by Lana Sky
My hands shake, outstretched before me, bruised and bloodied. In contrast, she looks so small.
And so dangerous.
“Is this what you wanted?” I direct the question toward her, still inspecting my fingers. An assortment of cuts and bruises mar each digit, but not enough to cause the amount of rust-colored liquid encrusted beneath each fingernail. There’s no shying from what the substance really is. Blood.
Mine.
Antonio Salvatore’s.
And Vincenzo’s.
“Why?” The shout echoes throughout the narrow clearing this part of the road runs through, bellowed and broken.
But how does she react?
When I finally look at her again, she’s just staring.
And staring, and staring…
There’s no answer reflected in those dark irises. No hate. No fucking emotion.
Not even when I lunge for her, grasping at whatever I catch. Warm flesh trembles beneath my palm as I find myself tearing back through the trees, dragging her with me.
“You wanted to punish me, is that it?” I say in between pants. “Well, now we can both find our retribution.”
Giovanni was right. Why give up when you can ruin the game? And what better way to circumvent Mischa’s inevitable win than to aim straight for his heart?
I’ll do more than pound the damn game board. I’ll break it.
The woman resists, digging her bare heels into the earth with every step—not that there’s much she can do. I’m heading for the edge of a sheer drop, overlooking a section of gray water churning beneath. A fall from here would be deadly. If the height alone doesn’t do the trick, then the rocks down below should.
Two birds with one stone—a fitting end for Donatello Vanici, and a fitting punishment for Mischa Stepanov.
I take another step, and the woman by my side goes still, her gaze fixated on the drop.
Watching her triggers another memory, but one that occurred years ago rather than hours. Someone younger had been in her place, her dark eyes just as fearful, though the drop, in that case, had been the edge of a pool.
She couldn’t speak, but I had no trouble reading her mind. Her face was so expressive; she couldn’t keep anything secret from me even if she tried.
“You’re afraid,” I told her with a smile. “Don’t be. As long as I’m here, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Just close your eyes and jump. I’ve got you…”
No! I bare my teeth against the past, forcing myself back to the present. The woman struggling in my grip bears resemblances to that little girl—but it doesn’t matter. She should have no other identity than who she is now. An enemy. A means to an end. Willow Stepanova, daughter of the man who took everything from me. Everything…
And yet for someone so consequential, she doesn’t look it, so small she barely comes up to my shoulder when I shove her forward.
My grip on her arm is the only force keeping her upright. With every twitch and gust of the wind, she staggers, her feet scrambling for balance on the uneven ground. Beneath that tattered yellow sundress, she’s so slight that one strong breeze could blow her away.
All I’d have to do is let go.
So I do.
Alarm flits across her face for an instant, widening her eyes and parting those pink lips. Her impending death is a slow, morbid dance of slender limbs against relentless gravity. Her right foot loses contact with the ground first, followed quickly by the second. Left with no stability, her entire body jolts backward, that hair swaying in the wind.
Even as she starts to fall, her eyes shoot up to mine, and her brave façade cracks. Beneath it, I see her fear. The grim realization that I’ll let her die.
She knows I will…
“Fuck!” The curse slips from me, as my hand shoots out before my brain can fully process the motion, gripping the neckline of her dress. Grunting, I yank on the material, hauling her back over the edge. As I let go, her fingers fly to the rocky outcropping, using it for stability to drag herself up.
She falls to her knees as a monstrous sound rips through the silence. Booming and guttural, it’s seconds before I realize it’s coming from me. Laughter. Manic, unstable laughter.
The emotion tearing through my chest isn’t amusement, though—far from it. Just sheer, dizzying confusion.
“Why are you here? Did you come to distract me so your father or one of his men can finish the job?” I demand, spinning around as if expecting another car to appear on the road at any moment. “Where are they? Don’t tell me he’s watching from the shadows, pleased with the show? Because he sent you, didn’t he? He sent you here...”
It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Either that, or she wanted him to save me for herself, so she could be the one to drive the knife into my chest.
But then why stop me?
Her eyes flicker toward me and away, giving me the answer.
“You came on your own.” I sound as incredulous as I feel. It seems insane to even consider—that she snuck from Mischa’s fortress of a home. Made her way to Havienna alone. Made her way to me.
For what?
Voice rasping, I propose the obvious answer, “Did you come to watch me die, Safiya?”
She should sneer in confirmation. Instead, a muscle in her jaw twitches, and I imagine her clenching her teeth behind those pink lips. In anger? I hunt her gaze for an answer, reminded of another moment from the past. Those same eyes in another lifetime. So dark, they’d seem to touch on red whenever their owner felt enraged.
The day I left her behind, they blazed…
Now? They’re too dark to interpret clearly. I just see defiance. You don’t control me, they declare. You lost that right.
“You’re mine now,” I snap, turning away from her. Fuck the past. This is all that matters. Who she is now and what she’s done…
She’s mine.
And I don’t have to kill her to enact my revenge.
I grab her arm, dragging her back to the road. The second we near the car, I shove her in the trunk beside another figure I’ve almost forgotten. She’s curled in a ball, staring from behind a curtain of black curls. Antonio Salvatore’s little girl, her eyes glazed over.
Both figures watch as I slam the trunk closed over them. Shaking, I reclaim the driver’s seat, moving on autopilot as I put the car back into drive. A U-turn later, I’m speeding toward Hell’s Gambit. I don’t know where I’m heading at first. My brain churns sluggishly, fighting to catch up with my body’s impulse.
Then it comes to me—I’m going home. How does that saying go? Things have a way of coming full circle. When I’ve hit rock bottom, what better place to complete that descent than the very location I rose from at the start of it all?
I still remember the whirlwind of those early days after I’d freshly joined the famiglia. Old Giovanni Rossi kept a public front in the heart of the city—a casino that Antonio Salvatore took over after ascending to the top of the outfit. Apart from that, the old man mainly did business in a small restaurant, but his pride and the true heart of his operation was located about an hour outside of the city proper.
Only his most trusted lieutenants knew of it, and even fewer were allowed to set foot there. From that old complex, Giovanni conducted his true business, using the place as a headquarters for the real source of his money—cocaine. A hell of a lot of cocaine, sourced directly from the most vicious Colombian cartels. I doubt Salvatore dumped that part of the operation. Given the lavishness of his mansion, the fucker has been enjoying the benefits of such an enterprise.
Who knows how much of that fortune remains. But even if Antonio spent every last penny, I know a way to garner more.
Enough to rebuild an empire all my own and destroy any hold Mischa Stepanov has on Hell’s Gambit. I think we’re more alike than either of us would admit. I valued the life of my son more than anything, enough to forfeit it all…
How far will Mischa go for his own daughter?
I’m willing to find out
.
2
Willow
Art glorifies even the most grotesque aspects of human nature and perpetuates a devious lie.
That it can be controlled. Harnessed. Made beautiful. Those of us who study music are especially vulnerable to that belief. Under the spell of a particular concerto, or haunting song, we become naïve to whatever tragedy inspired it, so entranced by every note.
And we sometimes fail to question the mindset of the man who wrote it.
One of my professors used a certain term to describe only the most complex pieces and the eccentric composers who crafted them. Depraved.
To him, those men were so lost and consumed by emotion they embodied it in every piece they created—though he didn’t make it sound like a bad thing. In his opinion, true madness could craft the most esteemed works of art.
Maybe that beautifying of humanity’s darkest aspects is what drew me to music in the first place. I could find a reprieve from my past as I played, drowning my reality in dazzling noise. As a pianist, I could appreciate those works both as a caution and something to aspire to.
Now, I know the innocent folly of that admiration—madness isn’t beautiful.
It’s terrifying.
The men capable of honing such insanity are arsonists with no aim in mind other than to burn. To watch the world burn. To them, pain is a tool.
It’s fuel.
It’s fire.
Donatello Vanici is depraved; no other word describes him. Instead of music—pain, agony, and hate form the notes of his own horrifying melody. His symphony is one of vengeance and terror, and only God knows how it ends.
And in this case? I’m the instrument being ruthlessly played.
My neck throbs with the imprint of his fingers, and I can’t stop myself from tracing each mark in the dark. Neither one hurts per se. They merely sting, but the intent behind them is more alarming than any physical pain.
Tears burn behind my eyes as a sudden thought bites deep. Seven years of hating him never left me prepared to feel anything else. I’ve replayed the moment of him leaving me behind over and over. His retreating back. His parting words.
But never—not once—could I see him doing anything more than that.
Until now. My legs smart from scraping against the ground, as my heart still pounds with residual fear. I’ve never felt that terror before, so potent I could taste it.
Still can—copper like blood.
I will never forget the look on his face. One devoid of any shred of recognition. No hate. No anger. In that moment, I knew in my soul he would do it.
Let me fall.
Watch me die.
He betrayed me once, but for some naïve, childish reason, I always explained the act away as selfish cruelty.
Not hate. As pitiful as it sounds…I never expected him to hate me.
Ignore him, a part of my brain hisses. Focus on where you are. Form a plan. If Mischa were here, his advice would be simple—run. Escape. Don’t give in to fear.
If only it were that easy.
Mischa, for all of his experience, couldn’t imagine a moment quite like this one. Shrouded in darkness, I have every reason to be terrified. The most prominent example?
I’m still in danger. My eyes burn as my lungs contract to expel the stench of the accelerant dripping from my hair. The acrid smell fills the confined space of the trunk and beside me, a tiny figure coughs, overwhelmed by it.
Her presence presents another horrifying reality I can’t acknowledge just yet.
So I put everything I have into the only task that matters—escape. Blindly, I extend my hands, feeling along the smooth interior of the compartment beneath me. It rumbles with the motion of the vehicle—the only clue I have as to the driver’s intent.
To be as reckless as possible.
He’s driving erratically, making it hard to get my bearings. Every jolt of the car, rams me against the narrow body beside mine. She whimpers, recoiling as much as she can while I try to create a mental map of the space.
It’s small. My fingers tremble so badly it’s hard to tell the softer material coating the inside of the trunk from the metal of the car’s frame. Clenching my jaw is the only way I can keep my teeth from chattering, not that it matters much in the end. I’m shaking all over. I could blame the chill seeping in from outside, or acknowledge the unease gnawing at my resolve.
I’m panicking.
No matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep returning to the man in the driver’s seat. Namely, his final threat to me, uttered in a voice gruff with malice. I’m going to break your wings, little bird...
And after that? His threat became even more specific.
That I would give him an heir to replace Vincenzo...
Something hard brushes my palm, snapping me back to the present. Cautiously, I curl my fingers around it. Something round and firm that gives slightly with a bit of pressure. An emergency release?
Any triumph I may feel, however, goes to war with common sense. I know better than to pull it now. We’re moving quickly. Too fast. Way too fast. My heart lurches up my throat as I try to picture where he’s heading in this state. Unfortunately, only one destination comes to mind—him speeding toward one of the cliffs overlooking the harbor—but I shut my eyes against it.
Focus! Instead of Donatello, I channel Mischa and the stoic mindset he drilled into me since childhood. Focus, Mouse!
Obeying the mental plea, I go still, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. With every breath, some of the fear gives way to logic.
If running is out of the question now, then the only course of action left is…
To fight. I curl my fingers into fists and wrack my brain for any available weapon. Apart from the girl beside me, the trunk seems to be empty. For the first time, I turn to her, straining my eyes through the darkness to make out what I can.
She’s young, and my heart clenches with terror at that realization. She is so young. Dark curls glimmer in the absence of light, the only detail I can make out. Her soft breaths scrape on the air, adding a chilling backdrop to the engine’s constant hum and the roar of rushing air rebounding off the vehicle’s exterior.
God, he’s driving even faster now. Suddenly, the car lurches, shaking violently as if the road switched from the smooth pavement of a main highway to a rougher texture. Stone? Gravel? Whatever the surface, it’s uneven. Hissing traction comes from the wheels, making me suspect that we’re traveling steeply up an incline.
That vision of the cliff returns, sharper in clarity.
Would he really do it? The answer terrifies me—I know nothing about this Donatello.
Nothing at all.
Fortunately, the only things a musician needs to play any piece, are their hands and an instrument.
All I need to kill Donatello is a weapon.
And this time, if I get the chance…
I won’t falter.
3
Evgeni
A man in my line of work abides by a simple code—if he wants to keep living, anyway. Loyalty should be his most prized asset. Only survival gets second priority. Leave the political games to politicians, and finally, never get too close.
To your employer. To anyone.
After a decade without dying yet, I’ve never questioned that creed once.
Until the moment I’m faced with an empty bedroom and a missing charge, that is. For a second, I consider a nice retirement somewhere far away from murderous employers and their sheltered daughters. The thought is a warning sign—I’ve failed the last bastion of my code already.
The missing daughter, in this instance, isn’t some nameless mark. I’ve watched her grow up from a stoic little girl into an accomplished woman who lacks the spoiled apathy of most with her kind of privilege.
I know firsthand how power can corrupt families, and how the sins of the father can easily infect a child. At least until now, Willow proved to be an exception to that rule. Shunning the violence and brutal
ity of Mischa’s realm, she sought shelter in the mundane future of a quiet pianist.
I’d never admit as much out loud, but I always admired that drive in her. Some aren’t so lucky as to choose a differing path from the world they grew up in. While it comforts some to separate men in terms of good or bad, morality has nothing to do with it. In a sense, it’s only natural, no less tragic than a wolf pup learning the ways of a predator. Darkness begets darkness. Murderers beget murderers.
Monsters go on to sire even more brutal monsters…
Few can break that cycle. By forging her own path, Willow was braver than I could ever hope to be—though Mischa is the kind of man decent enough to allow his children the freedom to grow into their own.
Most aren’t, and most children never escape the crushing weight of their forebearer’s shadow.
It’s a line of thought I try to avoid, and for a good reason. Control is an asset a man like me comes to cherish—namely, because it’s so rare and fleeting. I lose my grip on my thoughts for a second, and they scatter. Instead of Willow, I see another face. Just as pretty, her hair darker, eyes rounder. She never got the chance to live out a life following some innocent future endeavor.
Because I failed her too.
The guilt I feel is a knife slicing at my splintering control—but a simple mantra is enough to repair it. Loyalty first. Survival second. Stay focused on the job at hand and never lose sight of your task...
I repeat that creed until my mind clears, but I’m no less ashamed by my own failure. Gritting my teeth, I express the irritation the only way I can. “Fuck.”
That curse says it all—this is my fault. My responsibility.
“There’s been no sighting of her at all since last night?” I demand of the man beside me. The question—as is our presence in this very room—is a mere formality. It’s already been hours since the alarm went up, with the mid-morning quickly approaching.
It’s not a question of if Willow is missing but for how long—and who might be involved if she left willingly?
