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

by Lana Sky

  “I’m sorry,” he says as we approach. “The docks are closed for uh… Maintenance—”

  “We’re here on behalf of Antonio Salvatore,” Donatello declares. “Taking stock of his assets.”

  The man sputters. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”

  Donatello reaches into his pocket. “Give us ten minutes,” he says, extracting a few crisp bills from a gold money clip. “Do you really think we can get up to much trouble? All we need is to check out the boat and square everything away.”

  “I can’t,” the man insists, though his gaze flickers toward the money with open interest. “Trust me, man—”

  “Tony’s dead, and the boat is in his daughter’s trust,” Donatello says coldly. “You really want to drag this out another day before her father’s affairs can be put in order? You want that on your conscience, or can you spare us ten fucking minutes?”

  I don’t know what shocks me more. Him, using Kisa’s name to his benefit in the first place? Or that it seems to work.

  With a harsh sigh, the man snatches the money. “You have ten minutes. Just, please make it quick. I don’t think these guys are playing around—” he jerks his chin in the direction of a man standing near the water’s edge, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on the yacht.

  “We’ll just take ten minutes.” Donatello urges me forward. Once we’re out of earshot, he meets my gaze.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he warns. “We’ll leave little Kisa’s inheritance intact. Think of it this way, no one will inherit shit if whoever this motherfucker is takes out your family for good. Or mine.”

  He has a point. One I feel acutely aware of as I spy the white vessel drifting in the distance.

  “We need to get closer,” Donatello says. I can almost see the war taking place within him. The need for restraint. The urgency for action. Normally, he’d surrender to the impulse.

  This time? He looks at me.

  “What? You think we should play the game the right way. Call for backup. Wait for Fabio. But I feel it. Something’s off.”

  His voice touches on that deep, raspy baritone again, rousing a shudder in me. To distract myself, I turn away, observing the boats docked nearby. Does Mischa own one? It startles me to realize that I don’t know.

  “Antonio kept two boats here,” Donatello says, following my line of sight. He hones in on a particular vessel, white with black lettering spelling out “Lady Killer” on the side. “I bet my ass that’s one of them.”

  “Here.” The lone worker returns with a manilla folder stamped with the name Salvatore. “These are the keys to Mr. Antonio’s two boats. I’m sure the maintenance and upkeep fees will continue to be paid, or we can arrange to have the boats removed—”

  “Maintenance,” Donatello says softly. “Does that include making sure it’s fueled?”

  The man shuffles through the documents and nods. “Yeah. It looks like everything was based on Mr. Salvatore’s schedule. Since we are in season, I believe the fuel tank was last topped up on the Lady Killer… About two weeks ago.”

  “So, it should still be good to go, then,” Donatello says. He barges down the narrow dock, craning his neck to inspect the larger of the two boats. “When is the last time he’s been out?”

  “Um, right after the last refuel. He took out the Lady Killer with some acquaintances.”

  “Anything about it stand out?” Donatello’s voice radiates a deceptive calm. Even I fall prey to it, losing track of the aim behind his probing questions.

  The man, however, stiffens, his neck reddening. “I…”

  “So it wasn’t a normal visit, then?” Donatello prods.

  I marvel at his skill. For someone who can seem so intimidating—like ice—one minute, he still has a unique way of lulling someone into a false sense of security. As though they could tell him anything. Do anything.

  “There was a lot more fanfare than Mr. Salvatore usually employs,” the man confesses.

  Donatello raises an eyebrow. “As in more security?”

  The man shakes his head. “No, in fact. Just a woman, but she wasn’t the sort like this young lady here—” He nods respectfully toward me. “That one was a spitfire.”

  “What made that visit, in particular, stand out?”

  “Well…” The man chuckles. “They were shouting, for one. Mr. Salvatore mentioned something about ‘your little master thinks he can yank my dick, but you can’t. Unless you do it manually,’ or something of the sort.”

  “And the woman?”

  The man’s smile falls flat. “When she left, Mr. Salvatore looked like the fear of God had been put into him.”

  “They went on this boat?” Donatello gestures toward the larger of the two.

  “The Juggernaut, yes. Though I don’t think anything has been left on it—”

  “Here—” Reaching into his breast pocket, Donatello fishes out another crisp set of bills. “Give us ten more minutes.”

  “But… I…” the manager sputters, but Donatello is already halfway up the ramp leading to the larger of the two boats.

  I follow him, warily stepping foot on the modest deck. It’s a surprisingly stable structure overall, swaying gently in time to the waves below.

  “In here,” Donatello calls from a narrow staircase descending into the boat itself.

  This must be the main cabin. It’s spacious, stuffed to the brim with gaudy furniture and accents. Dark wood paneling offsets the leather seating and the impractical black fur throw rug in the center of the floor. Square, strategically placed windows allow for a breathtaking view of the water.

  While I’m distracted by the sight, Donatello prowls the confined space, inspecting every surface. I copy him, moving in the opposite direction. Upon first inspection, the place is impeccably clean, with nothing seemingly out of the ordinary.

  Still, I try to see things through the lens of Donatello Vanici. In his world, death is transactional and strange women wield power over men who own yachts. The manager said that after his discussion with his visitor, Antonio’s entire demeanor had changed.

  What could she have said?

  Or shown him…

  “Over here.”

  I turn to find Donatello standing before a small nook that must have served as a makeshift office. A wooden desk juts from the wall. As I come closer, Donatello wrenches open a drawer, revealing a few pens and a folded slip of paper.

  He unfurls it and reads in silence, his brows drawn together.

  “Son of bitch.” He sits on the edge of the nearest bench, hissing in disgust. “They were blackmailing him,” he says in response to my stare. He offers the page to me, but all I find on it is a succinct list of dates and names. The letterhead it’s printed on, however, sports a familiar name: Felicità.

  “It seems Antonio likes them young, supplied by none other than the Saleris. But it doesn’t make sense.” He stands, raking a hand ruthlessly through his hair. “Why leave evidence like this out in the open? Especially if he was working with the Saleris. Blackmail or not, they wouldn’t want incriminating information like this floating around. Though, hell, with Gregori’s connections, no one would dare go public against him. Still, they must feel cocky to be so brazen about it. Cocky. Or desperate.”

  He turns to the window, glowering at the water beyond. “Who the fuck is on that boat?”

  Given the security, it’s likely we’ll never know.

  “Well, Fabio will have fun running these numbers at least,” Donatello says, crushing the document in his fist. “But they won’t do any fucking good if whatever they’re planning comes to fruition.”

  He begins to pace, stroking his chin with his free hand. I hate myself for watching him, enthralled despite my better judgment. No one in the world thinks like him.

  In a sense, it’s like watching a one-man orchestra perform the most complex of concertos.

  “We could stake out the marina,” he murmurs. “Wait until they disembark…” Even as the suggestion leaves h
is mouth, he scowls at the idea of it.

  I think I know why. It’s too easy. Someone powerful enough—and paranoid enough—to rent out the entire marina for a “waterfront tour” probably wouldn’t choose to stroll in and out of the docks in plain view.

  “The fucker will probably dock somewhere private,” Donatello growls, thinking along the same line. “Meaning they’re here now for a reason…” He trails off as his eyes seek mine out. I sense that chilling sensation flash between us. Like we’re speaking beyond words in a way only the two of us can understand.

  Desperation and rage form their own nuanced language. I swear I know what he’ll say even before he opens his mouth.

  “I need to see for myself what the hell they’re up to. What would you do for the rest of those letters?” he asks, partly taunting, partly serious. “If you want them, then go back to the car and wait for me there—”

  I shake my head, my heart racing as I grab a pen from the drawer and write down my own proposal.

  I should come with you.

  “What do you think the benefit would be of having you there?” I can read beneath his skepticism to what he has enough tact not to state bluntly. Why would I need you?

  I would slow him down, get in the way. This is a dangerous situation, and the smart thing to do would be to call Mischa and take my chance to return home.

  It’s selfish to want to stay. To want to watch him in action. What spurs Donatello Vanici to risk his life?

  I want to know.

  But he has no interest in letting me stay; I can see that. I could always put up a logical argument to state my case. Or curse him. Rage against his dismissiveness. Instead, I put myself in his point of view and think things through just as he would—cut and dry in the most transactional of terms.

  I’m Mischa’s daughter; I finally write. They might attack you. They won’t attack me.

  He eyes the page warily. Then he scoffs. “And if they kill me and sell you off? You really want to end your night under Mateo Saleri?”

  I picture the younger man from that night at the club with cat-like green eyes. My first impulse is to shudder—which is exactly what he wants. I look up to find his gaze smug, his mouth tilted. I simply widen my eyes, conveying a question he can easily decipher.

  Will you let him?

  His frown unfurls slowly, and he turns away. At first, I assume he’s making a show of observing something other than me, but then he leans forward, hissing through his teeth.

  “Fuck, they’re moving.” In a blur of motion, he starts for the upper deck, pausing near the staircase. “You think if I let you come with me, everything between us will be magically fixed? Your father and I, I mean. That ship has fucking sailed, wife. It won’t change a damn thing.”

  But he’s wrong. Unraveling the mystery of who attacked my family and why is only part of the equation. The other half consists of learning more of the very subject I am now—Donatello Vanici. What better way to destroy him than to know him inside and out? The reasoning behind his impulsiveness. His recklessness. Perhaps, I might finally understand what led him to treat me like collateral all those years ago.

  And he still can, a part of me warns. I could very well end this night underneath Mateo Saleri.

  With none other than Donatello Vanici standing watch, unwilling to lift a muscle in my defense.

  “Are you coming?” His voice reaches down from outside of the salon. I climb the steps after him and watch as he circles around to the helm. He sits down, his back to the drifting yacht. At first, I assume he’s changed his mind, preferring to call Fabio instead of giving chase.

  Until I feel the subtle vibration of the engine roaring to life beneath my feet.

  “Hey!” Donatello stands, beckoning me closer. “You see those lines?” He points to two distinct ropes tethering the boat to the dock. “Go loosen them.”

  I stiffen, cutting my gaze up to his.

  “Trust me,” he snaps, but I think he realizes how hollow those words sound in this context. “The manager has his eyes on me. He won’t be watching you.”

  I doubt the validity of that. In reality, he wants to leave me behind, but in this case, should I even care if he does? My entire being is screaming at me to stay. Find Mischa. Run far away from Donatello Vanici and everything he has to offer.

  Instead, I turn on my heel, grabbing the railing to steady me as I climb back onto the dock. The manager isn’t anywhere in sight, and I grasp the rope, loosening it. Then I turn to the other.

  Almost immediately, the boat starts to drift, and I have to lunge to bridge the gap. A sturdy hand on my shoulder steadies me as I do, helping me back to the upper deck.

  “Sit tight,” Donatello says, returning to the helm. I’m still dazed by the fact that he kept his word. He let me come. Let me stay…

  I almost miss what he shouts to me next, “I haven’t driven a boat in years.”

  It’s an anti-climactic escape when all is said and done. Despite his supposed inexperience, Donatello easily steers us from the dock, aided by the wind. The manager doesn’t seem to realize until we’re too far out to stop, and he’s just a frantic speck in the distance.

  Up ahead, the white yacht resembles an unattainable fortress, larger than expected. A pang of doubt creeps in. He’s insane for even trying to track it down.

  We’re insane…

  Those logical viewpoints make sense in my head. None of them manage to penetrate the excitement pulsing down my spine, electrifying my limbs. I blame adrenaline.

  Liar, a part of me snarls. Adrenaline isn’t a man with piercing eyes that find mine from his seated position paces away. It could be the fresh air, or perhaps the thrill of the hunt, but he’s different here. Alive might be too dramatic a word, but it fits. His hair glistens in the sun, his posture relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since…

  Well, seven years ago. But the past doesn’t belong here. The man I knew, and this current creature, are not one and the same. As if to prove it, he averts his gaze to the water, his expression unfathomable.

  “You played along. Back on the docks. Then you leverage your status as the daughter of a mob boss. Touché. I’m guessing Mischa didn’t teach you that,” he scolds. I bristle at the accusation, turning my attention to the water as well.

  Mischa didn’t teach me a lot of things. He didn’t teach me betrayal, for one. How to turn my back on those closest to me, or that no one else matters in the quest to fulfill my own selfish impulses.

  In fact, Mischa, as much as I love him, didn’t influence me much at all.

  I was already infected by the teachings of another.

  “Look at me,” my original corruptor demands. When I do, he’s pensive, wrenching on a dial that must put the boat into the equivalent of cruise control. We’re rapidly advancing on the yacht, but at the moment, it’s a distant obstacle.

  I feel a burst of unease at a sudden realization—we’re utterly alone.

  “What the fuck are we doing? Jesus, Christ, what the fuck am I doing?” He chuckles, swiping his hand across his mouth. “If the Saleris even harm a hair on your head, Mischa will have every right to fucking castrate me. But you don’t care, do you? So, let’s turn our attention to something you do care about. Why would someone want Mischa to come after me? Is it personal, or business?”

  I try to look at him objectively. Donatello isn’t the sort of man someone takes on directly.

  “They wanted me out of the way,” he says. “I thought Antonio was just being a prick, wanting the harbor for himself, but there was more to it. He needed it. Whoever was pulling his strings was doing so to ensure that he was the one to gain control of it from me. Salvatore specifically. Why?”

  He trails off, mulling over the question. Suddenly, he cuts his eyes up to mine. “You’re thinking of something.” His voice is barely audible above the roar of the waves, though no less accusatory. “What?”

  I’m thinking that anyone who would go through the trouble had a lot more in mind than b
uying a few buildings. No. They were laying the pieces of a trap.

  Or, I could be overthinking it all, so desperate for his approval.

  I start to turn away, only to feel his hand land on my shoulder. “Don’t play coy. You don’t need words to talk to me—” He grabs my wrist to prove his point. “Tell me.”

  I slip my hand from his grasp and point at his chest.

  “Me. No…” His face betrays his entire thought process. Confusion at first, then gradual dawning until finally, he says softly, “Revenge. Someone wants to prove a point.”

  But to Mischa or someone else?

  “Whoever they are, I think we’re about to find out,” Donatello says suddenly. He rises to his feet, and I follow his stare to a smaller boat approaching from the direction of the yacht.

  “We have company.”

  Their approach seems to occur in exaggeratedly slow motion. I swear it’s hours before they finally draw close enough to make out the two men occupying the vessel, but it must be mere minutes.

  “Greetings, Mr. Vanici,” one of them calls. They’re both dressed in black with sunglasses obscuring their eyes. “Mr. Saleri would like to invite you and your guest to join him this afternoon aboard the Santiago.”

  Donatello inclines his head sharply, but I’m impressed by his restraint. “An invitation, huh? Can I ask what the occasion is?”

  “To celebrate new business ventures,” the first speaker replies. “If you two would proceed to enter the vessel, we can return in time for drinks.”

  I sense Donatello stiffen, though outwardly, he’s as cool as ever. It’s a strange game, watching him weigh his options one by one. His eyes narrow and widen until he finally settles upon a decision.

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  His fingers snag my wrist before I can recover, tugging me after him. He heads to the helm first, presumably performing whatever maneuvers are necessary to drop the anchor. Then we step into the other boat.

  The Santiago is nearly three times the size of the Lady Killer. As we approach, I have to crane my neck to take in the impressive three deck-structure. One thing that stands out, is that—apart from several men, dressed in black—there are no party guests lounging on the decks. No music playing. It’s an eerie, almost somber atmosphere that only intensifies as we climb the metal ladder leading to the main deck.