by Lana Sky
All I had to do was face him once and for all.
The real man, however?
He’s broken. Exhausted, disheveled, and battered. With nothing left to lose, he’s an even more dangerous foe than the figure who abandoned me all those years ago. It’s impossible to confront an opponent who can’t even look at you.
I have Mischa Stepanov’s daughter as leverage...
As he growled those words, his voice conveyed malice that terrifies me if I let myself dwell on it. It was the same tone someone might use when referring to an object. A toy. Someone not even worthy of the attention an enemy would command. Just a pawn.
Though should I be so surprised?
He never saw me as anything else.
“Get them inside,” the gruff baritone draws my attention back to him. Head held high, he shoulders open a metal door and enters the building, clearly expecting everyone to follow. Which they do, almost in sync like some eerie, physical concerto.
My first instinct is to resist and do the only smart thing I can in this instance—run. Impatient, my feet twitch against the muddied earth as I scan the nearest line of trees, a few yards away.
I could make it…
But after that? I don’t even know which direction I’d head in. We could be miles from the city, let alone my family’s manor. Without proper clothing, or a weapon, it could be more dangerous to wander alone. Though, for all I know, Mischa could already be on his way…
“Keep moving,” one of the men nearby warns as if reading my mind. He’s tall, though I could probably outrun him. Gray eyes enhance his cold expression, however, and with his gun trained on the ground, he’s intimidating enough.
Would he shoot an unarmed woman? I can’t tell.
Warily, I turn back to the building, weighing the decision to bolt even as I take a step toward it. I shouldn’t stay. Every ounce of common sense in me tells me that if I enter beyond those walls, I may never leave.
But my life isn’t the only one in danger. A pale figure catches the corner of my eye, putting everything painfully into perspective.
The little girl huddles in the rain, shivering in a white nightgown, her bare feet caked in mud. Among these towering men, she looks even smaller, and a sense of protectiveness finally spurs me into action.
Rather than head for the trees, I inch closer to her and away from any route of escape. Her hand finds mine, and I grip it tight in return. I can’t suppress the panic that rises in my chest as the other guards fall into step behind us both. They’re silent, watching on with the intensity of dogs herding wayward sheep.
Or wolves.
Staring past them all, I find my attention resolutely drawn back to the figure in the lead. Framed in the doorway, bathed in the glow of fluorescent lighting, he moves like a man apart from the rest of the world, alone on an island unto himself. The slow, deliberate pace of his steps stirs a painful memory.
I used to be so awed by the rare moments when he revealed this side of himself—the leader. The figure my biological father and others deferred to as “boss.” Typically, I only saw the playful Donatello who hardly ever raised his voice. One instance, though, sticks out, a time when his subordinate intruded on our game of tag.
My silly Donatello transformed before my eyes, losing the charming grin I knew in favor of a cold, calculating expression. His eyes seemed to darken, revealing a chilling intensity that could reduce the strongest foes to their knees.
In the years since, I used to placate myself with the idea that his wrath couldn’t affect me anymore. I could face that piercing stare and never flinch.
I was wrong. His stare wasn’t the worst aspect of him to contend with. It’s this—watching him walk away, unable to make a sound. Do a thing. Hit him. Fight him. Scream.
It’s the second time I’ve been faced with his retreating back, and my thoughts feel no different than they had years ago. Childish.
The reason? It’s even more pathetic. I’ve been silent my whole life, but no one has ever made me feel invisible. Ignored.
Insignificant.
Focus! I bite my lower lip until I taste copper, desperate to adhere to the mantra Mischa taught me. Escape. Nothing more.
I replay his words over and over, but it’s as if the child in me is screaming in a way I never could out loud, demanding to be seen. Heard. Acknowledged.
By him.
I dig my nails into my palm in a desperate attempt to stay calm. Regardless, rage infects my entire body until I’m shaking, almost too badly to do the one thing I should in this situation—pay attention.
Beyond Donatello expands a sprawling two-story building with blurred windows, some cracked, and gray metal siding rusted in places. It looks industrial—not a building someone might live in. A warehouse?
Two metal doors guard the entrance, opening onto a wide lobby painted gray with utilitarian tile flooring and fluorescent lights above. The windows are large, but too high up to reach unassisted, and at a glance, no other doors seem to lead outside. Still, I scan every inch of the interior, making a mental map as I go.
Up ahead, two hallways branch off the main space, presumably heading deeper into the building proper. Donatello goes left, but one of the men meets my gaze and inclines his head, indicating the opposite direction.
My fingers throb, crushed by the grip of the little girl. I can’t even look at her, but to her credit, she’s still standing, smothering her whimpers. When I move, she falls into step beside me as I scour the hallway for anything that could assist during an escape.
The further down the corridor we travel, the more I feel a sense of déjà vu. I think I’ve been here before, maybe as a child. Something about the water-stained ceiling above triggers a memory. Sitting in a corner, counting the square tiles over and over to pass the time…
“This way.” This dark-haired man stands further down the hall beside an open doorway. “You’ll stay in here.”
The room is a small office devoid of windows. A desk cluttered with paperwork dominates the center of the space, illuminated only by the light from the hall. At a glance, there are no exits other than the door.
Warily, I step inside, sensing the girl on my heels. Mischa’s advice echoes clearly through my skull—Lay low. Devise a plan. Keep your head.
But my head is spinning, filled with mistrustful thoughts. Of Mischa himself. Of him.
I still see his expression, mocking me. Taunting me.
Those eyes. That voice.
I’m going to break your wings, little bird…
The thud of the door slamming snaps me back to the present. I hear a lock engage, and the light vanishes, robbing me of the chance to gain a better idea of the layout. In the resulting silence, all I can hear are the soft, smothered whimpers of the girl.
Painful recognition hits like a lance, and I try to resist the memories triggered. Cowering in the presence of Nicolai, knowing that Donatello had left me there. Abandoned me.
My sole consolation is that I’m not bound this time. I can walk. Move.
And I can fully plot my escape.
6
Don
Giovanni thrived on power. I’ve never met anyone more calculating. You gotta be born with a head for business like that, though he did his best to teach me how to think as he did. Coldly and methodically.
Whether that meant retaliating against a rival by slaughtering their prized thoroughbred, or by showering allies in lavish gifts, each method relied on one detail to succeed—optics. Why get your hands bloody when you could put on a show and get the same point across?
The office he kept here is a case in point testimony to his preferred style. The layout is designed specifically so that whoever steps foot through the door would see themselves first, sweating and nervous, reflected in a huge ass mirror hanging on the wall. To cap off the experience, their next sight would always be the old boss himself, seated behind his desk like a king on a throne.
Talk about fucking optics. From that position, he could
survey his prey while they grappled with having their own fear thrown back in their face. You couldn’t buy a better setup than that.
The mirror is still here all these years later. It’s antique, I think, about as old as this entire damn building. Dust coats the surface, blurring the glass, as I approach.
For a second, in my place, I see Giovanni. A man should do nothing that he can’t face himself in the mirror afterward, the old boss used to boast.
Suffice to say, it didn’t temper his cruelty any. In his heyday, he was known to sign a death warrant in the morning, kill a man in the evening, greet his children with a smile and check his teeth without flinching, all before this same mirror.
Every now and again, he’d call a man into his office and quiz them on who they thought they saw in their reflection. Do you see what I see, Donatello? he once asked me. I see a leader. A man who can lead these sons of bitches to greatness if he wants to…
I look on the surface of the glass now, and I see a shadow of that younger man, covered in blood. My hands shake as I swipe a finger through the grime, bringing the image into clearer focus. It’s funny… Giovanni always looked the same to me, no matter what brutal deed he’d just committed. The man I see now, though?
He’s a monster.
“So let’s see it,” a voice prompts from behind me. Luciano, absent his gun. He swaggers through the doorway, but I don’t doubt for a second that he’s still a threat. The fact that he hasn’t shot me is due entirely to what Giovanni praised above all—power.
I don’t have much left—but I have enough.
“What’s this leverage, besides the kidnapped woman?” he demands. “I’m going to pretend you never said her name, by the way. Though, fuck. We’re dead anyway. What’s pissing off the entire mafiya but the cherry on top?”
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and deposit the item I took from Antonio on the desk. As I do so, a mirrored version of myself copies the motion. Our eyes meet, but it’s like staring at a ghost. Nothing at all is going on behind those dark irises. He’s a creature moving solely on impulse, no better than a snake.
“A phone?” Luciano remarks, advancing with an eyebrow raised. His tone draws me back to the present, putting everything into perspective.
Revenge aside, I need a plan. Willow Stepanova is a fitting bit of leverage—but only if I can clear my name first. Doing so relies on finding proof that Antonio ordered the hit. Even if that means trudging through the bastard’s cell phone.
Sighing, I take the leather seat behind the desk, leaning my head back.
Fuck, it’s been a long damn time since I’ve sat here. This room was the most spacious of them all, with a view of the lumberyard. Surprisingly, Antonio kept much of the original furniture, down to this desk. I swear, Giovanni’s coffee stains still mar the old wood. Mine too. As I run my fingers over them, I spot a name plaque encased in gold. I spin it to reveal the initials A.S. engraved on the front.
Guilt could be the name of the emotion lancing through my skull. Either that or I’m sobering up. Either way, I don’t think it’s really sunk in until now. Antonio Salvatore, the dumb bastard who couldn’t find his ass with a map, was in charge of the famiglia. I left him in charge.
Giovanni would rise from the grave if he knew, just to kill me himself.
“Do you hear me, Donatello?” Luciano snarls.
“Huh?” With a wave of my hand, I knock the plaque from the desk and into the wastebasket on the floor beside it. Only then can I look up.
“Your ace in the hole,” Luciano continues, nodding toward the device placed before me. “Your secret weapon to get us back on the map is a cell phone?”
“Antonio Salvatore’s phone,” I correct.
Lowering my gaze, I spot the topmost drawer, and I pull it open. Fucking predictable. A few loose cigars roll across the compartment, and I grab one along with the gold lighter resting nearby.
“It’s password-protected,” I add before popping the end of the cigar into my mouth, lighting it with a flick of my thumb. It’s the good shit, and I drag on the damn thing so hard I nearly suck it down. When I finally exhale, Luciano’s watching me, waiting.
“Might have the number of whoever he contacted to target the Stepanovs on it,” I say. “Can you find a man to crack it?”
He blinks as if torn between bitching some more or getting down to business. Finally, he shrugs and steps forward, his frown still skeptical. “Antonio wasn’t exactly Fort Knox. He tended to use the same password for everything. Let me see…”
He grabs the phone, and it turns on, revealing it’s still on its last few bars of battery. After he taps a few keys on the screen, it unlocks with a musical chime. Scoffing, he turns it my way, revealing what the bastard had on the home screen—his own fucking picture.
“I thought so. The passcode was his birthday,” Luciano says in disgust. “But I don’t see how it helps. Trust me, if Tony had something he could use to get back in anyone’s good graces, he would have used it—”
“Can it be tracked?” I ask. If Mischa’s already put the pieces together about Antonio’s death, it’s only a matter of time before he settles on a prime suspect.
Luciano fiddles with the screen. “Not anymore. Blocked the GPS signal. It’s still pinging with the cell tower, though as far as I know, you need a warrant to access that kind of shit—”
“Hand it over.”
He slaps the phone onto my outstretched palm. “So what now?”
“These contacts,” I say over him as I scan the most recent calls. “Any of these sound familiar?”
I hold up the screen to him. Squinting, he reads the first few names, and his eyes narrow.
“Paulie Vanetti,” he says. “But… He’s a fixer but crazy as fuck. Tony rarely used him. He could be sloppy, and expensive as hell—”
“Sloppy enough to cripple a child and attempt to murder a pregnant woman?” I ask.
“Shit!” His eyes widen, and he shakes his head, whistling through his teeth. “He didn’t…”
“So you can see why I paid Tony a visit last night,” I say, flicking the cigar to knock the ash on the floor. “The fucker tried to frame me. Did frame me.”
He nods. “But I wasn’t kidding about expensive. Likes to be paid upfront too. If you can’t tell, Tony liked to play the big shot, but he couldn’t amass that kind of cash on a whim. If he was working with Paulie, you can bet your ass someone else was footing the bill.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
It isn’t unheard of for a bigger player to cover his tracks behind a patsy. If Antonio needed cash, how badly? Badly enough to play the role of a puppet. The real question is, who would have the balls to put him up to it…
I’ve been out of the game for a long damn time, but I doubt either the Saleris or any of the local gangs would have the capital to pull something like this off. An outside player?
“This Paulie,” I say. “You know where to find him?”
He shrugs, crossing his arms. “No, but you have his number. Call him.”
I weigh the benefits of doing so now. “Any other day, that might sound like a setup. Think he might be expecting my call?”
“Fuck me.” Luciano laughs, raising his hands in mock defeat. “I doubt he knows Tony’s dead, if that’s what you mean. We’ve kept it under wraps, so far. Kept the staff from his house. Covered for any meetings he had today. Just until we can come to…an arrangement.”
“You’ve bought time,” I say, impressed despite myself. Maybe they all aren’t as dumb as Antonio.
“At least a day, maybe two tops,” he says, nodding. “The boys know to stick around. No one comes in. No one goes out.”
I know what he has the tact not to say—he’s done it for morale. To keep what little is left of the famiglia from scattering and to stave off any vultures who might come sniffing around whatever Antonio left behind.
If I were a gloating man, I’d state the obvious. As fate would have it, my old outfit needs me just a
s much as I need it.
“Call him,” I suggest. “On Antonio’s behalf. See if you can lure him here. Discreetly. And do what you can to keep the tragic news from breaking a while longer.”
“And what will you do?” he demands. “I can only buy us another day at most. Someone will notice when Antonio isn’t swaggering around town, throwing money left and right. And I’m sure he kept me out of the loop on many of his dealings.”
“Me?” I turn my head just enough to see myself in that damn mirror. The longer I stare, the less I recognize the figure looking back. If Vin could see me now, he’d make some dumbass quip. “You look like hell, Uncle Don. Sober isn’t a good look on you. I’d stick to the booze…”
God, that kid would have never made it past Giovanni’s doorstep. The old man would have smelled the goodness on him. Rather than fight, Vin’s primary instinct in any situation was to crack a joke. Aim for a laugh. Where some men saw only power and control, Vin saw a world in need of saving.
But when it came down to it, I couldn’t even save him. Hell, I can’t even face knowing if he’s still alive...
“Don?” Luciano waves his hand in front of my face. “You with me, here?”
While dragging on the cigar, I stare down at my own hands, flexing them in and out of fists. These fingers can kill. Maim. Bleed. Yet, when it came down to it, they couldn’t even feel Vin’s neck for a fucking pulse.
I reach over and fish Antonio’s name plaque from the trash and use it as a makeshift ashtray, setting the cigar on top of it.
“Don?” Luciano prods.
“Give me a minute,” I say, flattening my palms over the armrests of the chair.
He scoffs. “Because we have all the time in the fucking world to just sit around and—”
“That wasn’t a request. A minute.”
He holds my gaze for only a second before turning on his heel. “You’ve got it. Take your minute. I’ll go feed our ‘guests,’ and then contemplate if I’ve just cosigned the entire famiglia to the whims of a fucking madman.”
