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

by Lana Sky

  “Or maybe you hurt her?”

  “Hell no!” He lurches to his feet, his face flushing red. “I would never hurt her!”

  The reaction is the only answer I need. I’ve seen enough men on the defensive to spot the difference between indignant rage and protective anger.

  “Fine,” I say softly. “Forget the girl, let’s talk business. I want you to secure Antonio’s mansion for me. All of his business docs. Everything else, you pack up for Fabio.”

  He blinks, swallowing hard as he switches from anger to business. “I’ll need at least two of the others for backup,” he says. “That is, if the Saleris haven’t already tried to reclaim it, in which case we’re all fucked.”

  I wave him off. “Take them.” Fewer men leaves me open to an attack, but I’ll have the chance to pump another potential informant for information. She’s been so fucking talkative all of a sudden. What more might she reveal?

  That’s my only reason for indulging her. Information and nothing else.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Luciano calls from the door. “The docks. He obsessed with them, always down at the marina.”

  “The marina?” I remember that the bastard had a yacht he liked to show off. “He had a boat?”

  “He kept two docked there, I think—but he wasn’t so fixated on it before about a month ago. He talked about the port like it was life or death.”

  Which explains why the bastard tried to threaten me into selling my property to him.

  “Tell me if you learn anything else,” I say.

  When he leaves, I return to my desk, poring over the previous documents Fabio left. Within minutes, I’m too distracted to focus on the details.

  She left me a note, after all. It’s only polite to send a timely reply.

  On autopilot, I head upstairs, approaching a closed door. Her smell acts as a beacon, broadcasting her presence. Sure enough, I push the door open and find her seated on the bed as if she’s been waiting for me.

  And she was. Her head is cocked, those eyes focused on me with a fearless gleam. Her lips part, and I figure any other woman would take this chance to issue some kind of verbal challenge. A threat? A boast?

  Not her. She merely lifts a sliver of paper resting beside her and offers it to me. Another note, another game. But her first message still demands a reply.

  “You think I’m the one who is afraid?” Closing the door behind me, I take a step, expecting her to flinch. To her credit, she merely lifts those eyes to mine, her hand still outstretched.

  “Because I’m not,” I tell her, advancing another step. “I’m not the one who’s been coddled for the past seven years. I’m not the one who can’t accept the truth when it’s told to her outright.”

  The idea that I sold her for pennies on the dime isn’t good enough for her. Neither is my insistence that the act meant nothing. Nothing.

  As if to counter that, I feel my own hand brush my chest. Her name is tattooed there for a reason. I ripped the skin open myself with a blunt knife, for a reason…

  Insanity could explain it. Or the fact that I have no soul. I’m a goddamn monster. Her eyes tell me that and more. She’s mocking me again, drunk on whatever secrets she read in those letters.

  I may have given her one, but it might as well be a bullet she’s eagerly loaded into her chamber with the barrel pointed right at me.

  “What’s this?” I snatch the page from her, lifting it to my eye level. “Another little note?”

  Not one written by her, anyway.

  Liv’s delicate scrawl blares from the page, and recognition hits like a lightning strike. God, I can smell her again, the faint scent of her perfume tinging the air. I see her—those wide hazel eyes, that sexy half-smile when she was excited or content.

  And the devastating frown when she wasn’t…

  When I blink, she disappears. All I’m left with are the remnants of whatever she wrote years ago.

  I feel invisible around you, baby. Sometimes it’s like I’m a ghost. You’re already a brilliant father, but as your wife, I’m just an afterthought. I miss you, but I have to wonder if you feel the same?

  I don’t remember this, not even the context of what might have been happening when she wrote it. I was busy—I was always busy—but when I look back, I always see Liv smiling from the doorway of my study, or smiling from the porch as I came home after being out all night on behalf of the famiglia. Always fucking smiling.

  “What the hell do you want, huh?” I crush the letter in my fist. Mischa or his fucking daughter won’t destroy Olivia’s memory. Over my dead body. “Did you want to earn tips from my first wife? I’ll give you a hint—stay out of my way.”

  She flinches. Not because of the threat, but that word and all the connotation it carries. Wife.

  I eye the letter again. Why show me this? To gloat, most likely. Prove that I was always a fuck up—but her cruelty isn’t what sets my nerves on edge. What else might she have gleaned from the other letters?

  Why the hell can’t I remember?

  “Don’t move.” The words are out of my mouth the second she stands.

  I expect her to run, push past me for the door. Instead, she turns to the window, putting her back to me as if I’m as inconsequential to her as Liv thought she was to me.

  “You’re so talkative all of a sudden,” I snap. “But you were silent when Mischa threatened to end your little game before it could start. What are you playing at?”

  She doesn’t react, but I know she’s processing every word. As I approach, I can see myself reflected in the glass. She already has that fucking lip between her teeth, her eyes blazing—but her knuckles whiten over the windowsill when I finally come close enough to touch her.

  “Did you enjoy prying into what a happy marriage was like?” I ask her, raking my gaze along that pale, slender neck. A slight quiver betrays the way she swallows. “Poring over my relationship? I’m sure your father would get a kick out of that. You should have been a good girl today and gone back to him.”

  She whirls to face me, her hand outstretched, and a part of me stirs…excited? Either that or fucking relieved. It’s about time she fought back. Hated me. Seethed. Raged.

  When her fingers land against my chest with no force behind them, I just assume I’ve overestimated her strength. She’s lost that hellcat spark.

  But those eyes pack enough of a punch to make up for the softness, doggedly riveted to mine, blazing like hellfire. One by one, she fans out each finger, grasping my pec. Damn. I know what she’s doing—tracing the letters carved into the flesh beneath the cotton of my shirt—proof of my lie.

  Olivia’s name isn’t here. Hers is.

  I snatch her wrist, wrenching her around so that her back is to me.

  “Was it the fucking you liked reading about?” I ask against her ear, taking a shot in the dark. I’m sure I wrote about the sex; we both did. Private, intimate shit that I should be pissed at her seeing. I’m not. Maybe because I know the truth, she won’t admit to herself. “Were you jealous? You should be, because you’ll never feel that.”

  I’m not referring to fucking me, either.

  “What it’s like to have a man crave you from the inside out. To have him in your skin. Your soul—”

  I break off the second her lips twitch. Silence was never a hindrance to her. God, it’s like I can hear her voice in my head, sly and taunting. But you were. You tried. You watched me.

  “I’m not talking about having someone watch you get off, either. You don’t even know what love is, do you?”

  Her eyes flit away from mine, and bullseye. I’ve got her.

  “You don’t. You have no idea what could drive a man to go to any lengths for you—and I’m not talking about Mischa,” I add, slipping my hand around her throat, letting my thumb play with her windpipe. It doesn’t feel as good as I imagined—it’s even better.

  This way, I can feel the slight quiver as she swallows, that involuntary hitch in her breathing. Her fear.
<
br />   “I’m talking about someone so dedicated to you they’d blow their own brains out if you asked them to,” I say, startled by the rasp in my voice. “They’d give anything. Do anything. The sex isn’t the why—no. It’s the how. You let them into your body, into your soul, and you hook them for life. You want to know what love is? It’s finding the one person who sees the shit in your soul—who you really are—and they don’t even flinch. Can you understand that? No, you can’t.”

  I scoff at her ignorance, but inside I’m reeling at my own fucking words. The insanity of it. The truth…

  That’s the shit I felt for Liv. Constant need. Constant pain. When she hurt, I ached. When she died, a part of me died right along with her. Her absence left a black hole inside me. Fuck, maybe it’s where my heart should be.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to mourn for someone day fucking in and day fucking out, hating yourself for being the reason they’re gone—”

  She rotates so quickly I don’t even see the slap coming. Her palm packs the full force she held back just seconds ago, knocking me off balance. Impulsively, I reach for her, snagging a fistful of golden hair. I pull until she’s forced to face me, her head back, chin in the air.

  Despite the awkward position, she continues to fight, kicking, punching any part of me she can reach. Anger in her is always easy to read, but that term doesn’t even begin to describe the emotion ripping through her now. She’s not insulted, oh no…

  I’ve hurt her again. More specifically, she thinks I’m wrong.

  “You didn’t love me. You didn’t.”

  Her eyes flash, challenging that point, but this is a battle she won’t win.

  “Real love is like nothing you’ve ever felt.”

  Though it’s not her fault. Mischa’s kept her sheltered tight. And I…

  I broke her trust in the worst way.

  “You know, I wish you could shout at me.” I tighten my grip to keep her eyes on mine. “Every word, every curse. I’d let you air it all out. Maybe then…”

  What? All would be forgotten? No. My motive is far more selfish than that. I need to hear it—everything she went through so I can tally it up like a cowardly bitch and wring some kind of salvation from the list of grievances. Mischa saved her. She wasn’t raped. She wasn’t beaten. She lived. Therefore…

  What I did couldn’t be nearly cruel enough to feed the rage harbored behind these pretty eyes.

  “Sorry wouldn’t be enough, would it?” I ask, not expecting a response. Her flared nostrils give me one regardless—Hell no. Still…

  A real man would say it and mean it. He’d get on his knees and rip his heart out with his bare hands just to atone, despite knowing that he never could.

  “I won’t,” I tell her, stroking that pretty cheek. “I won’t ever say it, and I’ll tell you why. It would never be enough, never.”

  I think of Mischa and the hate boiling beneath my skin for what he did to Vincenzo. That fucker won’t get to walk away scot-free. Not if I have any say in it—and she’s the best final word I could ever hope to have. Vengeance triumphs over any guilt.

  It has to.

  “I say it, and what?” I demand. “You won’t forgive me. You can’t. So, I say it, and all I’d do would be giving you a piece of me. A small, fragile fucking piece. You take that; I’ve got nothing left.” My thumb stills against her artery, registering every frantic beat of her heart. “Would it help if I gave you more reasons to hate me? If I cut you. Scarred you. Abused this body to match the mental toll. Would that fucking be enough?” I can’t stop myself from touching her anyway, grazing the top of that quivering shoulder, then down the length of one arm.

  She’s so damn soft, her skin a beautiful canvas ripe for abuse. A million different ways flash through my mind, all of them twisted.

  “I could hurt you, principessa,” I say against her skull, pressing her body against mine. Slight and warm, she shudders at my touch, her breaths growing more frantic by the second. “Rip you open. Make you bleed. Is that what you want?”

  My fingers crawl down her spine with a mind of their own, finding the divot of her lower back. Then lower to graze the round curve of her ass and the slender valley between both cheeks.

  She stiffens, the air escaping her lips in a startled breath. If she’s never had a man in her cunt, then she’s most definitely never had a man back there.

  I withdraw far enough to see her face, expecting terror. Damn. Instead, that lip is between her teeth again, a bitten shade of red.

  “You would want that,” I deduce, my voice guttural. I swipe my thumb across her cheek, relishing the silky feel. “And that’s all I’m fucking good for. Hurting you.”

  To her credit, she doesn’t cringe. Doesn’t fight.

  Her response is ten times worse—liquid glistens at the corners of her eyes, spilling down her cheeks without warning.

  “I just can’t win,” I rasp more to myself than to her. “I don’t want to. To win would be to admit there’s something here worth claiming, but there isn’t. You mean nothing to me. I mean nothing to you. That’s all there is.”

  She grits her teeth, and I assume that’s her unspoken answer—Yes. We’re nothing. Nothing…

  Her fist comes for my head, so swiftly I can’t dodge it. The blow lands with a flurry of stars. Then another. She throws herself at me next, and I snatch her waist, pulling her with me as I stagger back against the wall. For a moment, I let her fight—and she does viciously. Punching. Kicking. The thud of every impact serves as the only audible sound she can make. But, for the life of me, I can’t feel a damn thing.

  Not until I see her face. The pain there. The raw, pulsing frustration—a feeling few in the world can understand. Internal pressure like a bull in a pen, pacing, and pacing, hunting for a way out. But there isn’t one. All it can do is just charge the barrier keeping it contained with a reckless hunger for freedom.

  I grit my teeth, feeling something in me give way for just a second…

  But long enough for her to witness whatever it is. She goes rigid, her fists still balled. When she lunges a second time, I throw my hands out—but not in defense.

  She goes limp, and I’m the only surface keeping her upright. Not by choice. It’s pain. The kind of pain you feel so deeply you go numb in the face of it. There’s no putting into words how it feels or what you need. You just scream beneath the onslaught.

  But she can’t. For once, I’m not eager to look at her. Fuck. I stave off the inevitable until I have no choice. Craning my neck, I see her, cheeks red, painted wet with tears, her mouth open and gaping at the air.

  A part of me tries to shrug the reaction off—she saw I’d told her the truth, that’s all. She believed me. She meant nothing. Not a damn thing.

  The only problem is I think she wanted to see that indifference emblazoned on my fucking face.

  I couldn’t even give her that much.

  “I don’t remember,” I croak, staring blankly at the wall as if it contains the answer. What was I feeling as I did what I did? When I left her.

  I should have felt something. The same shit I tried to rub in her face at least—smug, remorseless pride. Why else would a sick, twisted motherfucker do something so fucking cruel without a damn good reason? All along, I’ve been telling myself the answer was simple masochism—selling her hurt me more than Gino’s betrayal.

  But for the first time since seeing her again…I can finally admit it out loud. “I don’t know why I did it.”

  What drove me there, with her hand in mine? Looking back, those memories are shrouded in a web of hate that obscures everything beyond it in a red haze. It’s an inferno, burning too brightly to even see what lurks beneath the flames.

  Not that the reasons matter. Her father deceived me, and I sold her in return. On its face, that’s more than enough of a reason for a sick monster to betray one of the few people foolish enough to put her faith in him.

  “I don’t remember, is that what you wanted to hear?
” I demand to silence. My fingers are in her hair without permission from my brain, creeping through the tresses shrouding her skull as if it alone contains the answers. All I’d have to do is break it open…

  I curl each finger, feeling my nails graze the delicate skin. I could hurt her with no effort at all. It takes more energy to hold still. “Tell me why. Tell me what you remember.”

  Her own nails bite into my wrist, her face against my chest. I can guess what she would say—You left me. You left....

  I did—but when I inspect those memories, it’s like watching a stranger’s unfurl. I’m blocked from the bastard’s mind, blind to his motives. Why did he do it?

  Not that it matters.

  “I’m glad you hate me,” I tell her, withdrawing my hands from her scalp. Finally, she moves, inclining her head to face me. One swipe of her hand across her cheek banishes any tears. She’s stone again.

  For whatever reason, my thumb drifts down, catching the edge of that pouty mouth before she can smother all emotion completely. I apply just enough pressure to make her lips part, imagining the words she’d say. I’ll always hate you.

  “You should,” I reply. “At least that means I taught you one damn thing worth remembering.”

  Something beyond how to play hide-and-seek or swim.

  “I taught you to never trust anyone—” I shove her back and head for the doorway. “You got that? No matter how much they claim to love you, it doesn’t matter. They’ll leave.”

  Just like how I did when it came to her. Just like how Liv left me. Intent doesn’t matter; it’s fate. There is no such thing as a happily ever after.

  Leaving now is one final shred of mercy I can give her.

  But she won’t let me. Her scent is a drug, dulling my better judgment, weighing down each step I take as though I’m wading through quicksand. Then I stop. She’s pressed against the wall, her expression frozen, those eyes so endless; one look, and I’m drowning in them.

  When I finally move, it’s in the wrong direction—advancing on her corner, watching her shrink in on herself. My heart pangs, and I tell myself that this is what I want—her afraid and shivering.