by Lana Sky
“Of course.” Fabio nods. “But who did you…” He trails off the second he sees me, grappling for a nearby table just to keep his balance. Dismay constricts his features, and I’m sure that he knows who I am. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Donatello Vanici,” he croaks. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t!”
He spins to confront the taller man, his expression horrified. “Are you insane? After everything I’ve done for you? For Vincenzo? This is what you do? You bring the daughter of the mafiya here?”
I was right, I realize. He knows who I am—just not the identity I expected him to.
“As what?” he demands. “Some kind of fucking hostage! Have you lost your mind—”
“Look at her, Fab,” Donatello says quietly. Despite his insistence, his eyes are on the wall. “Look.”
“I’m not blind, you stupid bastard. I can see this situation for what it is—insanity—”
“I said look at her, Fabio!” Donatello lunges toward me. Snatching my arm, he spins me to face the other man’s inspection. Gone from his touch is any of that previous warmth. His hand gripping my chin might as well be a manacle. “Look at her! Really look. I’m sure you see it now.”
“What are you…” Fabio blinks, shaking his head. If possible, he turns even paler before finally exhaling a sound in between a sigh and a groan.
“You aren’t blind,” Donatello says in a tone so cold I shiver. “I’m sure you knew before I did. I’m sure you always knew who she really was. You just kept it from me. For what? You thought I’d go after her then?”
For what it’s worth, Fabio looks shocked into silence, still eyeing my face.
Donatello grunts, unsatisfied. His fingers grip me tighter, his breaths searing my neck. “It doesn’t matter. Fuck, you doubt me now of all times? I would die for Vincenzo!”
His voice rings out, and Fabio flinches, startled back to the present.
“I know that,” he says faintly. “I know that.”
“So trust me. I didn’t kidnap her. In fact, I didn’t do a damn thing to her!” One by one, he pries his fingers from me to illustrate as much. “Mischa jumped the gun. He struck first.”
“So, what do you plan to do?” Fabio demands tiredly. “Threaten the girl as retaliation? Trade her life for Vin’s? Is that the real reason you got safe passage here? Just to lure Mischa Stepanov?” Raw pain laces his voice, and Donatello flinches.
“I’m not going to hurt her.” He returns to the bed, lifting Vin’s limp hand with both of his. “I’m going to marry her, Fab, and end this feud before it even begins.”
“You…what?” The man staggers to the wall, bracing his hand against it. Nonetheless, he sinks to his knees with a faint sigh. “Jesus Christ, you’ve gone insane—”
“I haven’t,” Donatello snarls. “Think about it for a second. Use your head and fucking think. I marry her—”
“And Mischa kills all of us!”
“No,” he snaps. “I marry her and beat Mischa at his own game. The bastard thinks he owns this city. He wouldn’t have come after me, otherwise. This is personal. So I make it so fucking personal he has to face me on an even playing field.”
“And what about her?” Fabio gestures to me. “I’m sure you’ve threatened her. God, don’t tell me you raped her—”
“I never have to touch her,” Donatello declares. He sounds so damn confident of that. “I haven’t, by the way. You want to know why? All I need to do is show her with me unharmed. All I need to do is make her my wife and dangle that goddamn ring before Mischa and the world. If it looks like she’s willingly mine, he can’t touch me.”
“You realize how you sound,” Fabio croaks, letting his mouth hang open. “Do you? You sound insane, Donatello. You sound like you’ve lost your damn mind—”
“I have.” He sounds so calm. So unconcerned by the grit in his own voice. The coldness. “I have lost my mind.”
For the first time, I hear his words—truly hear them. He’s not proposing a marriage. He’s not even proposing a twisted hostage scenario. He’s proposing, in essence, a sick reversal of his original crime—throw me away again. Only this time? My soul is what gets sold. My humanity.
I’ll be reduced to a lifeless husk sporting a ring, no better than Vincenzo.
As Fabio insinuated, a life for a life.
“What would you have me do, huh?” Donatello questions as if arguing directly with my thoughts. “Sit idly by and let Vincenzo die? Sit by and watch Mischa Stepanov lord his power over me as though I’m some patsy he can step on, even if he fucking crushes me in the process? No…” His laugh will haunt my nightmares. “I can’t let that happen. I refuse to.”
“So you what? Turn into the same sort of tyrant you used to scoff at? This isn’t you, Don,” Fabio pleads. “Not anymore. Trust that I love Vin as much as you do. I would have found a way. I would have done something. Something that doesn’t result in you with your boot on the neck of Mischa Stepanov.”
“Well, it’s too late.” Donatello faces him, his head held high, shoulders squared. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Damn…” The man sighs heavily, rising to his feet. “You swear on your life that you haven’t touched her? Not so much as a fucking hair?”
Donatello makes a motion in between a nod and a shake of his head. “I haven’t seriously harmed her—”
“And you won’t,” Fabio warns. “Not a hair. You don’t harm her. You don’t touch her. You don’t fuck—do anything other than look at her. Promise me.”
Donatello’s eyes narrow. Finally, he nods. “You have my word.”
“I better,” the other man insists, wagging a trembling finger. “I mean it. Now, as for your insane, ridiculous plan that I in no way endorse…it just might be crazy enough to work.”
He starts to pace, instantly transforming from frantic to composed. With one hand, he strokes his chin, mulling over the thoughts he proposes out loud. “I assume there’s more to this—you’ll need to catch me up on the politics of it all.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Donatello warns. “To cut to the fun bit, Antonio Salvatore is dead, I’m in control of the famiglia now, and I found proof that Mischa acted on faulty intel. Someone else wanted his family attacked.”
Fabio sways, his expression shifting from alarmed, to horrified, and then resigned all within the space of a second. “Who?”
Donatello shrugs. “Didn’t get that far.”
“Typical,” Fabio snaps. “You always jump the damn gun. Right. Aside from that, you might be on to something. Cooling things down now could ensure peace with Mischa and avert an outright feud. You make it known that you haven’t harmed her. She’s here of her own account. And you won’t go any further than marriage as a show of good faith. It could buy you time. And, of course, I can help spin the narrative. Put things into motion. Spread the publicity. Mischa may control the criminal underbelly, but he has nothing on the public front. With a few well-placed phone calls, I can make this the talk of the fucking city. He’ll be boxed in.”
“I’m not asking you to make yourself a target, Fab,” Donatello says.
“Stop right there—” Fabio raises his hand. “You don’t need to ask me to do a damn thing. Everyone knows we’re connected. I don’t have a choice but to fix this mess. Now…” He folds his hands behind his back, continuing to pace. “A long engagement would be the best course of action. An actual marriage might not even be necessary—”
“The legal protections are what matter,” Donatello interjects. “Mischa can rage all he wants, but there are rules that even men like us are forced to follow.”
“What a twisted world,” Fabio laments. “Maybe you’re right, but only to buy enough time for you and Mischa to hash out your differences without putting bullets in each other’s brains. In that case, a brief ceremony. We’d need to arrange for the right guests. The right optics to make this as convincing as possible. Even the mafiya can’t challenge public opinion.” He reaches into his pocket,
withdrawing a cell phone. “I need to make some calls. Give me some time. And don’t worry about Vin,” he adds more softly. “That’s been arranged too. Just try to stay out of trouble for five minutes.”
He leaves the room, the phone attached to his ear.
In the resulting silence, Donatello returns to Vin’s bedside, taking his other hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” he warns.
Considering that Vin’s eyes are closed, it’s obvious who he’s speaking to.
“This way, you keep your family alive. Vincenzo alive. You get to go back inside your perfect little cage and—”
I back away from him so violently I nearly trip. I brace my hand against the nearest window to steady myself, overlooking a lonely gray parking lot, the city in the distance. The sight is surprisingly reassuring, a desolate landscape partially populated. It reminds me of a world far from the machinations of men like the one behind me.
If I really were the bird he mocks me to be, I’d fly away now.
Fast.
“Don’t pretend like this isn’t the best fucking option,” he warns, advancing too quickly to evade. “You stay alive, and I get the best chance to save Vincenzo. Look at him—”
His fingers latch onto my throat, forcing me to face the bed. “Look at what your beloved father did. You want his blood on your hands? Then refuse to play along.”
I grit my teeth, my eyes watering. Maybe he’s right? In his cruel, sick sense of logic, this is probably the far less of multiple evils. Merciful. After all, he once sold me intending to let me die.
The only difference now is that he gets to inflict the damage himself. He gets to steal the pampered, polished life Mischa provided and relegate me to insignificance all over again.
His life becomes my new prison.
And I’d rather be left for dead.
I’m crying in earnest. Tears paint my cheeks in steady strokes, but inside I’m woefully numb. The medical machinery and noises around us create a twisted sort of melody—a mocking rendition of what I have to look forward to.
A dead-end—being technically alive, but in essence, just existing. Breathing. A shell.
“Don’t you dare think you can run now,” Donatello cautions as I remember how to move and wrench out of his grasp, staggering to put distance between us. “You wanted my attention? Well, now you have it.”
I could laugh. Scream. Rip him open with my nails or stab him with my knife.
I could. But that’s what he wants. To lord this prison over me. To gloat. To have me writhe on his hook so he can forget who truly caused this mess.
He did.
Focus! It takes everything I have to wrestle my rage into submission. I’m shaking with the effort, choking on the air in my lungs as more tears blur my vision. When I finally regain control over my breathing, I meet the gaze of the man before me, putting everything I have into my expression, if only to convey one point. One last threat.
I’ll play his game, alright.
And I’ll make him regret ever asking me to in the first place—not through violence. Something far worse.
I’ll become his prison.
I’ll make his life a living hell.
I’ll make him writhe on my hook, and in the end, he’ll be the one to turn tail and run.
I’ll make him pay.
His gaze hardens as if he’s aware of every plot and scheme taking shape. “Fair enough.” His mouth flattens into a hard, stern line, but his raised eyebrow makes my pulse race. It’s amused. A dare. I swear I hear him murmur, “You think you can try? I want to see you do it—”
“Sir!” A man staggers into the room. I vaguely recognize him as the figure stationed by the door when we arrived, now grim-faced, his hand ominously inside his jacket pocket. “Mafiya men spotted entering the hospital. They’re on their way here.”
“It was only a matter of time,” Donatello murmurs, but I marvel at the levelness of his tone as he enters the hall with a galling sense of calm. I scramble after him, my brain struggling to reconcile his myriad of clashing responses. When I strip for him of my own accord, he rages, but in the face of a different kind of enemy?
He’s damn near poised. The stark contrast highlights just how unsure I am of my own feelings. Doubt gnaws on my nerves with every step I take. Mischa is here… I should feel relieved. I am. My heart swells, and I ache to see him. Try to explain. Apologize.
Maybe I could end this just by facing him, finally?
The thoughts barely finish forming, when a commotion cuts the tranquil quiet of the ward, alarming the few nurses and medical personnel. Slamming doors. Shouting. My stomach contorts into knots as my head swivels along with everyone else’s toward the source of the noise. Instantly, I’m forced to reconcile my wishes for what they are—childish fantasies.
Mischa is here, barging through a door that I assume leads to a stairwell, but instead of relief, fear floods my body. It’s so strange how a few changes in demeanor and clothing can drastically alter someone.
Gone is the jolly fellow who I’ve witnessed read fairy tales to his young daughters and play tag with his sons. Hate strips any ounce of warmth from his features, and I’m not immune to the effect he has on those caught in his path. I stiffen, my eyes glued to him, my body tensing with instinctive alarm, sensing the danger in the atmosphere.
His blond hair is gathered loosely at the nape of his neck, enhancing the angular planes of his face and the dark eyes ablaze. If it weren’t obvious until now, the piercing glare he sports makes it clear—this man isn’t here to make nice. He’s ready for war. Dressed head to toe in gray fatigues, he embodies the frightening image of the mafiya leader the world knows him to be.
But another figure stalks past me to meet him fearlessly, easily drawing my attention away. Remarkably, he undergoes the same drastic transformation as Mischa, but in reverse—from stiff with grief to electric. Wearing a black suit, his dark hair mussed, he seems like an unlikely match compared to Mischa’s bulk—but no less intimidating. Shadow in contrast to fiery gold. Light against darkness. When viewed together, the effect they have is chilling.
Two equally powerful pieces fighting for control over a dwindling game board. The sole piece deciding said fate? A lone, insignificant pawn caught between both sides. That designation feels cemented by the way Donatello positions himself—near enough to grab me.
“Are you really going to shoot me here?” he demands of Mischa, outstretching his arms in a grand gesture. “Right here? Then do it, you son of a bitch.”
The vitriol seems honed like a volley of arrows into an advancing army. Undeterred, Mischa merely slows his pace as a cruel half-smile tugs on his mouth. At least six men lurk behind him, a mere fraction of what I know his security force to be. At a glance, I only recognize a few faces, none of them Evgeni.
“You dare show your face here,” Mischa growls, sounding more incredulous than enraged. “I should—” his gaze meets mine and his entire expression shifts, his eyes widening. “Willow…”
“Not so fast.” Donatello places a hand on my shoulder, locking me in place before I can even think to move. “I want to hear you say it,” he demands. “What are you here to do? Plan to shoot up a hospital? Finish Vincenzo off? Don’t be shy with your plans for vengeance now.”
A shadow darkens Mischa’s expression, harshening the rage already apparent. “I’m the one who should be asking you that fucking question.” He inclines his head, his eyes slits. “Let me hear you say it—are you threatening her?”
I shrink beneath the weight of attention as several pairs of eyes turn to me.
“You haven’t heard?” Donatello scoffs, tightening his grip on me. Ruthlessly. His nails bare down on the thin material of the dress, threatening to pierce the tender flesh beneath. It stings, but I’m more alarmed by the suspicion that pain isn’t his aim this time. For once, he sees me, but only as something to claim. Own. “I’m sure you have. Your friends, the Saleris haven’t told you?”
He waits, but Mi
scha doesn’t react—which is exactly what I think he was counting on. I glance over to see him practically levitating with arrogance. With a dark eyebrow raised, he says, “I plan to marry your daughter, Mischa. As a show of goodwill and to acknowledge her affections after you viciously mounted an attack on my family. Consider yourself lucky that I’m more interested in peace than revenge.”
Silence falls with a deafening impact. All I can hear is my pulse racing as my heart pounds so hard I feel it jolt up my throat. I can’t even look at him—but as I cut my gaze down to the tile flooring, I’m acutely aware of the man behind me. His touch is violent, his breath fire against my cheek. His stance unnerves me more than his hate does—it’s possessive. Confusing.
Finally, he withdraws his hand, but the sensation hits like a slap. It’s jarring, recalling the torment he put me through in the shower tenfold—unbearable heat switched to sudden cold.
“Threaten me if you want,” he taunts, facing Mischa. “It will only serve to prove my point—you’re too power-hungry, caught up in personal grievances to see reason. Don’t tell me this all has to do with the harbor?”
That dangerous silence lingers for a second longer. Another.
“You know damn well what this has to do with,” Mischa growls in a tone so guttural I feel it in my bones. Finally, I lift my head to face him, unprepared for the man I see. For a moment, I’m twelve again, viewing him as a stranger whose motives I couldn’t fathom. Would he be just another monster?
As he sees me, however, the spell is broken. He’s the man I’ve come to trust once more, though furious as he eyes the place Donatello held me. “How dare you even touch her—”
“Let’s ask her if I forced her here,” Donatello counters with a false sense of calm. “If she’s so battered and broken, let her run to you. Go!”
His hand slams against my back, shoving me forward. I stumble, my eyes riveted to Mischa. God, I never knew how much my heart could hurt. Physically throb as if stabbed. Beaten. Broken. Deep down, I know exactly what will make the pain go away—run.
Hide. Forget Donatello, damn the consequences of what might happen. In this moment, I want nothing more than to do just that—go home to my family.