a bullet whiz past his head next to believe me.”

  “Let’s suppose I do believe you. You decided to come to Mischa with scattered bits of information and a bunch of ‘what ifs’? No. You’re smarter than that.”

  She looks away rather than meet my gaze, and I have my answer.

  “He wouldn’t want you dead unless you knew something important. I suggest you tell me.”

  “I don’t know what he’s planning exactly. But—” she raises a finger as I scoff in annoyance. “I think I know something. He’s been working with local associates to gain a foothold in the city’s infrastructure.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugs. “Something, something, Saleri. And a sneaky bastard named Antonio Salvatore.”

  I sit forward, my interest piqued. Son of a bitch.

  “Gregori Saleri?” I clarify.

  She nods, but I’m not surprised.

  A Saleri, and Antonio Salvatore. Two men with influence in the city who might have a reason to want Mischa Stepanov gone.

  “I think I have your interest now, soldier,” the woman says quietly. “Now, if you don’t mind, get me the hell out of here.”

  Her eyes are on the rear window where a black car appears in the distance.

  “Fuck.”

  I whip around, and sure enough, it’s gaining ground, and I’d rather not take a chance of it being another visitor.

  “Hold on,” I tell her.

  “Where are we going?”

  I try not to give away what I’m thinking. Honestly? I don’t fucking know.

  “I saw the way you sneered at my motel,” she remarks with a watery laugh. “You didn’t stop to ask yourself why?”

  She doesn’t need to explain. A shitty motel with even the barest level of security would be safer against an attack than anywhere else.

  Except…

  “I suggest a hotel,” she says. “A very nice one in the heart of the city. On your dime, of course.”

  I put the van back into drive, irritated more by the fact that she’s right.

  Meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror, I say, “And I suggest you keep talking.”

  7

  Willow

  Kisa’s “cut” turns out to be more severe than Fabio’s skepticism warranted. When we finally reunite, she has ten stitches to show for her ordeal, as well as her entire left arm in bandages. As for the cause of her injury, neither Donatello, nor—the man with him—Luciano, give an adequate explanation other than “it happened.” Fabio raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t argue. Always more practical than emotional, he vows to get the girl new clothes instead.

  Her little pink shirt and jeans are ruined, stained red. As we exit through the main lobby, the scarlet hue blazes, and she looks more morbid ghost than girl. Falling into step beside her, I can’t resist straining my neck for any hint of Mischa or his men as we navigate the darkened parking garage.

  I’m not the only one on edge.

  “I should take Kisa,” Luciano suggests, placing his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “If there’s any trouble, I can cover you from afar—”

  “They’ll both come with me,” Donatello declares, circling around to a black car. “You take up the rear,” he tells Luciano. “I’ll lead.”

  “I’ll ride with you Don,” Fab cuts in. “I’ll arrange to have my car brought back.”

  Donatello nods to Fab, but doesn’t even look at me, though he grabs Kisa’s good arm to steady her as she climbs into the back seat.

  I’m more surprised by the action than I should be—along with the fact that he brought her to the hospital at all. Considering his detour to Vincenzo’s wing, her injury turned out to be more of a convenience than anything.

  Or an intentional ploy. Would he really harm a child to suit his own motives?

  Of course, he would. He was the one who took Kisa from her home in the first place, according to Luciano. He killed her father and threw her in the trunk of a car as though she were a piece of luggage. Cutting her would be par for the course for him.

  And yet this sick, pathetic voice in my head keeps whispering that he wouldn’t.

  I inspect him from the back seat as he drives, Fabio beside him. The reddish glow of passing headlights illuminates his features, enhancing the deep amber of his eyes and the stubble on his chin. If Kisa resembles a ghost, then he is the devil holding her soul captive, every bit the callous crime lord he claims to be—and these past few days have given me more than enough proof to support that image.

  I should hate him. I do.

  And yet… The little girl I used to be is harder to smother than I thought. She still can’t pair that reality of who he is with the figure in my memories. I close my eyes, and I still see him—the charming Donny who played with me. Who read me bedtime stories until I fell asleep. Who swore to protect me.

  The very same man who wrote passionate letters to his wife in explicit detail.

  Then I open my eyes and see the monster who stripped me naked and turned my misery into his game. Jerking my chin, I stare from the window, watching darkness paint the city black. My heart pounds at the thought of returning to Havienna. Fabio won’t stick around forever, and I’ll have to face Donatello Vanici again.

  I’m not fooled by his silence. He’s going out of his way to ignore me now, but I sense an invisible timer ticking the seconds down.

  The question he asked near Vincenzo’s room still echoes clearly in my mind. What did he say? Sooner or later, he’ll demand an answer.

  And Vincenzo’s words alone should cement the cruelty of who Donatello Vanici is at his core. He told him I was dead. All this time, he let him believe that. It’s beyond malicious. It’s cruel.

  “Finally,” Fabio exclaims.

  Sick with dread, I follow his gaze, and my heart sinks when I spy the house looming on the horizon.

  When we pull into the driveway, Donatello exits the vehicle without saying a word, his body bathed in shadow, eyes blazing like hellfire.

  “Well, today was eventful.” Fabio appears before me, extending a hand to help me from the car. “You should try to get some sleep,” he continues. “By the way, Donatello, I made some calls and had my assistant find the documents you wanted. I’ll come by tomorrow before the meeting. I expect to find you here, having fully rested, okay?”

  The other man is already storming up the front steps, barging into the house without a response.

  “He’s not too talkative, is he?” someone remarks, stepping forward. Luciano. He drove the van behind us, though I suspect not by choice. Moving quickly, he approaches the door on my end, ushering out a small figure. “Come on, Kisa.”

  Together, Fabio and I follow them, the last to enter the house.

  “That box,” he murmurs to me, scanning the hall warily for Donatello. “Bring it to me now. I’ll wait here.”

  Only now does the amusing nature of my predicament truly sink in. From captive to unwanted house guest. It’s obvious which iteration of those roles Donatello would prefer I keep.

  Fabio’s talk of “equal terms” is just that in the eyes of Donatello Vanici—talk. He prefers I be locked away, a foe he can rail against, rather than an equal he has to face on even groun
d.

  Ironically, the foundation of this old house seems to conspire with his wishes. The floorboards creak beneath my weight, and I half expect them to crack as I mount the staircase.

  From here, Donatello is visible as a shadow, marching toward his study. Up ahead, Luciano is herding Kisa down the hall into her room.

  I’m ignored for the time being—time that a smart woman would use to plot some way of turning the tables again. Proving to Mischa that I don’t aim to humiliate him. He is my family.

  Donatello will always be the enemy.

  Being here reinforces that divide. My throat itches with every dust-choked breath I take. I miss the quiet beauty of Stepanov manor, and my old room. Thoughts of it haunt me as I ascend the rest of the steps and enter that pink hell, shutting the door behind me. The back of my neck prickles with the awareness of Donatello lurking below as I tiptoe past the box of Olivia’s belongings. Hidden beside the bed, I find the silver container untouched.

  Though his motives are unclear, I doubt Fabio is a liar. He meant what he said—in exchange for the letters, he’ll arrange for me to see Ellen and Eli. It’s an offer that should easily outweigh the allure of any secrets I could uncover. There is no real choice to make.

  But…

  Olivia’s scent teases the air, and the truth feels far more complicated. Curiosity is a dangerous temptation—but it might be my only way to gain some leverage. Insight. To learn more of the man who wrote of his wife as though she were the driving force of his entire world.

  In theory, I should only need a night to read them all. No more. Then I can give everything to Fabio without regret.

  I don’t let myself overthink the action as I return the box to its hiding place. When I find Fabio, still at the base of the steps, I shrug with what I hope is a helpless expression.

  “You couldn’t find it? Damn!” He strokes his chin, pacing the length of the foyer. “I know it couldn’t have gone far. Maybe I dropped it on my way to the car...”