by Lana Sky
“Shit.” I push past him, sensing the unease in my gut fester.
“She had a badge, sir.” His voice chases me down the hallway. “Her name was on the list—”
“Stay back,” I snap over my shoulder. “Get ready to call for backup if I shout for it.” Without looking to see if he obeys, I round the doorway of Mrs. Stepanova’s room and instantly feel my eyes narrow.
The woman sitting beside the lone hospital bed lacks the stoic demeanor of the other medical professionals I’ve interacted with. With her back to me, she leans over the bedside, her golden hair falling freely down her shoulders. She doesn’t seem to notice or care as I approach the foot of the bed. A glance at the head of the bed reveals Mrs. Stepanova resting, seemingly unharmed apart from the tubes and medical equipment attached to her at all ends.
As for her visitor, other than a white lab coat, the woman’s resemblance to Dr. Main is tentative at best.
“Turn around,” I demand. “Keep your hands where I can see them and tell me your name.”
Her laugh catches me off guard. Warm and icy at the same time.
“Now,” I insist, pulling my gun from the holster at my hip. “Slowly.”
Another laugh teases the air as she swivels to face me, her head cocked.
I don’t recognize her.
As relayed, she’s attractive, with bright blue eyes and delicate features—but it’s those features that alarm me. Confuse. Those eyes and that mouth don’t belong to her, but the woman lying in the bed behind her. It’s an uncanny resemblance, and I have to eye Mrs. Stepanova again, just to make sure they aren’t one and the same.
“Who are you?” I ask the stranger.
She shrugs. “Just a visitor.”
Her voice is nothing like Mrs. Stepanova’s, lacking any hint of sweetness. It’s a low, husky purr like that of a cat. The accent is crisper, reminding me again of those pricey escorts. They sounded the same way, tailored to mimic the posh lilt of the aristocratic.
Either way, she definitely doesn’t belong here. A decoy, perhaps, sent by Vanici? A round of questioning should give me my answer.
I reach for my headset, aiming to contact Mario. To the woman, I say, “I’m going to have to escort you out.”
She smiles, but something in the expression makes my finger still, poised to strike the call button. Those curled red lips portray confidence at a glance—at least to anyone not skilled enough to see her throat quivering in the same motion.
Not exactly the response of a trained assassin or even an escort. Before I can pursue the thought further, she stands and stalks forward. Were she anyone else, I’d have my gun trained on her in seconds.
For whatever reason, I don’t move. Perhaps it’s the tilt to her head, desperate to convey bravado—but her hand shakes, though she runs it along her hip to disguise the motion. Up close, it’s apparent that she stole the lab coat. It’s large on her, drawn partially closed over a red dress that pairs with her heels. She’s as slight as Mrs. Stepanova, and I think I can pinpoint why my usual reflexes are slow to deploy.
Fuck, they could be twins.
“I’m leaving,” she says in that husky purr, slipping past me unchallenged. “Though what has the world come to when a woman can’t even see her own sister?”
“Sister?” I demand, spinning to keep her in view.
She doesn’t head for—what should be—the sole entrance to the suite. Instead, she heads for a service staircase, opening it quickly.
“Who the hell are you?”
She laughs, but light on her feet, she darts through the doorway, slamming it shut before I can reach her. Through the metal comes a muffled taunt, “My name is Briar Winthorp.”
I tug the handle, hissing to find it locked. She must have found some way to circumvent the security—a deficit on my part. I reach for the headset again, prepared to send up the alarm and alert the rest of the team about the breach.
My finger twitches against the call button, prepared to strike it. Instead, I find myself returning to Mrs. Stepanova’s room. She’s breathing, her vital signs seemingly stabilized, not a hair out of place.
I could raise the alarm and only heighten Mischa’s paranoia.
Or do my job and handle the situation for now.
It takes just seconds to decide. I make a mental note to switch the guard, but I leave to take my post without calling anyone else.
Whoever the stranger is, I’m sure I can handle her alone.
In any way necessary.
8
Willow
I never realized how disorienting darkness alone can be. It’s endless. Impenetrable. Terrifying. Without a clock or even a view of the sky, I’m all but blind. Very few sounds reach this room to give me any clue otherwise. There are no footsteps. No voices, either.
No way to track the passage of time. Apart from the gray-eyed man appearing briefly to deliver a tray of food—sandwiches we ate in the dark—we haven’t been disturbed by anyone.
Forget the relief I felt before. I’d rather be bound if only to have some connection to the outside world. My only sense of direction comes from running my palms along whatever I can reach. A smooth wall. Gritty floor. Over and over, I retrace my steps from this narrow corner to the sole door.
There’s no use trying to escape this way. The material is too solid to kick through or dent, and the lock too sturdy to pick. Though getting it open would only solve half of the equation.
The real key to winning any battle is to anticipate your enemy—and therein lies the problem—I know nothing about this Donatello. I can’t predict him. Can’t anticipate him.
So instead, I aimlessly wander through the dark as my mind races. Mischa would snarl in anger if he saw me now. I can clearly envision what he’d say—Don’t sit quietly waiting for your throat to be cut! Find a way. Any way.
Guilt stabs through my chest whenever I try to imagine what he might be doing. I’m sure they’ve discovered my absence by now. Does he know how to find me? Does he even want to?
My knee strikes something hard enough to knock me off my feet, interrupting the chain of thought. Flailing, I scramble for something sturdy enough to break my fall. I find it in a firm material that feels flat. Immovable. Like wood.
The desk, I think. It’s large, overflowing with paperwork. Letters. Stacks of documents. In the absence of light, they have no purpose. Still, I feel through the various materials, searching for a lamp. My fingers brush something rigid instead, partially hidden beneath a sheet of paper. Whatever it is, it’s hard. Metal. Thin. A letter opener?
Hopeful, I swipe my finger along the edge. It’s not sharp, but pointed enough to serve as a weapon anyway. Tucking it against my palm, I retreat to my previous position.
A soft cough breaks the heavy silence, and I stiffen, heart in my throat. That’s right…
I’m not alone. The girl is on the opposite end of the room, huddled against the wall, only discernable by her stark white nightgown. Another cough and a muffled whimper consist of the few sounds she’s made since we came here.
My throat aches with the weight of my silence. I’ve never been so acutely aware of my own limitations until now. I wish I could say anything, if only to comfort her. Instead, I head in her direction, reaching out until my fingertips hit warm skin. Almost instantly, a small hand finds mine, gripping tightly, and I sink down beside her.
She seems so young. Too young.
Much like another little girl who, if she had a voice, might have cried in a moment like this. Robbed of sound, all she could do was wait in the dark at the hands of a stranger as a million different thoughts crossed her mind.
Fear of what might happen next.
Disbelief.
Hate for the man who ruined her innocence and plunged her into chaos.
In the end, that little girl was spared the worst fate imaginable, rescued by an unlikely source, Mischa Stepanov. For all I know, that same man could be on his way here now. God, I hope he is.
S
training my ears, I wait for any sound. Any sign of hope.
When none comes, my thoughts turn darker. I think I’ve stopped myself from reliving that moment until now—when Eli and Ellen returned to the manor in a bloodstained van, barely conscious. Despair is a noose around my neck at the thought that they could have died then. Still might…
And I wouldn’t even know, because I decided to run right to the very man who might have hurt them. Mischa thought as much. A good, loyal daughter would trust his judgment. Trust him.
Not the memory of a man who no longer exists. A figure who, even at his worst, could never commit that kind of crime.
Though the girl beside me is proof enough of how very wrong I could be.
I don’t know how long we sit like this before footsteps finally pierce the quiet, advancing toward this room. That fragile hope floods my chest, only to quickly die at the cadence of the figure’s walk—slow. Unsteady. Heavy—not Misha’s.
Paces from the room, the steps stall, and my heart stutters. Tension teases the air, enhancing every passing second until...
A sharp sound breaks the quiet, alarmingly close. The doorknob? I crane my neck, blinking until I swear I can see it. Turning. Slowly, slowly…
The door itself opens without warning, ushering in a sliver of blinding light.
I blink rapidly, fighting to take in whatever I can. A blurred shape. A person?
“You,” he says, dispelling the mystery. That gruff voice is unmistakable. “Come.”
He walks away, but I don’t budge from my seated position. The light from the hall is enough to illuminate this small corner. Beside me, the girl watches on, her eyes wide as her tiny fingers grip mine tighter.
Our visitor is already gone from what I can tell, his steps advancing away. For a second, I contemplate running, taking my chance now. Cautiously, I rise to my feet, pulling the girl with me, gripping the letter opener in my free hand. We creep forward, but with one look past the doorway, I realize the folly of running. The hallway beyond this room forks into two, but both exits are dominated by one man standing with his back to me.
My heart pangs at the sight of him. He hasn’t changed, even though it must be hours since he brought us here. He’s still wearing the same filthy suit, his appearance even more haggard. Disheveled. Going off the slow, heavy way he moves, I bet I could outrun him, even with the girl in tow.
Before I can go as much as a step, he inclines his head, the warning clear. Don’t even try it. As if confident I won’t, he continues down the left-hand hallway at that deliberate pace.
I grit my teeth, torn between logic and impulse. The further away he moves, the clearer my way becomes. From what I remember, the main entrance is through the right, and I flick my gaze in that direction.
“Don’t.” His voice is so soft, not even a shout, barely audible.
I go still regardless.
“Don’t run. You wouldn’t make it far,” he adds.
I swallow hard. The threat isn’t what makes me stop short. It’s his tone, as chilling as a smattering of off notes on a piano. There was no inflection. No passion—just malice. The way I figure a shark would taunt a bobbing, bleeding fish in its orbit.
He’s all but daring me to run, if only so he can give chase.
Because that’s what he really wants.
Despite knowing that, it takes everything I have not to bolt anyway. It’s painful, achievable only by digging my bare heels into the cool tile flooring as hard as I can. Then I loosen my grip on the girl and guide her back into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“Come,” Donatello warns, still paces away. Patiently, he waited until now merely to drive one point home.
We’re alone. My throat goes dry at the realization. Even with the distance between us, I notice the small details I hadn’t been aware of before. Like the fact that I’m wearing only a thin cotton dress. My hair feels slick, and the stench of lighter fluid itches my nostrils with every breath. As much as I want to deny the fear seeping through my veins, I can’t.
All I have against him is a dull secretary’s tool.
He has…time. It looms, as threatening as any weapon whenever I look at him. That face, the catalyst of so many memories. His hands. Even his steps trigger a painful recollection.
Luckily, pride is a bitter antidote to his poison, potent enough that I can hold my head high and take a step toward him, unaffected. Another. Another.
I can’t tell if he’s moving too slowly or I’m just gaining on him too quickly, leaving myself little time to take notice of our surroundings like I should.
Breathing deeply, I try to focus, eyeing the length of the corridor. There are no exits within easy distance of the room we’re being kept in. Still no windows, either. The only markers we pass are the fluorescent lightbulbs mounted in the ceiling above, casting swaths of darkness that swallow Donatello the further he goes.
Whether due to his intent or mine, the distance between us lengthens, putting me well beyond his reach. Again, the urge to run rises up. I could always fight. Overpower him. The letter opener is still in my grasp. My pulse surges as I glance down, spotting the delicate strip of silver peeking between my fingers. It could be a useful weapon.
Even so, I don’t move to brandish it. Yet. Sweat drips down my spine as I keep walking, tucking the weapon against my skirt.
I almost miss the moment he stops, disappearing through a doorway.
I have a second to glance inside before my toes brush the threshold after him. It’s small. Narrow. We’re even more secluded from the others, judging from how little sound reaches here—just the buzzing of electricity feeding the lights above.
The room itself doesn’t contain much, obscuring his reason for bringing me here. There is a couch in the corner, composed of battered brown leather. A small table is across from it, positioned before a sight that makes fresh hope rise up my throat—dust-streaked windows overlooking a sea of trees. Finally. It’s dusk, I think. Early evening? Apart from the glimpse of moonlight, the windows themselves look wide enough to break or escape from.
I only need a chance…
“Look at me.”
His voice casts a spell over my body, banishing any thought of escape. My limbs jerk, maneuvering without input from my brain. Against my own will, my head swivels, bringing into focus the lone figure standing near the center of the room.
Up this close, it’s even more stark how different he is from the man in my memories. Different from the figure I faced just a few days ago, even—a rival who barged into my family home under the pretense of attending my debutante ball.
This Donatello does nothing to disguise who he is at his core. A tortured man. A bleeding man. An empty soul.
“I want to hear you say it…” He trails off, laughing to himself.
The coldness of the wall against my back is a shock before I even register backing away—but I didn’t move toward the doorway like I should. A few feet of space separate me from it, more than enough for him to cover in a single stride. I’m trapped as he moves to block my only path.
“I want to see it on your face for myself,” he says, amending his request. “The happiness. The satisfaction. After all, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
His stress on that word paints a morbid picture. This. Vincenzo dead, and my father at his throat.
Is it?
The question is so callous I can’t even decide how I feel. Insulted? Though if I had to ask myself a better question, I doubt I could answer it either—why did I leave my home in the middle of the night to find him? Why did I go to Havienna alone? Why?
My head hurts, so rather than think, I watch him. It’s surprisingly easy to meet his gaze without flinching, as long as there’s a sizable distance between us. Every yard brings clarity. Bravado. I can comfort myself with the lie that he won’t touch me.
He won’t…
“You hate me, fine. I deserve it,” he admits in a growl. “But Vincenzo? Did he deserve what your f
ather did to him? A bullet to the fucking head. Did he deserve that?”
I look away, my face on fire. It’s a cruel line of attack, but I humor it with an honest answer, anyway, at least to myself. No. Vin didn’t deserve what happened to him.
While my captor has been vague as to the details, I can guess. Mischa, assuming Donatello was behind the assault on Ellen and Eli, attacked him out of revenge. Sweet Vincenzo with the crooked glasses and wry smile…
It’s hard to even fathom that he might be dead. Donatello’s betrayal darkened some memories of my past, but not all of them. The ones starring Vin still stand out, filled with mirth and warmth, untouched by hate. Tears prickle my eyes at the thought of them. My old birthday parties. Our petty squabbles that always ended amicably in the end. All of those years we spent together, playing as closely as any real siblings...
It kills me that Mischa could have been responsible for what happened to him—but another emotion quickly seeps into my chest, dulling the pain. Anger. It’s a soothing balm that eases my own guilt, directed solely at the man before me.
Vincenzo’s death or otherwise isn’t my fault.
And only a coward would use that to negate everything else.
“Ah, little hellcat…” Donatello cocks his head as a low, gravelly sound resonates through his throat. A laugh? Or a pained groan. “You think I’m pathetic for mentioning him.” He nods as if I spoke out loud, and I can’t help it. My eyes swivel toward him narrowed with alarm.
The knowing tilt to his head is the same way he used to look years ago, while accusing me of ignoring a chore or stealing a treat with no other shred of evidence. He only had to see my face and know. To him, I always was an open book.
“Oh yes.” He laughs again. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But while you may be silent, your face alone is enough to—” He breaks off, as his expression shifts too quickly for me to track. Horrified? He staggers as if struck, his eyes widening and narrowing in quick succession. When I finally peg the emotion twisting his mouth into a snarl, it’s already too late.