by Lana Sky
Not a club. Without seeing the name emblazoned across the front, I wouldn’t even recognize it as the lounge where we met those two men. The Saleris. There seemed to be no love lost between them and Donatello—to the point where I felt compelled to kiss him to play the role of his willing fiancée...
This time, Donatello parks directly before it, heedless of the posted sign forbidding the action, or the bouncer who lunges from his post. “Hey! You need to move your car—”
“I need to see Gregori Saleri,” Donatello growls as he climbs out and fearlessly mounts the curb.
As I watch him, his prior words echo in my skull. Look like you deserve a seat at the table. Only in his world, the “table” is figurative. What he really meant was look like I deserve to stand beside him. An unmistakable aura sets him apart from everyone else in this sliver of the city.
Every woman within a twenty-foot radius stops to stare, as the men whip around, sensing the predator in their midst. He’s too dangerous to belong. His suit is too black in the vibrant sunshine, his hair wildly tousled and yet coifed at the same time.
He’ll always be able to hold one caveat over my head. I don’t belong in his world.
I never did.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the bouncer demands, and I startle to find that Donatello is frozen before the entrance. It isn’t until his eyes cut in my direction that I realize why he’s stopped.
Are you coming?
I scramble to join him, smoothing my hand down the front of my idea of an “acceptable” ensemble. A black sundress procured by Fabio, my hair loose. I knew the second I stepped into the car that I had failed Donatello’s expectations, though he acknowledged me with silence rather than an insult. Beside him, I’m a rabbit next to a wolf.
“Mr. Saleri isn’t in this time of day,” the bouncer sputters as Donatello surges inside, revealing the glass doors are unlocked.
“Then where is he?” My breath catches at that fierce tone. I’m a child again, selfishly relieved that his intensity isn’t honed on me. “You don’t want to lie to me,” he warns when the bouncer remains silent.
“On his yacht,” the man blurts. “A, uh… A private meeting. I’ll inform him that you came by—”
“Do that.” Donatello turns, heading outside. When we’re back in the car, he says nothing, wrenching the vehicle into reverse.
His speed is reckless. Nearby buildings pass in an alarming blur. Soon, they become sparser, revealing glimpses of the bay expanding over the horizon in between.
“So, what if you’re right,” Donatello says out loud, though I get the sense he isn’t talking to me in particular. “Saleri is acting as a proxy for someone looking to build a net around the harbor. But for what? Why box me in rather than buy me out, or just open up another section of the port? It doesn’t make sense, and it’s a lot of fucking money to throw around. Maybe that’s the point…”
His disgusted tone matches my instinctive reaction. To scoff. This mysterious figure is just doing what anyone with money in this city seems apt to—spend it frivolously.
“But why here?” Donatello continues. “Why now? Why use Salvatore and the Saleris as a proxy at all…”
To cover their tracks. Whoever the culprit is, they aimed for stealth. Their ultimate end goal is something they don’t want to be traced to them. At least, not yet. It harkens to my spider comparison all over again—but several creatures, working in unison to create a larger web.
All to catch a very, very big prey.
“You’re thinking about something.” He risks taking his eyes from the road long enough to scrutinize mine. “Tell me.”
I tense, waiting for the impact of what I’m sure was an insult. And yet, the telltale inflection never comes.
“What are you thinking?” This time? He sounds almost…genuine.
I swallow hard, overwhelmed by a reaction that comes from nowhere. Nostalgia? Something uglier, perhaps. A terrifying sense that we’ve been in this position before, him asking what I’m thinking. In fact, he used to be one of the few people to ever care.
Tell me.
I hesitate, feeling much like a child again, forced to pantomime. I’m acutely aware of him watching as I raise my hands, linking the fingers of both together.
“Your web,” he says gruffly. “We established that. So, what’s the point of it?”
The point? I extend one finger and turn it on him.
“Me?” He shakes his head. “No. It has to be more than that. I’m nobody as far as the city is concerned. At least by the time these purchases took place. And why rope the Saleris into it? And use me against Mischa? Sure, it makes sense on the surface, but beyond that? It’s fucking stupid and reckless.”
Unless…
I don’t know how to convey the thoughts in my head. I just lean forward, flattening my palms over the dashboard in front of me. Each individual finger could resemble a piece on a chessboard—him on one end, Mischa on the other.
But what if that’s the wrong way of viewing it entirely?
I withdraw my hands, triggering a grunt from Donatello.
“Maybe it’s not a web after all?”
I shake my head, still sure of that detail. Only he might not be who the trap is designed to snare.
“Mischa?” he guesses, somehow following my train of logic. “Makes sense. He’s the biggest player in the game as far as the city is concerned. But he doesn’t have a stake in the harbor, so why the fuck would he care? You’d need to strike hard and fast if you wanted to drive him from the city. Not leisurely buy useless property.”
He’s right, but I try to see past the obvious reasoning. Mischa is powerful; who wouldn’t want him out of the way? But how does the spider’s web truly operate? It ensnares, trapping its victim until it finally gives up the fight.
Then it drains the husk dry. Speed is an unnecessary factor with such a method. All you need is time.
“You think you know why?” Before I can reply, he pulls into a nearby parking lot and faces me. “Let’s hear it.”
Communicating with him is a strange exercise, almost like looking at a mirror but in reverse. I move, and he copies the motions, extending his hands, his head cocked expectantly. As I spread each of my fingers, he does the same. Then I form a fist with both.
“You want it all,” he says, catching onto the strange pantomime. “It’s not the purchases on their own but taken as a whole. It’s the long game. Force the target into a corner. Goddamn! It’s smart.”
Something in my chest constricts, even though I know that admission was for this figurative enemy, not me.
Oblivious to my reaction, Donatello sits back, stroking his chin. “It’s very smart, but Fab wouldn’t think of it off the bat. It’s gritty. Whoever this fucker is… They aren’t entirely thoroughbred. You have to be a gutter rat to think of shit like this. Like everything is a game.”
His eyes meet mine, and a tendril of understanding darts between us. Gutter rats. Those not born into privilege.
Someone like us.
“Fab’s parents were bankers, did you know that?” He leans back further, eyeing the roof of the car while I dwell over the fact that he’s striking up this line of conversation at all. Even stranger? I don’t even think he realizes it himself.
“Yep. Not superrich, but definitely upper crust. He had no business hanging out with a little shit like me. It’s funny how we met. My sister, Donella… I loved her to death, but she was a grifter, one of the best. Thought she could rope a fresh, young accountant into funding her latest business venture—but what she didn’t know is that Fabio Botelli is no one’s pushover.”
He laughs with genuine appreciation, smirking at the memory.
“I loved my sister, but she wouldn’t know a decent man if he bit her on the ass. When I learned the size of the loan she’d taken out, I went and confronted the idiot who signed off on it. Only to find that Fabio had coded the terms entirely to his benefit. He would own her financially for life
should she cut and run. It was sly, but I was so fucking impressed I didn’t kick his ass automatically. When I told Donella the game she’d fallen for, the idiot did the smart thing for once and tried to make it right. She invested the money into a small café and ran it for a while, under Fabio’s guidance.”
I purse my lips, recalling the café where he hosted our “meeting.”
“That’s right,” Donatello says. “Donna’s. She did a good job running it too. Hell, I thought she might settle down…”
He trails off, shaking his head to clear it. It’s like he forgot he was speaking to me. Forgot everything at all but the sensation of reliving the past. Then he inclines his head, shooting me a look I can’t decipher.
“You remind me of her,” he admits in a tone that raises goosebumps over my skin. “Wild. Impulsive. Able to read anyone you look at like an open book. I don’t know what Fab saw in her, but she couldn’t stay on the straight and narrow for long. She skipped town without even saying goodbye. I learned afterward that she ‘sold’ the café to Fab, which was really his way of giving her the money to run with. Even when she turned up two years later with a baby and no clue of who or where the dad was... He always treated Vin like he was his. A bleeding heart to a fault.”
He trails off, and I have a suspicion as to what he might be thinking. Fabio is a bleeding heart, but so was he, taking on the responsibility of a child that wasn’t his.
“Long story short, Fabio is smart, but he’s not a cold motherfucker,” Donatello explains. “He doesn’t think like we do. I think you’re onto something. Someone wants Mischa out, and they’re going out of their way to disguise it. Why? Fab will figure out an answer, but he’ll do it the right way. That will take fucking weeks. Would Mischa handle it any differently?”
Yes. He would hunt down any lead ruthlessly.
“There’s another way,” Donatello says, dragging his thumb across his chin. “We know the Saleris have to be in on it. Gregori couldn’t come up with the money or the smarts to make all of those purchases on a whim. Mateo? He’s smarter, but has far less tact. There isn’t a patient bone in his body. They’re taking their marching orders from someone, and they’re as good a lead to start with as any. The only question is to confront them now before they can conspire with their puppet master? Or do the smart thing and wait for Fab to finish tracking down his leads...”
I almost make the mistake of thinking I’m the one he’s talking to. But that would require him trusting my judgment. Trusting me. I wait for his eyes to lose their piercing intensity. For him to look away.
He will look away…
“What would you do?” He shifts his weight toward me, and it’s as though he simultaneously made the car’s interior ten times smaller. I smell him with every breath, feeling his heat prickle my skin. The cadence of his voice resonates through my bones, into my belly.
What would I do? Another taunt, perhaps? Or something far more dangerous.
“Do I even need to ask?” His knowing chuckle sends blood rushing to my face. “You wouldn’t think. You’d sneak into the Saleris’ hotel room armed with a knife, ready to kill. Wouldn’t you?”
His hand bridges the gap between us without warning, his thumb brushing my wrist. Electricity zaps through me, and I flinch.
“Sorry.” He didn’t mean to touch me. Sighing, he palms his thigh instead. “Honestly, I don’t know which option would be better in this case. Patience got Vin shot in the head, and me engaged to a mobster’s daughter. But anyone who would go through those lengths must have way more up their sleeve, and I don’t think Fabio’s smooth-talking can help.”
He asked what I would do? Logically I would feel that I learned my lesson when it comes to reacting on impulse. I would wait. Trust things to Fabio and Mischa and lick the wounds inflicted from my last screw up. After what I’ve done, I don’t deserve to take the reins on any opportunity.
But what do I feel? Around him, logic gives way to instinct. It’s the difference between watching a lion in a cage and being hunted by one on its own turf. There isn’t time to think. Biology rules all, and the human body is such a fickle, delicate piece of machinery. Neutral one minute, and a fluttering mass of adrenaline the next.
His nearness disrupts every normal function I’ve come to trust, turning bone and skin against each other. Tensing muscle and faltering breaths.
The worst part?
He doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Patience it is,” he says, putting the car back into drive.
I must do something. Breathe too loudly. Make some kind of movement that has him stopping short. His expression shifts, his eyes narrowing in confusion—only to slowly widen…
“No,” he says huskily. “You think we should go there?”
It’s wrong. How his inflection dips... No. I make my face blank, schooling every muscle into submission.
His eyes dull instantly, losing their conspiratorial gleam as he returns his attention to the road. “Never mind—”
He shouldn’t be able to see me nod; I do it so quickly, blaming it on a spasm of muscle. Regardless, his eyes shift back to me, and his smile returns so swiftly it’s a devastating lesson in whiplash.
“We’ll just see if Saleri is at the marina,” he suggests. “Just drive by, nothing more. Maybe the bastard decided to spray-paint his fucking plan all over the side of his yacht?” His cold laugh punctuates the statement perfectly, but I can see the irritation he struggles to hide.
This “plan” puts his livelihood at risk—and already put his family in danger. Despite the forced calm he exudes, I know internally he’s chomping at the bit, itching to fight. Punch. Draw blood in retaliation. He is a lion freed from his cage, ready to wreak havoc.
In contrast, I don’t know how to feel. Between him and Mischa, it seems as though there isn’t any room for me to feel anything. In a sense, I’m little more than a pawn.
A pawn he asked for guidance…
“Look at it, the son of a bitch,” Donatello exclaims, nodding toward the windshield. “Gregori didn’t mourn the loss of his son-in-law long, did he?”
He’s referring to a beautiful white boat out on the water, visible from the right side of the vehicle where the bay slices into the city at a rectangular angle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this part of Hell’s Gambit any closer than the view from a plane. To highlight the moment, sunlight pierces the cloud cover, glinting off the waves and reflecting off Donatello’s bared teeth. His expression is far too fearsome for a smile.
A snarl, perhaps.
“What are the chances he’s out for a lazy waterfront tour after purchasing six blocks of property on a whim?”
His tone sends my mind whirling. He loves this. The threat of violence. The thrill of the fight. Of a battle.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume I must enjoy this as well. My heart is racing, my interest heightened. It’s the same way I felt when…
When I first saw a man from across my family’s ballroom, unknowingly intruding into my life again after seven years.
“The fucker’s dock has to be close,” he says, scanning the area. Not long later, we pull onto a road leading to the Marina’s entrance. I can’t discern anything from the row of docks and boats, but something makes Donatello hiss through his teeth.
“Son of a bitch. They’ve cleared it out.”
I don’t realize what he means until I notice that the yacht is one of the few boats on the water, with most boats still docked. The nearby parking lot is all but deserted, with the marina walkways appearing just as empty.
“There are Saleri agents everywhere,” Donatello adds. “Casual tour, my ass.”
He grabs a cell phone from his pocket, and whoever he calls answers on the first ring. “Luciano. I need to get onto Antonio’s boats. Where exactly are they docked? There’s no time—” He hisses, slamming his fist on the wheel. “Don’t give me the bullshit runaround; just tell me which dock. I’ll make it worth your while. No—” He eyes
the water with a steely focus. “You stay put at the house, but if I don’t call in an hour, get in touch with Fabio Botelli and tell him that I decided to join Gregori Saleri for a swim.”
He hangs up and throws open the door on his end. “Come on,” he says to me. “We’ll get a closer look.”
I follow him warily. I was wrong. The marina itself isn’t entirely devoid of people—men in black mill about, their attention on the water. The level of security reminds me of Stepanov Manor. If these men are even half as diligent as Mischa’s, they’ve already identified Donatello by now and alerted their leader.
And yet…they don’t raise the alarm or even seem to pay us any attention the closer we come. The web analogy occurs to me again—we aren’t the predator they’re waiting for.
“Something doesn’t smell right,” Donatello says against my ear. He’s closer than I realized, his heat a warning prickle before I feel a subtle pressure against my lower back. I don’t even have to look to identify it—his hand. “Follow my lead,” he warns, steering me forward. “I know the Saleris. All this firepower means they either have the fucking president on board that boat, or…”
Or the ringleader responsible for spinning this entire web.
“They’re on a fucking victory lap,” Donatello growls. His fingers flex, urging me forward to keep pace with his bold series of strides. In this moment, it’s apparent just how big he is in comparison to me. So tall I have to crane my neck to fully view his fierce expression.
He’s troubled, as if the weight of the world is pressing down, and he’s taken it upon himself to bear the burden. Recognition bites at me; I’ve seen that look before, years ago, though, in a very different context. We’d been out swimming at the beach. Despite his smile, I’d picked up on his worry that grew into full-blown dread when he received a single phone call.
And that day, the entire world changed.
“Stay calm,” he warns, snapping me back to the present. “Follow my lead.”
We’re nearing the entrance of the docks, where a man stands guard. His casual slacks and loose white shirt set him apart from the crisply dressed Saleri men. He must be a manager.