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

by Lana Sky

  I even take a step, but then reality cruelly sinks in. The man on my heels didn’t release me out of kindness. He’s merely testing the invisible binds linking us together more tightly than any chains. Pride—I refuse now; I’m playing right into his depiction of me. That as a selfish little girl. And I’d prove him right, Vin’s death would truly be on my hands.

  And I would be his pawn to conquer.

  If I were hoping otherwise, Mischa’s expression gives a clear roadmap about how this will end. In violence. The sheer depth of the rage written across his features is breathtaking. So much anger. Hate.

  As his hard mask returns in full, I barely recognize him.

  “I guess that’s settled,” Donatello remarks, forcing me to realize what everyone else has. All this time, I haven’t moved.

  Smug, my captor appears at my side, snatching my hand—but I can sense the tension coiled in every thick finger. Despite his outward composure, he’s wary.

  As he should be.

  “We should discuss this over lunch, like men,” Donatello suggests. “I’ll send you the information—”

  “You go to hell,” Mischa snarls, his eyes flashing. With every word, his accent thickens, coating each syllable in malice. “You want to hide inside a hospital? Use a woman as a shield? I knew you were a coward, but this… It’s pathetic.”

  “Tomorrow,” Donatello cordially replies as if never interrupted. “We can discuss my nephew’s medical bills, which you will personally cover.”

  Mischa growls, sounding more animal than human. A wolf, snarling for blood. “You—”

  “And, as a show of faith, you will have access to the Vanici harbor enterprise,” a different voice interjects, throwing the tension on its head. Fabio. Almost comically, everyone whips around to find him standing in a doorway roughly in between the two men—a symbolic placement if there ever was one.

  In his hands is a small notepad and pen. I have a strange thought of him patiently taking notes all this time.

  “This will be a union of two families,” he says, seemingly the voice of reason amid this unfathomable chaos. “As a show of faith, I’m sure we can come to other agreements. Donatello has assured me that your daughter has not been harmed in any way—”

  “Perhaps you want to examine her yourself,” Donatello interjects with a hint of menace. “At least before you go crying rape. Just know this—I have no intention of ever laying a hand on your precious daughter—”

  “She has always been my daughter,” Mischa snarls, his hands fists. “Always. Never will I forsake her. The same can’t be said for you, can it?”

  “No.” Donatello’s voice is unchanged. “But I guess I can take those words as your blessing?”

  A ripple goes through Mischa’s men as their leader cocks his head in warning. “My blessing?”

  He seems to teleport; he moves so fast. Air whooshes past my ears, and I only see a blur of motion before a force shoves me aside, ripping my hand from Donatello. I crash against the wall, scrambling to spin around.

  A sickening thud shatters the silence, followed by a masculine groan. Another. It happens so quickly I can barely track it all. Men scramble in every which direction, while—at the center of it all—Mischa grapples with Donatello, his hands around the other man’s neck. With a violent thud, he shoves him against the wall, and I know in my soul he won’t stop there.

  “Enough!” someone shouts, their voice drowned out by another groan. “Not here! Jesus Christ—”

  My pulse surges, deafening me. I’m only aware of moving blindly with no real aim in mind. Just shoving my way through the fray, against a wall of writhing bodies. Reaching out. Grasping at a muscular arm and tugging.

  The figure in question jerks, his eyes finding mine. Mischa. A flicker of emotion flits across his gaze too quickly to track. The rage contorting his features doesn’t diminish, but he steps back just enough for the man in his grasp to break free.

  “It’s about damn time you attacked me,” Donatello rasps. He staggers to regain his balance, swiping at his nose. Blood flows freely from one nostril, speckling his chin and white shirt, not that he seems to care. He’s smiling wide, his teeth painted scarlet. “Do it again. Hit me. Shoot me! You know you want to. At least we’re finally man to man.” Another manic grin contradicts any fear that he might be truly in pain. With a start, I realize this is the most animated I’ve seen him since that horrific moment in Havienna.

  “Attack me,” he hisses. “Not a boy. You’re luckier than you know, Mischa—” his eyes cut to me, devoid of an ounce of warmth. “I could have killed her. God, the things I could have done to her…”

  He sounds annoyed that he hasn’t done those horrible things. Sure, he’s considered them, going so far as to taunt me with the threat. But he hasn’t crossed the line. The only sense of comfort I can find is that the other night I realized why—he’s afraid to.

  “You won’t ever touch her again.” Mischa surges forward, grabbing my arm to pull me against him. His strength is a battering ram, both a comfort and a restraint. “You’re lucky I don’t castrate you with my bare fucking hands,” he says to the man watching us.

  Donatello doesn’t react, still sporting that gruesome smile. I can’t escape the creeping sensation that he’s in my head again, boldly reading my mind.

  And whatever he finds emboldens him more. “Not being able to touch her might make our wedding a tad bit more difficult—”

  “Marry her?” Mischa scoffs. “I’ll kill you first—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re making the choice for her?” Donatello’s smirk widens as he licks the blood from his lips. “You don’t trust your little girl, Mischa?”

  “Come near her again, and I will kill you.” To his credit, Mischa doesn’t take the bait this time. Gesturing to his men, he conveys the reason why—this fight was never fair from the outset. “Stand down now, and maybe I’ll let you live for the time being,” he says. “I’m taking my daughter home.”

  He turns back the way he came, maneuvering me to follow. He’s too strong. Too fast. It takes effort to dislodge my arm from him. Desperation. Wrenching on my shoulder isn’t enough. He doesn’t react when I paw at his wrist with my free hand, either. In the end, I have to grab the edge of a nearby doorway and leverage my body weight against him. He tightens his grip at first until, with a shocked grunt, he loosens it just enough.

  The second I pull free, it’s as if all of the air is sucked from the room. My skin burns in the absence of Mischa’s touch, and this time I can’t escape his expression.

  He only stares, his gaze devoid of emotion. No anger. No hate. No pain.

  And I’d prefer he shout. Yell. Rage at me.

  In his silence, I break. Internally fracture, held up only by muscle and bone. Like a coward, I wrench my gaze down to his chest, but the sight isn’t a comfort. I swear I can see his heart pounding madly beneath his jacket, assaulted by both shock and rage.

  Or maybe a different emotion, one that softens his voice just a fraction as he asks, “Is this what you want?”

  What I want. There are too many nuances to that statement to parse over. The only one that matters is the grim suspicion that, just like Donatello, he knows me too well. My impulsive answer? No. I want to go home. See my family. Know for sure that Ellen and Eli are okay. Forget what’s happened.

  Ignore the past.

  Instead, I look up and try to tell him everything I can through my expression. That I love him—so much. That I would never willingly turn against him…

  He holds my gaze unflinchingly, every bit the stoic figure I’ve come to respect. For a second, I swear I see a grudging frown tug on his mouth. Acknowledgment that he at least understood, even if he doesn’t quite understand…

  But I’m too much of a coward to be sure. I look away and catch Donatello watching me, his mouth in a flat line. I’m struck by the sense that he knows what I’m planning even before I do. Gradually, I regain my balance and start toward him, but his bla
nk expression doesn’t waver.

  Though he at least has enough tact not to gloat now. There’s no point. As far as his twisted game is concerned, he’s already won his round.

  The pawn is his to claim.

  Walking toward him is like wading through quicksand. I fully expect Mischa to grab me again. Lunge. Fight. But it’s as if the world is paralyzed in this moment. I’m the only person alive able to move. Walk. Breathe.

  And I can take some small shred of smug pride in watching Donatello’s expression. The hard mask slips for a heartbeat. I know he’s holding his breath, cocking his head warily as I reach out, grappling for a fistful of his suit jacket. I raise it slowly, dabbing at the blood streaked across his face.

  As I do, I meet his gaze, and I let him in. I let him see every thought circling my brain.

  He thinks he’s in control of this game? He’s wrong. So wrong. Now more than ever, am I determined to punish him for everything he’s done. Death isn’t good enough.

  I want him to thoroughly know the pain that comes from doubting your own identity. From having someone else consume who you are and spit out a mockery.

  I want him to suffer just as I did.

  And I make a mental note to do whatever it takes. I strip myself of any past hesitations or modesty, and I dive right into the only weapon I have that’s ever truly seemed to affect him.

  He vows never to touch me? Well, I didn’t promise to show the same restraint. As our eyes meet, I let my thumb graze his jaw just once.

  It’s a warning. Unexpectedly, he nods, having understood me clearly. “Play with fire if you want, hellcat,” he murmurs for only me to hear. “Play. I’ll gladly watch you burn—”

  “Willow?” Mischa’s voice is ice.

  I turn to him as Donatello shrugs me off, but gently, maintaining the ruse that I am his willing fiancée.

  “Lunch, tomorrow,” he says to the figure behind me. “Bring your fists if it will make you feel better. I’ll make sure to find a place public enough to cause a scene—”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Your daughter won’t—the least I can do,” Donatello says quickly. My cheeks flame at the rare note of honesty in his voice. I don’t think he even realizes it himself. “Until our wedding, at least. Though maybe I should change my mind?”

  The tension cracks, and I brace for another assault.

  “Enough,” a quiet voice demands. Fabio. “I suggest we settle this for now,” he says, smoothing his hand down the front of his suit. “Not here. Both of you have family trying to rest and heal. Let’s not forget that, shall we? Who knows what amount of stress this little argument might cause them? As Donatello suggested, you should meet tomorrow at a restaurant of my choosing. All necessary documents will be agreed upon then.”

  “You’re just as insane as he is,” Mischa growls.

  “I am insane,” Fabio says with a respectful tone and a slight nod. “I’ve spent the past three days trying to hold my nephew’s brains in with bandages while hunting for a hospital safe enough for him to recover in. If you think Donatello is the only one with a grievance to leverage, think again. You’ve seen the proof of Antonio Salvatore’s crimes. Maybe you should spend your time finding out who really set this mess into motion. Both of you.”

  Again that rare note of authority slips into his tone, hardening it.

  “A wedding honestly sounds reckless and contrived, but damn it, if it keeps my nephew alive and puts an end to this before more damage can be done, I will shove them down the aisle myself. As you can see, the girl isn’t a prisoner. I’ll vouch for Donatello’s behavior—she’ll remain intact and safe before any vows are uttered. Now, again I suggest you leave while I try to head off any publicity that might arise, yes?”

  I never actually hear Mischa acquiesce. Like a coward, I face the wall, and it feels like an eternity passes before the mafiya finally retreat. Their heavy steps are my only clue, along with Donatello’s weary sigh.

  “I owe you, Fab,” he rasps with genuine gratitude. “I mean it—”

  “You’re damn right you do,” Fabio snaps, jutting his chin. “Whether you put a fucking chastity belt on her or lock her in a room, she better be unharmed. I mean it, Donatello—”

  “She’s a child, Fab,” he says offhandedly.

  “Hmph.” Fabio’s eyes narrow to slits. “You almost sounded convincing. Now get the hell out of here. Think of all the bribes I’ll have to hand out to keep the staff quiet, in addition to arranging for increased security—those famiglia aren’t nearly enough.”

  “That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about,” Donatello suggests. “Antonio wasn’t exactly a champion of employee retention. I need help tracking down the old crew to replenish ranks.”

  “I did notice the entourage seemed a little anemic,” Fabio says. “But this was never my realm, Donatello. Never. I always kept my nose out of famiglia business, and you never had a problem with that before. Why should I change what I think in hindsight was a very prudent decision now?”

  “For me,” Donatello says simply. I marvel at this vulnerability. This raw, open pleading. If he had asked me to participate in his scheme like this…

  Would that have made any difference?

  “I need you, Fab,” he says, his expression stern once more. “I need you.”

  “Fine.” Sighing, Fabio rakes a hand through his graying auburn hair. “I’ll hunt down some old contacts—but my one stipulation is some new recruits. I think I know of a small outfit you might be able to absorb. They’re scruffy and will need some shaping up, but I think in this instance, the more, the merrier.”

  Donatello scoffs. “Don’t tell me you’ve been rubbing shoulders with lowly criminals, Fab.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” The man shoots him a guarded look. “Anyway. Go get cleaned up. I’ll stay here for a while. I think they’ll schedule the surgery for tonight—but I don’t think you should be here.”

  Donatello’s entire posture shifts in the blink of an eye. He hunches, the color draining from his skin. I sense my heel twitch against the floor at the fear he might collapse again.

  “You think I’ll let him go under the knife alone?” he asks.

  Fabio doesn’t even flinch. “I think you should let the team work in peace. Let Vin rest without worrying about another visit from the mafiya, hmm?”

  “Don’t use him as your excuse,” Donatello growls, drawing himself back to full height. “What? You think I’ll be too emotional?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.” Fabio crosses to him and places a hand on his chest. “You need to stay focused, Don. Keep your head clear. The best thing you can do for Vin is to make things as safe as possible for him. He should be your primary concern right now. Not Mischa. Not anyone. So go home. Wait for my call on his status. Don’t drink, and keep your head clear. Think of the man you want Vin to see when he wakes up. You, covered in blood? Or you, dressed nicely in a suit, not smelling like drink for once, with a safe home for him to recuperate in? I’ll leave you to make that choice.”

  He returns to Vincenzo’s room, smiling weakly at the startled nurses and medical personnel peering from around corners.

  “Fuck.” Donatello eyes his bloodied hand, shaking off fresh droplets of blood. Shoving that same hand into his pocket, he meets my gaze and inclines his head toward the elevator. “Let’s go.”

  He lumbers down the hall, leaving me to follow. At a glance, Mischa’s men appear to be long gone—but my guilt isn’t. It pools in my blood, growing stronger with each beat of my heart. I swear I can hear it, morphing from noise into a guilt-ridden taunt—I failed him.

  I failed him…

  There is no pretty way to say it. No heroic words to soften the blow. I chose Donatello Vanici over the man I love like a father. The man who saved me. Who has always protected me.

  I turned my back on my family.

  For what? The whim of a monster.

  “You played your part, little wife,” Donate
llo remarks from inside the elevator.

  I flinch, hating how he can read me so accurately. He leans against the wall, his eyes unsettlingly dark. “I’m sure your Mischa will be angry, but I think you’ll agree that it is better to be angry than dead.”

  Is it?

  My body chooses to answer for me where words can’t. I step back just as the doors start to close.

  “No!” He’s too fast, shoving his hand between the barrier before it can fully seal. Eyes flashing, he starts toward me, but I’m already turning my back to him, retracing our path through the hall.

  He’s hot on my heels, raging. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  It’s the wrong terminology. This is so not a game.

  It’s a war, and I’m tired of cowering behind the trenches.

  Increasing my pace, I practically sprint to my destination, expecting to feel a wrenching hand on my shoulder at any second. Just when I swear I see movement in the corner of my eye, I enter a room where the only conscious inhabitant looks up, puzzled by my appearance.

  “Can… Can I help you?” Fabio asks, rising from a chair beside Vin’s bed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Donatello snarls, storming in a second later. He doesn’t reach for me. Yet.

  Ignoring him, I approach Fabio, making my expression as pleading as I can. Truth be told, I know nothing about him. He could be just as dismissive of me as Donatello, but when I raise my hands and mime for a pen and paper, he nods, fishing both from his suit jacket.

  “Here.” He gestures to a small table nearby, clearing a space for me to write.

  “What are you doing?” Donatello demands as I start scribbling. I can sense him reading over my shoulder, but I don’t bother to disguise my words. As I pen my first line across the page, he scoffs.

  “A list of demands?” Fabio interprets.

  I nod, gripping the pen so tightly it shakes, smearing ink. If this were a game, as he claimed, the rules could be easily broken. But in war? There are more rigid norms to follow.