Queen of Thorns: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 2)

by Lana Sky

  “I said watch me, Safiya.” His eyes are narrowed, daring me to look lower. See what he’s doing.

  Something responsible for the sharp, inhuman shriek coloring the air next.

  “This is your game, after all. Tell me where to cut him. Play your role. Look at me!”

  The act is futile, but I purse my lips anyway as if preventing any sound from escaping. I’m sure that every move, every breath, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

  I can’t think. Not about revenge—like the man writhing in the agony he inflicted on my family. A missing tongue would be nothing. A pittance. A mercy…

  No, I banish the thought, aware of the gaze piercing through my own.

  Regardless, Donatello nods, raising his weapon menacingly. “His tongue, then—”

  “Wait!” the man gasps. “Fucking… Wait! You want a name, okay! I never saw the motherfucker, but I know he was working with Tony. I think the hit was his idea.”

  Donatello blinks like a man waking from a dream. “Who?”

  “The bastard just went by J.W. That’s it! That’s all I know. I swear to fucking God—”

  “How did they contact you? How did you know where to stage the hit?”

  “Tony fed me all the information. I never spoke with the man directly. I just knew he was footing the cash. Tony didn’t have that kind of dough to throw around.”

  “So you attacked a woman and her child based on the say-so of a bastard like Antonio Salvatore and someone you never met?” Donatello roars. “What did they promise you? It had to be more than money. No amount in the world would be worth pissing off the mafiya.”

  “They talked a big game,” the man says, his eyes on the knife dangling precariously above his head.

  “Like what?”

  “Like taking over all of Hell’s Gambit for one. Divvying up the city on a platter to anyone who took part. They said…” His eyes flicker nervously in my direction. “They said they’d cut Mischa down to size. Rip control right from his hands.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Luciano remarks snidely. “I guess you aren’t so fucking crazy after all, Donatello.”

  The man in question doesn’t answer, his gaze turned inward, triggering another chilling instance of déjà vu. It’s an expression I remember from the days of crouching beneath his desk watching him work. It could be beautiful seeing him mull over a dilemma or problem. He would stroke his jaw much like he is now, until finally, he’d nod only to himself, seeing a solution where no one else could.

  “Mischa was the target,” he deduces finally. “They wanted him out. Why?”

  “I don’t know! Jesus! Just let me go.” The man again tries to wriggle free of his bonds, but the heel of a boot slams against his chest, knocking him backward.

  “Why the hell would I do that?” Donatello demands, aiming his foot to deliver another kick. He moves so fast. All I see is a spray of blood before a gash appears across the man’s face.

  He howls, spitting crimson onto the floor as he struggles to move. His attacker is ruthless, crouching over him, the knife poised above.

  “Why frame me?” Donatello bellows. “If he wanted to take on Mischa himself, he had every right to. Why get me involved?”

  “The harbor. Needed… Had to import something.”

  “Import?” the man behind Donatello interjects, his head cocked. “What the hell could they need to import that would require the use of the entire harbor?”

  Paulie issues a stream of wailed curses. “I didn’t ask fucking questions!”

  “No, you didn’t,” Donatello growls. “You shot at a pregnant woman and a child. You got my son shot in his fucking head. You set me up to take the fall.”

  “It’s just fucking money! I didn’t give a shit who they were.”

  I can’t control it. I see them—Ellen and Eli. The blood. The pain. The fear.

  “You feel it, don’t you?” Donatello rises to his feet as if sensing my rage before I even feel it creeping beneath my skin. He crosses to me, his victim forgotten. Once close enough, he captures my chin against his palm.

  “You’re angry.” His eyes narrow further as he tilts my head toward him. “You have every fucking right to be. But you’re suppressing it. Bottling it up nice and neat. Why?” He leans closer, bringing his mouth near my ear. Every movement of his lips sends a jolt through my earlobe, dizzying. “Your father isn’t here.”

  I jump, but he grabs my wrist, locking me in place.

  “You’ve played the role of a good girl for so damn long you don’t know how to operate outside of your mask,” he snarls, but his tone turns deceptively soft. A mocking perversion of gentle. “What has that gotten you? A life as a pretty doll?”

  He steps back, dragging me with him. As we near the center of the throng, he shoves me to my knees. Wincing, I realize I’m kneeling right before the man bleeding all over the floor. Up close, he’s pitiful, his fancy suit stained red, his face mutilated.

  “You think he deserves your mercy? Why? Because it’s the ‘right thing’ to do? Was it the right thing for your father to shoot Vincenzo? Should I show you that same mercy?”

  I see his shadow move across the floor before I feel it—fiery pain teasing the base of my throat. Careful, deliberately applied pressure, hard enough to slice flesh, but not enough to bleed.

  “He deserves to be punished. You know that as well as I do. So where should we start?”

  The blade withdraws from my skin, and I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding—only to inhale sharply as a firm object presses against my fingers next. I glance down, alarmed to find the handle of a blood-covered blade. He slams it against my palm, forcing my fingers to curl around it.

  He’s too strong, easily overpowering my attempts to resist. With force, he snatches my hand. Then he makes me press the knife against the man’s collar. Hard. Harder.

  I can feel his heartbeat through the blade. His eyes bulge, his lips frothing with spit as he bites back a scream. My body takes over, bucking against the man controlling my movements. Fighting.

  I’m sweating with the effort, but he doesn’t even loosen his grip.

  “I could make you fillet him,” he warns, his palm shifting over the back of my hand to guide my hold on the handle. “I’d make you gut him. You’d be the one holding the knife. I could…”

  To prove it, he makes the knife dance inches from the man’s skin. I recoil, wrenching against him until my shoulder throbs.

  “You’re not a little girl. Look at what you’re doing. Feel through your fingertips. Do it.” His voice sneaks into my skull unbidden, and I catch myself obeying. I see my fingers entwined with his, squirming against the unfamiliar shape of the weapon. The harder I try to pull away, the more he tightens his grasp.

  “Stop,” Donatello grates, but for a second, his tone loses the cold edge. He’s a teacher trying to reach a stubborn student—though this lesson is far different from any Mischa taught me. In his world, survival was all that mattered. To Donatello? It’s inflicting pain.

  It’s retribution.

  “We both know that’s what you want,” he says, speaking to my thoughts directly. “Revenge. If I let him go… If we let him go, do you think he’ll learn his lesson?”

  The man’s wide, fearful eyes speak for him.

  “No,” Donatello says, lifting our combined fist to let the blade catch the light. “He’ll just find another contract. Kill another woman. Another man. Another child. You know it as well as I do.”

  He taught me that lesson himself—the inherent cruelty of some men. It’s a world apart from the simple system of actions and consequences the Stepanovs live by. One of their children may beat another or steal a toy. They are punished. Forgiven. The cycle repeats.

  Men like this one operate in the same way, but their actions aren’t childish impulses. They’re violent. Brutal. They end lives and destroy them.

  Over and over again.

  “Stop living life in a fairy tale.” Donatello’s fingers
graze the back of my hand, and in horror, I realize he’s withdrawing.

  But I’m left holding the knife. It shakes, the tip wavering in the air aimlessly before twitching in the direction of the sputtering man’s throat.

  Only for a second, just one—but in this moment, I know nothing is guiding the blade but me. My intent. My will…

  To perfectly narrate the moment, Donatello’s voice slithers against my ear. “You’re no better than I am.”

  No! A heartbeat later, horror kicks in. I force my fingers apart, letting the blade fall to the floor as I recoil, kicking back until I’m well beyond that pool of scarlet.

  He lets me go, pushing past me.

  “So you choose to be a puppet. Fine. You can watch. Hold her,” he snaps to one of the men who grabs my arms. “Don’t let her turn away. Not for a fucking second.”

  He returns to Paulie, picking the knife from where I must have dropped it.

  Then he lunges.

  And I have no choice.

  I watch.

  He runs his knife across the man’s throat like he’s cutting through butter. Blood spurts in a waterfall, bathing the floor.

  But all of the macabre details are secondary to him—Donatello. Through it all, his eyes never leave mine.

  And in them, I see my own reflection gazing back without an ounce of fear.

  11

  Evgeni

  Briar Winthorp...

  That name haunts me well into the morning—even though I know there’s no way in hell she was telling the truth.

  That name carries the same mystique as the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus in the Stepanov household, just without the inherent goodwill attached.

  She is a rumor, whispered about in passing. The children have never met her from what I know. Even Ellen rarely mentions her, her mysterious sister and remaining member of one of the wealthiest families to exist this side of the continent.

  I’ve heard horror stories about the Winthorps, known for their wealth and international investments. Their fortune bankrolled many a criminal enterprise, including the mafiya once upon a time. At least until seven years ago when their empire came crashing down after Mischa killed its head, Robert. Supposedly the rest of the family scattered to the wind after that.

  Even if the woman were lying, why that name? It leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I arrive at the manor.

  It’s the early afternoon, but the place is already a hive of activity. Armored vans mill in the stone driveway, but I don’t recognize the men gathered around them. They’re professional, watching warily as I march past.

  An unfamiliar vehicle sits at the center of the chaos—a sleek black limo.

  A visitor, I suspect, but one not cleared through me. As far as I know, I wasn’t given any warning, either, or the typical rundown that prefaces any meeting. Warily, I look at the man standing guard by the main door. The second I draw even with him, he inclines his head but never meets my gaze directly. “Mr. Stepanov is in his office.”

  His tone alone warns me not to ask questions. Biting back an argument, I enter the manor and head straight for the study. I can smell the stench of cologne before I even near the room. For once, the door is closed, sealing off the space from the rest of the house in a way I haven’t seen in years. I knock once.

  “Come in.”

  The second I push the door open, alarm tightens my spine. A man standing in the corner draws my notice first, tall, built of pure muscle—obviously a bodyguard.

  Seated across from Mischa must be his employer, a bulky man, his expression caught between a grimace and a frown. Gregori Saleri. I know him only from his reputation. An ally of the famiglia, his outfit is known for dealing in only one kind of commodity—women. The kind of women who don’t willingly choose their profession.

  As far as I know, Mischa has no business with them—and his wife certainly would prefer it that way. In Ellen’s absence, has he tried to get in on the skin game, even with his daughter in danger?

  I doubt that.

  Seated behind his desk, Mischa watches me without offering an explanation. His face was always harder to read than most—usually, his eyes held a clue as to what he truly thought. Dark, heavy-lidded, and guarded, they give away nothing now. Who the hell knows what he’s thinking? It pisses me off to realize that, in this rare instance, I don’t.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting something, sir,” I say as I move to take my place beside him, spinning to face the seated man.

  “Gregori was just leaving,” Mischa says, nodding to his visitor who stands. Both he and his bodyguard exit, and I step aside, fingering the headset attached to my ear. “Guests leaving now. Follow them out.”

  “Already on it, sir,” comes a reply. The response just cements what’s been painfully obvious from the start. Mischa arranged this meeting without me.

  Am I alarmed?

  Definitely.

  As I approach the desk, I strive to keep a neutral tone. “Was that meeting important, sir?”

  “Evgeni…” Mischa sighs, interlacing his fingers over the surface of his desk. He’s changed into a pair of black slacks and a shirt, leaving his hair to drape his shoulders. “I was enlightening Gregori as to why it would be in his best interest to avoid the famiglia and alert me if Donatello Vanici tries to make contact.”

  I feel my eyebrow shoot up. “You think he went back to them? The famiglia?”

  It would make sense. A man on the outs would be desperate for allies. In a bid to outplay the mafia’s reach, he could seek to return to the fold of his old organization.

  “I know there is no love lost between him and their leader,” Mischa admits. “But I’d put nothing past him.”

  “But that wasn’t the only reason why you met with Saleri, was it?”

  It’s funny how well you can get to know a man just by existing in his orbit for years. I’ve seen Mischa at the heights of emotion, from the birth of his children to the death of his mentor. I’ve seen him at his happiest and at his worst, but even I can admit that I’ve never seen him quite like this—stewing.

  It’s a quiet emotion, alarming in intensity.

  “You’re wondering why I met with him without you, is that it?” he questions, leveling me with a piercing gaze.

  I don’t flinch. “Usually, you like to coordinate security when we have visitors.”

  “I won’t play word games with you,” he says. “I deliberately didn’t tell you.”

  A muscle in my jaw twitches. Am I alarmed by that? More annoyed.

  The man tasks me with protecting his family and assets, yet he goes out of his way to consult with a rival faction and keeps me out of the loop while doing so. He isn’t petty, so this stems from more than our previous spats over Vanici. It’s calculating, designed to make it clear that, at least for now, I’m being kept at arm’s length. I suspect this meeting isn’t the only thing he’s concealed from me.

  “May I ask why?”

  He stands, putting his back to me as he glares from the window overlooking the property’s western half.

  At its core, the manor is a beautiful house, nestled in the countryside, surrounded by rose gardens, rolling fields, and gently sloping stone walls.

  At the same time, it is a fortress. I’ve never worked in a place more fiercely guarded, but I’ve admittedly never worked for a leader more constrained by his emotions. My last boss was a man so cold I doubt the near-death of his wife and child would interrupt his routine dinner, let alone drive him to the brink of war.

  Mischa Stepanov’s heart is his family. What will he do when the very thing he cherishes most is threatened?

  I know the answer—become reckless. Tactless.

  Vengeful.

  The complete opposite of everything I’ve trained myself to be. Still, I can admit that I never assumed him capable of intentionally cutting me out of the fold. There has to be a reason…

  Though something warns me that I won’t like what it is one fucking bit. An image comes to mind, but I
banish it before it can unfold in full. I merely see a body. Green eyes. Sweet smile.

  A hole where her throat should be. She wasn’t the only one. I blink, and behind my eyelids, I see them all—each bloodied, lifeless face my burden to bear.

  “You’re unnerved,” Mischa says, drawing my attention back to him.

  I shake my head to clear it. “Sir?”

  “By my actions,” he reiterates. “I can sense your judgment.”

  “This isn’t like you,” I counter, shifting my stance. By uncrossing my arms, maybe I hope to detract from the defensive tone sneaking into my voice? “Sitting here, talking to a slave trader. We should be out looking for Willow—”

  “You know damn well where she is!” He lashes out, striking the desk so hard it skids across the floor. The monstrous sound rips through the room, but it’s not loud enough to keep him from pacing. Violent enough. His hands form fists as if he has to stop himself from hitting it again.

  I clear my throat. “Mischa…”

  Blazing like fire, his eyes cut to mine, more piercing than ever. In them, I see something I never thought I would, usually glimpsed in men with far less restraint.

  He’s breaking.

  “She’s strong,” I say as gently as I can. “There’s been no sign of her yet. I suggest we stay focused. Search Vanici’s known whereabouts—”

  “Fuck, you might be right,” he says, pushing away from the desk. His hand tears through his hair, his dark eyes fixed on the scenic view beyond the windows. “But in this moment, I don’t want your fucking logic.”

  His still clenched fists make it obvious what he desires.

  Vengeance.

  “You really want to start a war with Donatello Vanici?” I ask him quietly.

  Donatello, a man who—as of a week ago—was little more than an investor of no particular importance who had one piece of real estate worth having—the city harbor.