by Lana Sky
Queen of Thorns
Mice and Men Book 2 (The War of Roses Universe)
Lana Sky
Also by Lana Sky
The Ellie Gray Chronicles
Drain Me
Chain Me
The Complete Ellie Gray Chronicles
* * *
Beautiful Monsters
Crescendo
Refrain
Mezzo
Allegro
* * *
Club XXX
Maxim: Submit
Maxim: Obey
Maxim: Surrender
Maxim: The Complete Trilogy
Vadim: Control
Vadim: Corrupt
Vadim: Conquer
Vadim: The Complete Trilogy
* * *
Savage Fall Duet
King’s Men
King’s Horses
The Complete Savage Fall Duet
* * *
The War of Roses Universe
The War of Roses
XV: (Fifteen)
VII: (Seven)
I: (One)
The Complete War of Roses Trilogy
Of Mice and Men
Ruthless King
Queen of Thorns
Shattered Throne
* * *
Painted Sin
A Touch of Dark
A Taste like Sin
The Complete Painted Sin Duet
* * *
Standalones
Pretty Perfect
Crossed Lines
* * *
Dragon Triad Duet
Moth
Flame
The Complete Dragon Triad Duet
* * *
Rockstar Rebels
Dirty Lyrics (Newsletter Exclusive)
Queen of Thorns
Queens of Thorns By Lana Sky
Copyright © 2021 by Lana Sky
All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic, and explicit content matter that is not suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: age gap relationships, explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, and graphic depictions of violence.
Contents
1. Don
2. Willow
3. Evgeni
4. Don
5. Willow
6. Don
7. Evgeni
8. Willow
9. Don
10. Willow
11. Evgeni
12. Don
13. Willow
14. Evgeni
15. Don
16. Willow
17. Evgeni
18. Don
19. Willow
20. Evgeni
21. Willow
22. Don
Afterword
Chapter 1 of XV: War of Roses Trilogy Book 1
A Word from the Author
About the Author
Also by Lana Sky
1
Don
I was fourteen the first time I ever killed someone. It was a sloppy hit, done at point-blank range with a stolen 9mm. Later on, I found out that was intentional on the part of the man who put me up to it—throw off suspicion by making it seem like a reckless, random robbery.
I’d merely been a pawn in a game I’d been too damn young to even guess the scope of. Such is the way of the world.
Everyone is a fucking pawn.
I don’t recall much of that day, though I sure as hell remember the messy aftermath. Namely, the blood splattered all over the pavement and the pile of puke I left alongside it. Shaking from head to toe, I could barely grip the gun in my hand. Rather than dispose of it like a seasoned hitman would, I turned tail and ran, leaving both the body and the weapon there out in the open, a rookie mistake.
I don’t even remember the poor bastard’s name. As far as I knew, he had been an enemy of Mr. Rossi, a mobster I’d pledged my loyalty to, and that was all that mattered.
Loyalty.
It was my one talent, and what I thought would cement my status as a member of the famiglia, age be damned. Until I learned a lesson they don’t bother to teach in schools, that is. A boy doesn’t become a man the second he commits murder.
No, my old boss and leader of the famiglia, Giovanni Rossi himself, told me the truth from across his desk that night. Later, as I washed the blood from my hands, I realized that some lucky bastards never learn it.
Becoming a man relies on knowing one universal certainty. Understand it, and even the poorest, dumbest son of a bitch can become whatever the hell he wants, be it a doctor, a teacher, or a fucking crime lord.
So what is it? This—all men have the same capacity for evil. No matter what he does. No matter what he wears or says. No matter how good his upbringing is, or how much money he has in the bank…
Everyone is the same underneath.
The true question of morality is whether they choose to embrace the darkness or suppress it—though the Bible tries its damn hardest to muddy the waters. I grew up with the lies, reading every classic moral lesson, which typically ended with all sin leading neatly back to the devil.
A good, God-fearing Catholic woman, my mother abided by every warning and did her best to teach me the same. The only problem? I knew early on that it was all bullshit.
The devil isn’t real. Greed is. At his core, every man is little more than a creature born of sheer greed. A priest and a mobster are both one and the same—a snarling, vicious animal out to satisfy the most basic urges. Strip him down to the bone, and he’ll do whatever it takes to eat. To fuck. To shit. And…if necessary, kill.
God rest my mother’s soul; I wish things were different, though. I wish a simple prayer could cure every act of evil.
The death.
The violence.
The blood.
I wish I could still blame my sins on the devil—though maybe I can. Just one of flesh and blood who goes by another name.
Mischa Stepanov.
He’s the reason I’m here—driving up the west end of Hell’s Gambit in a stolen car with a kidnapped woman in the trunk. I barely remember the how and why. My skull throbs as I pick through the scattered memories, each one as blurred as the last.
Mischa let himself be played by faulty information. He came after me. Vin got attacked...
I left the villa, I think, though I didn’t go see the man I should have.
No, I went right to the source of the lies. The man who tried to have me killed and then framed me for an attack on the Stepanovs. Antonio Salvatore.
I broke into his fancy manor and tried beating any information I could out of him. After that, I strangled him with my bare hands and used his own daughter as a human shield to evade the remnants of the famiglia.
Then I went back to Havienna and…
Groaning, I take one hand from the wheel to rub at my temples, but the grainy images don’t get any clearer. At least one fact is answered—if all of what happened was real, then there are two bodies in the trunk—one being just a child, kidnapped from her own home.
>
Fuck. I laugh out loud and meet my gaze in the rearview mirror. Ironically, I look like hell. Bloodshot eyes. Hair mussed to shit and dripping with a substance that sure as hell ain’t water. One hard sniff and I can peg the acidic stench—lighter fluid.
That’s right. I doused myself in it.
Maybe I’m the devil in this tale?
If only reality were as neat as the Bible. I’d confess my sins and accept the punishment. God knows, I’ve been down this road before, and the good Donatello, the man I’ve strived to be… He would turn around. Do the noble thing and bend the knee to those who wronged him.
Fall on his sword like a repentant bastard.
I can’t say the idea isn’t tempting. I’m so damn tired. Breathing is a struggle, let alone driving. The car veers from lane to lane as the steering wheel bucks against my grip. My lungs ache with every breath I take, and even blinking hurts. I just want to sleep. I’m so weary of running, and scraping, and suffering. I’m so exhausted of hiding from the past.
From Safiya.
Why not surrender to both in one fell swoop? Let the past have my pathetic soul and allow Safiya Mangenello her pound of flesh. As it stands, I should have died seven years ago, anyway.
Or…
I could say “fuck that” to mercy. I tried the good boy routine once, and it cost me the only damn thing in the world I care about. The only person whose life truly mattered. Vincenzo…
Every time I think of him, it feels like I’m the one taking a bullet to the skull. Over and over again.
I see his face everywhere I look, hovering before me, my smiling boy—only he isn’t smiling now. His dark eyes blaze, his lips moving wordlessly, demanding an answer to just one question—how could you fail me, Don? How?
I swear I see him right now, standing in the middle of the road.
“Vin!” I wrench on the wheel just to avoid him, sending the car into an arc. Mud flies up, speckling the windshield as the tires squeal in protest. Deep down, I know I’m being insane, but the second the car screeches to a halt, I scan the landscape for any sign of life.
Predictably, he’s gone. In his place is just an endless fucking road and a swath of trees looming beyond.
I’m drunk. In my right mind, I’d never be driving, especially not here. It’s what the city natives deem the no-man’s-land—a swath of hills on the outskirts, hugging the bay. There are no guardrails this far out, and my heart races as I glance over to where the shoulder ends—at a cliff. Somehow, I’d managed to hit the brake without driving right off the edge. Though fuck, I should.
A sigh rips from my throat as my toes twitch over the pedal, easing up, bit by bit. Bouncing over the uneven terrain, the car lurches into motion, barreling toward the edge of the drop. Slowly. Faster. Faster…
Right when the momentum picks up, one thing has me slamming my foot on the brake again—self-pity.
A death dashed on the rocks below is too good for me. In my soul, I sense I’m destined for something far worse, an end worthy of a monster.
Giovanni Rossi met his via a heart attack on the eve of his daughter’s wedding. Imagine that. A week before, he pulled me aside, as if he’d seen it coming. In his typical gruff baritone, he imparted one last piece of advice to me, his heir primed to take over.
Life, for all its pretentious bullshit, is just a game, sonny, he said. You can be a coward and cringe from battle. Or you declare fucking checkmate. At all costs, you go for the checkmate. You pound your fist on the damn game board if you have to. Don’t you ever give up. The second you do, someone’s already beaten you. It’s game over.
To him, everything was just a round in an unending game with every player fighting his way to the top.
Thanks to Mischa Stepanov, my time playing is nearing its end. Giving up now would be forfeiting everything to him, the ultimate checkmate.
Though, what else could I do?
As if Giovanni himself sent me a reminder from the grave, I sense something around my right hand and hold it up to the light. It takes several blinks before I can focus on it—delicate strands of golden hair looped around my fingers. I bring them beneath my nose, inhaling the scent I swear they still carry.
Roses and hatred.
I can clearly picture the source—a head of golden hair, framing a face crowned by watchful dark eyes. Wrapped around my fingers, their presence alludes to the violence that resulted in them being there. Fighting her off. Shoving her aside. Putting her in the trunk…
I catch myself eyeing the direction of it in the rearview mirror. When I lower my hand, a new emotion takes hold, and I gladly let it. Rage. Along with it comes a new perspective. Mischa may have won the last round, but as Giovanni used to say at the famiglia’s lowest moments, the war is far from over. Especially when I have in my possession one of my enemy’s very own pawns.
Willow Stepanova herself could be the perfect tool to ensure that no one wins in the end.
And there are a million ways I could wreak my vengeance through her. Brutal, sick fucking shit I would have never thought myself capable of doing, even at my darkest. My fingers twitch against the steering wheel as the possibilities cross my mind.
I could rip her apart limb from limb.
Tear that beautiful body to pieces.
Torture her. Torment her. Then send the aftermath to her father, wrapped with a bow.
The truly sick part? My hand is already inching into my pocket, closing over the handle of a dagger I don’t remember carrying. It’s hers, small enough to fit her grasp with the word Mouse etched into the hilt. I run my thumb over the metal’s edge, surprised by how sharp it really is.
Sharp enough to slit a throat.
Slowly, I reach for the door handle next, but my fingers shake too badly to grip it. Out of guilt? That’s right. I made a vow once. Hell, I swore it over Olivia’s grave. To redeem the Vanici name. To never return to my old ways. To set a good example for Vincenzo and leave a legacy they both could be proud of.
I’ve failed two of those vows, but I can still fulfill one final pledge. I can make the Vanici name worth speaking again—even if feared.
Mischa Stepanov will pay for what he’s done.
Wrestling my hands into submission, I finally push the door open and yank the lever alongside my seat that unlocks the trunk. Slowly, I climb to my feet, bracing one hand against the car while the other returns the knife to my pocket.
It’s slick as shit out, with nothing but gravel and mud underfoot. Even now, a spitting rain speckles my skin, coating everything in a slippery, silvery layer of frost. On top of that, my balance is shit. As I try to take a step, the world rocks beneath me, and I vaguely remember drinking from a bottle stolen right from Antonio Salvatore’s minibar.
This whole thing could be some booze-induced hallucination. Still, I start forward.
As I round the back end of the car, a faint rustle draws my notice, and I freeze mid-step in grim anticipation. Will she jump out to meet me? Try to fight? My knuckles twitch, until both of my hands form fists so tight my own nails cut into my palms.
I wait, but the top of the trunk doesn’t budge.
The booze still in my system might be to blame for the feeling that comes over me next. Weightlessness. I stagger forward, but it’s like I’m watching a stranger curl his fingers beneath the rim of the lid, wrenching it up in one go.
Thick cloud cover obscures the sun, leaving only a faint bit of light to see by. Even so, I have no trouble making her out, curled on her side at one end of the compartment, the Salvatore girl on the other. Golden hair fans out around her, shrouding the pale limbs bared by a thin yellow dress. If I had to imagine how she’d appear, I’d assume afraid, trembling fearfully in anticipation of what I’d do next.
One look at her shatters that fantasy. Her dark eyes meet mine head-on, fiery in the grayish daylight. In them, I see a challenge portrayed so brazenly it might as well be branded across her forehead—What will you do, Donatello?
The answer is a
s elusive to me as it is to her. Her knife is still in my pocket, but all I seem capable of doing is staring. Remembering.
Her…
More obscure images from last night flash across my mind. Us, together in my old study, her body struggling against my grasp. A groan revs in my throat as I recall why—I’d been ready to set the entire house on fire, myself along with it.
Only one force had been able to stop me.
Her.
I remember her wrestling the matches from me, and my broken psyche adorned her with a million different embellishments then—that of a vengeful angel clothed in gold, condemning me to live another day out of spite.
In broad daylight, there is no hiding from reality.
She isn’t flawless like a soldier of divine mercy would be. No. She’s battered and pale, her yellow dress askew, her eyes as bloodshot as mine are. Liquid slicks her hair to her skull, reeking suspiciously of accelerant. That’s not all. A necklace of dark bruises encircles her fucking neck. Irrational anger flares at the sight of them, and I’m already wracking my brain for the identity of who could have possibly hurt her.
Only a monster…
Not even a heartbeat later, I catch sight of my wrist, and I realize that I don’t have to look far for the culprit—me. I did this to her.
