by Lana Sky
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or playing along. I look over, spotting my reflection in the glass of the nearest window. The frown I find shocks the hell out of me. It can’t be remorse at the thought of selling her. No. It must be greed. She’d fetch a pretty penny on the market, but why let someone else have the privilege?
Doing the deed myself would be the sickest jab at Mischa. Cold hard revenge. A truly evil act that would kill any hope of redemption for good.
“Or maybe you just plan to sit here and wait for Mischa Stepanov to track you down,” Luciano taunts. “I don’t think it will take him that long to figure it out. It’s not like you have an abundance of allies.”
“Ah, but that is exactly why the famiglia will be the last place he’ll think to check,” I counter. “Men like Mischa are all about pride and honor. It takes pride to walk away. In his mind, he wouldn’t envision a scenario in which I’d come crawling back.”
But I’m not crawling now.
“Take me to this Vanetti,” I say, rising to my feet. “Have one of your men record everything he says. You got that?”
Luciano doesn’t respond, his attention elsewhere. When I clear my throat, he jerks his chin toward the corner. “What about your guest?”
I can sense her, lurking just beyond my line of sight, those eyes staring fiercely in anticipation of what I might do next. My gaze finds her without permission from my brain, riveted to that body with a magnetic focus.
Gone is the angry little girl. It’s the way she holds herself that transforms her. Stoically facing forward, her lips pursed, hands gently smoothing her dress back into place.
Even Luciano’s wary scowl fades in the face of her.
I’m too damn tired for jealousy. Too old. Too bitter. But if I could still feel it, the sensation might resemble the pinprick of fire in my gut, searing the longer his eyes trace her shape.
“Let’s go.” I head for the door, but I can’t escape the reality of her presence. I should tie her up, lock her in a cage.
Reinforce her only identity that matters to me—that as a prisoner.
Instead, I exit the room without even looking at her—but I’m sure she’ll follow. Even if she doesn’t, I may not need her after all. Throwing proof of his stupidity in Mischa’s face could be payback enough, sweeter than dangling his daughter’s life over his head. With that in mind, I pause to direct just one request at Luciano.
“Get me a knife.”
10
Willow
A good captive would play her role and hide. Better yet, I’d use Donatello’s absence as an excuse to scour the area for any weakness to exploit. Or escape while his back is turned. A smarter woman would run.
I walk instead, following him and another down a narrow hall that opens onto a set of stairs leading to a lower level. Donatello stalks down them with purpose, the other man on his heels. Neither seems to notice me, but I never do the smart thing and take advantage of the moment.
I can’t even take my eyes off him.
It’s the way he moves. Assuredly, emboldened with confidence that the man I found on the floor of Havienna lacked. I don’t know where he’s headed—the other man mentioned a visitor—but I doubt joy, or happiness is the factor driving him. Not, I suspect, even revenge.
No… Whatever sustains him now is something I recognize. I feel it too. Desperation. Despair. Hate. A need to rage against everything and everyone, feeding an internal flame. The hotter the fire, the easier it is to ignore the rest. The pain.
If only for a little while. But few things can feed that blaze for long—like sustaining any fire, you need fuel.
My heart pounds with unease as I try to imagine what source he might choose to utilize in this instance. Me? His request for a knife echoes loudly in my mind. He’s already bruised my throat. What next?
There are other ways a man can harm a woman…
My body still burns from his touch, that feeling, the look in his eyes—all of it so different from any memory I can call upon of him. The old him. Maybe the only feeling akin to it was the crippling heat that assaulted me when he stripped me in Havienna. When his finger slid inside me, and I knew, if only for that moment, that any past importance I had to him ceased to matter. In that moment, I was a stranger.
At his mercy.
I shake my head to banish the memory as my foot strikes drastically different flooring from the tile before. Concrete? All this time, I’ve still been following him.
The room we’re in now is unfamiliar. A cavernous space with metal siding, naked floors, and a vaulted ceiling. A massive opening at one end of the building allows moonlight and fresh air into the area, but otherwise, there are no windows, and a single door connects it to the hallway we came from.
Four other men stand in a semi-circle nearby. In the center, a man is on his knees wearing a navy suit, his dark hair slicked back to his skull. He was handsome once, with a stern jaw sporting a burgeoning bruise and a straight nose gushing blood. What seems to be a tie has been shoved into his mouth as a makeshift gag, and at the sight of Donatello, he issues a stream of muffled noise.
“This is him,” the man walking behind Donatello says. “Paulie Vanetti.”
The name isn’t familiar, though I doubt he’s a friend given Donatello’s cold glance in his direction.
Both men draw even with the crouching figure, and I suck in a breath, recognizing the way Donatello cocks his head. Exactly how a hawk might when sizing up a promising prey item. Calculatingly.
He steps forward, drawing all attention to him. “So this is the man Antonio contracted?”
“It’s him,” the other man says. “He’s been cagey on the work he did. I don’t think he’ll tell us freely.”
“There is no need for threats.” Sighing, Donatello crouches on one knee and looks the bound man in the eye. They’re quite the pair, and one would think the man caked in blood wearing a rumpled suit would look worse in comparison. He doesn’t. From this angle, I can only see the periphery of his expression. Those eyes. That wry mouth twisted in concentration.
Still, his posture leaves no mistake. He is the one in control here.
“Was it you?” he asks softly, flicking his thumb along the other man’s cheek. “The Stepanovs. Were you the man Antonio hired to do his fucking dirty work?”
Dirty work. The attack on Ellen and Eli? Curiosity has me inching forward before I can realize my mistake. Dark eyes cut in my direction, and I’m sure he knows exactly what’s on my mind.
Is this man responsible for what happened to my family? For the chaos that came after, resulting in Donatello stowing a little girl in his trunk before trying to set himself on fire? Is this figure the source of the blood and violence? That pain.
Watching him, I don’t know how I feel. What to feel. A million different emotions swarm my body all at once, and it’s like my heart is too exhausted to decide which one to internalize. It just aches. Throbs. Swells in my chest until every thump of my pulse wracks my entire body.
The only way I can seem to dull it? Watch. Stare. Listen to the cold, stern baritone that cuts through the confusion, alarmingly clear…
“Were you?” Donatello prods.
“Ah!” the man mumbles, his reply distorted by the gag, but Donatello nods as though he understood every word.
“Oh? It wasn’t you? You mean you weren’t the sick son of a bitch who nearly killed a pregnant woman and her child?”
His cruel narration triggers a wave of memories. Ellen bleeding and pale. Eli, limp and lifeless…
“I hope the money was worth it,” Donatello warns. The anger in his voice reverberates through the open space, and those nearby tense in response. It’s too raw. Too intense. A shudder rips through me as I instinctively take a step back. Could this man be responsible for the attack?
Of course, a part of me hisses. It wasn’t Donatello. But you’ve known that all along…
“Let’s hear it,” Donatello demands. He grabs one end of the gag an
d cruelly yanks it free. “Speak. Were you the lapdog Tony sent to do his bidding?”
Sputtering, the man croaks, “Go. To hell. Where the fuck is Tony? I’ll teach that son of a bitch to—”
“Tony’s dead.” Rising to his feet, Donatello flicks the discarded gag aside and clasps his hands behind his back. That simple motion unnerves me for reasons I can’t explain. Maybe the dark intent behind his eyes is what has me swallowing hard. It’s another layer of cruelty, further separating this man from the figure in my memories.
He could be lying, but the blood painting swaths of his body from head to toe speaks for him. He’s killed someone.
He takes pride in having killed them.
“You answer to me,” he says, towering over the captive man. “Did he hire you to do it?”
“The fuck is this?” The man’s eyes continue to dart warily around the room. “What the fuck is going on, Luciano?” he snarls, referring to the gray-eyed man beside Donatello.
“Answer the man.” Luciano shrugs. “I don’t think he’s in the mood for an argument. Did you do it or not, Paulie?”
Paulie’s shifty eyes twitch from Donatello to the men nearby and back again. “Tony paid me over a hundred grand for it, but I just did as I was told, okay? It wasn’t nothing fucking personal.”
“Personal.” Donatello’s laughter churns my stomach. It’s as beautiful as it is disturbing, rivaling the most heart-rending crescendo. “Oh, but this was personal. If you won’t take my word for it, then take hers.”
He inclines his head to me. “This is the man who attacked your mother. The reason why your father tried to kill my son. Did you know that?”
He waits as if for the magnitude of his statement to strike me. When I don’t react how he seems to expect, he assumes why out loud. “You knew. Didn’t you? Is that really why you came running to me, little principessa? Guilt?” Genuine curiosity leeches into his tone. “Let us not forget… I didn’t drag you here as my captive. You came to me.”
His eyes blaze, betraying just how angry that makes him. Enrages him. In his thinking, I came crawling back, if only to see the mess left behind for myself. Like he said, it was childish.
But the truth goes beyond that, itching away at the back of my skull the more I try to deny it. Leaving the manor is all a blur—but one emotion sticks out. Fear.
Given the way he’s scouring my expression, he should see that—but he’s already returning his attention to the man kneeling before him.
“You may have been doing Antonio’s bidding,” he says coldly, “but in the process, you implicated me. My name. Donatello Vanici took the blame. Do you understand that?”
“Look, man,” the bound figure says with a nervous laugh. He squirms but can barely keep himself upright, wavering on his knees. “I was just doing what I was told, okay? It was all Tony. He called me up—”
“Do you have proof of that?” Donatello demands.
“Check my accounts, for fuck’s sake! Tony wired me the money personally.”
“Can you do that?” Donatello asks Luciano.
“Already on it,” he replies, fishing a cell phone from his pocket. “Tony only ever used one accountant for any transfers.”
“There. Proof,” the bound man says. “Now you gonna let me fucking go?”
“No.” Donatello’s voice rings out so softly I have to strain to hear it. The note resembles the ominous moment nearing the chorus of a thrilling piece of music. The pivotal point on which the entire melody turns on its head. “I’m not going to fucking let you go.”
He turns around, and I shiver instinctively even before his gaze falls over me. I feel exposed. Like there’s only air between us, and I’m without anything to shield myself behind. This thin fabric means nothing—he can see all of me regardless.
Every thought and fear to flicker across my mind.
Even the dark ones.
“But you knew that,” Donatello continues. The corner of his lip quirks, but it’s the furthest thing from a smile. More like the grimace of a man so far gone he no longer remembers what humor is. All he can do is relish the few things that bring him joy in its absence—power.
“I want to kill you,” he declares, and my heart stops cold. Only the slight tilt of his head implies that he’s still talking to the man. Not me. “I want to gut you like a fucking pig—after I make you squeal what you’ve done on the record so there can be no mistake. I’d string you up, let you die slowly. That would be a start. No, a mere drop in the bucket to atone for the damage you’ve caused me.”
The pain in his tone is unfaked and undeniable. I’d have to be made of stone not to feel something in response. My breathing catches, my throat on fire. Any tears that may be building are kept at bay, though.
I’m too distracted to let them fall.
The musical comparisons return in full force, and I’m reminded of one of my most favorite compositions. It starts off innocently with a beautiful array of delicate notes before the tempo changes, becoming increasingly erratic until the final booming finale.
His rage is like that, a symphony composed of the most devastating instruments—a voice like thunder perfectly accompanied by eyes like fire.
He turns to me again, and I don’t know what to expect. Not for him to crack a slow, lopsided smile.
“You feel it too,” he declares, his head cocked, an eyebrow raised. He takes a step, and even with him a few inches closer, the effect resonates throughout my whole body. Goosebumps come to life, prickling my skin. I lurch back on my heels.
He advances another step.
“Hate,” he continues mid-stride, even closer than before. “That sick need for revenge—and not mere ‘justice,’ either… You want pain. You want him to suffer, just as you suffered. Am I wrong?”
The men around him stare amongst themselves, obviously confused. Whether he cares or even notices, Donatello doesn’t turn his attention from me for one second.
“I can see it written all over your face,” he says with a knowing nod. “The hate—and not just for me, either—” he flicks his gaze toward the man at his feet. “How should we punish him?”
My stomach lurches at his choice of words. We. A deliberate shift in culpability. Almost as if he’s proposing a game, like the many we used to play in what feels like another life.
His version of hide and seek involved water guns, and every board game always had small pots of money at stake.
But something in the pit of my soul warns me that this “prize” won’t be so innocent.
And no matter what, no matter what he says or does…
I cannot play.
“Don’t deny that you want to,” Donatello scolds, advancing another step on me. “So what will it be? A slit throat? A beheading? Name your choice, principessa. You wanted to play in our world, so play.”
He’s serious. His low, stern tone conveys as much. So I don’t leave it to chance, emphatically shaking my head so there can be no mistake. I don’t want him to do anything.
“No.” His nostrils flare, eyes flashing. “You don’t have the option to abstain from this little vote. He threatened your family, your mother, your brother. You want more than just his pain. You want more than justice, don’t you?”
My heart pounds ominously as images sneak into my skull unbidden. This man, just as broken as Ellen. As terrified as Eli.
No. I close my eyes, fighting them back. Focus!
“Look at me,” Donatello warns. His voice is inescapable, rebounding off the inside of my skull until I finally open my eyes again.
The look on his face… I’ve seen it before. The most notable instance? The day he left me to die.
He wears it proudly, standing tall, his head held high as he extends his hand. Harsh, his voice rings out, “I asked for a knife.”
“Here.” One of the other men watching steps forward, presenting a gleaming weapon on his palm. It’s small, about the same size Mischa trained me to use. Reverently, Donatello draws his thumb acro
ss the edge, and I swear I see blood streak it after.
Nothing in his expression or posture reveals any hint of pain. His back is rigid as his hand assuredly manipulates the weapon, brandishing it in the air.
Alarm grips my spine, rendering me paralyzed—I know the stern tilt to his jaw. The confident stance of a man in complete control. But as he sinks to his knees and presses the knife against the man’s throat, one thing is painfully apparent.
I don’t know this Donatello.
And he doesn’t know me. If he did, he wouldn’t play this game. He’d read my fear. Back down. Anything but smile conspiratorially as if our thoughts are one and the same.
“You’re going to tell me how to kill him,” he says to me. “Every cut. Every scream. It will be all on you. Your face tells me everything I need to know. Your eyes… I see the hate in them. You want this—Don’t!”
He lashes out with an outstretched hand, pointing a finger at me accusatorially. “No. You watch me. You watch all of it. Now…” He crouches down again, but there’s a predatory grace in the movement. His muscles ripple, creating patterns against his skin. Despite everything in me warning me to turn away, I’m riveted.
“Where should we begin? Ah, of course. We need a name,” he suggests, toying with the blade. “Should we start with his tongue?”
His quarry comes to life, squirming so badly he nearly falls onto his side. “What the hell?” His breathing quickens, his eyes so wide I see myself reflected in them. A shockingly small figure gaping on in silence.
“Look at me,” Donatello warns the second my attention drifts. I obey, but his eyes gleam so brightly, I turn away again.
“Look at me.” His tone raises the hair on the back of my neck. Guttural and raw, but one note, in particular, unsettles me. It’s a hallmark of the very last emotion someone should feel in a situation like this. Glee. Excitement. It lurks beneath the deep baritone, adding a musical tilt to the words.