by Lana Sky
The pain. The hate. The fear—god, that fear. My knees buckle, forcing me to grip the edge of the counter for stability. Back then, I had nothing to rely on as the gravity of what he did to me sunk in. He was gone.
I was alone.
The tears spring to life before I can hold them back, searing the corners of my eyes, unwilling to fall. Yet. Gradually, I get a grip on my emotions—smother them back where they belong, and as I do, I realize something.
His face… If I trusted the honesty in his tone, his eyes are cool enough to suck any warmth from the words.
“It was evil. But it wasn’t enough to teach you what you should have learned… Your hate doesn’t mean shit in the long run. Real revenge? Real retaliation? You can only garner that from power, and just by being here alone, you’ve given up any you ever had. Do you understand?”
I grit my teeth and eye the basin of the sink rather than face him. His expression sneaks into my mind anyway. That smug smile. The sly arrogance in his posture betraying that he thinks he’s right. He takes pride in being right.
Even now…
I don’t mean anything to him.
“Who you are now. Who you used to be…” He trails off. “Truth be told, principessa—I can’t feel a damn thing. No love. No hate. All I feel?” He brushes his hand over his chest in the vague direction of his heart. “All I feel is pain. Sorrow. Emptiness. So hate me all you want. Maybe one day I’ll let you act on it? In the meantime, I’ve figured out your real use to me.”
Fire floods my cheeks, painting them red in the mirror. I can’t stop my gaze from darting to his fingers, still braced over the counter, dangerously close.
“You think I aim to fuck you?” I flinch as his lips brush my ear, still moving. “I could. Does that scare you? I could.”
I wrench away from him, recoiling against the nearest wall. My shoulder throbs with the force of the collision, but I’d propel myself through the barrier if I could. His eyes narrow, tracking my reaction as the words sink in.
He could…
“If you mattered in this game, principessa? I’d consider it.” He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch.
He means it. And I can tell from his low, slow exhale next that he means what he’s about to say even more. “But you don’t. Hear that now. A smart girl would take comfort in hearing that.”
He leans against the counter, examining his curled fist. A muscle in his jaw twitches, undermining his careful, level baritone. “All that matters is Mischa. You heard the truth for yourself. What he did?”
I bite the inside of my mouth so hard I taste blood. I heard. Mischa attacked Vincenzo believing Donatello attacked him first—but he was wrong. Played by faulty information.
And you knew it all along, a part of me snarls. You never questioned it…
“With you here, there are a million ways I could punish him,” Donatello points out, watching me with his head cocked. “You realize that, don’t you?”
I do. Yet, I force every muscle in my face to go still rather than show it.
“I could rip you apart. Let every man here take a turn. String you up for the hell of it and send you to him in a box.”
He could. Worse things have happened, circling the manor as rumors. Mischa wasn’t always a family man. I saw firsthand the way he used to live. Violently. Recklessly.
“He probably expects as much,” Donatello admits. “But I know what will punish him more. What he truly deserves.”
He lets the seconds pass, ramping up the tension the way a dramatic pause would in a drawn-out sonata. Finally, he moves to capitalize on the moment, advancing to the sink to shut the water off. Facing me from over his shoulder, he says, “I’m going to use you. He thinks I dragged you here, but I’ll let him know the truth. You came to me willingly. You always came to me. Why? I have a hold over you he never will. Power over his precious little girl. You gave it to me—”
He reacts before I even realize what I’m doing—lunging at him with a fist brandished and no idea of where I’m aiming it. His chest. My knuckles ricochet off the scarlet F carved over his ribcage with a sickening thud—over and over again.
If I had that letter opener, or my knife…I’d use it.
Slice into him just to prove one point—he doesn’t control me.
He has nothing over me.
“Enough.” He grabs my wrist, still chuckling in that insufferable way. “Oh, little hellcat, I’ll let you assault me all you want. After our wedding night, my body will belong to you after all.”
Wedding night. The threat hits me like a slap, and I stagger back, tripping over my own feet. A firm grip on my forearm is the only force saving me from a nasty fall. Eyes wide, I gape at the tan fingers coiled against my skin. Like so much of my interactions with him, the sight is familiar, while the sensation—his actual touch—is so wrong. Foreign. Unnatural.
Heat radiates from him like fire, burning through my brain’s pathetic attempts to remain unaffected.
“Did you hear me?” he goads. This time, he doesn’t withdraw—instead, he tightens his grip, drawing me closer with a ruthless flick of his forearm. His opposite arm goes around my waist, setting off a million different reactions.
Air sticks in my throat as shock paralyzes me. Intentionally, I suspect. He wants to unnerve me.
He has.
His nearness assaults me from every direction. His body is an inescapable prison. So hard. Solid. My fingers scramble to find purchase against his chest—to shove him away. Then a sudden shift in his skin texture has me fanning my fingers out, seeking more. Parts of him are so scarred, so rough they hurt to touch. Here especially…
Rippling flesh, rugged and jagged.
What the hell happened to him?
I look down and see for myself—I’m grazing the outermost edge of the tattoo. Up close, the scarlet shapes reveal a viciousness you can’t see when farther back. This wasn’t the typical application—it was violent. Something ripped the skin apart, staining the flesh underneath. It took days to heal, if not weeks, such painful, deliberate marks. I can’t resist flicking my tongue along my lower lip as I study them, unsure what I feel. Triumph? He lied—his unimportant SAFIYA left her mark on him, alright.
He immortalized her himself—and he wanted it to hurt.
To bleed.
To scar.
I barely get the chance to track the shudder running through him before he shifts, sinking his free hand into my hair. My reaction is exactly what he wants—I flinch.
But I don’t pull away.
“You’re not afraid to marry me,” he deduces as though I’ve said as much out loud. But I haven’t—I don’t even know what my own thoughts convey, let alone enough to portray it.
But somehow, he still claims to know it all. What I’m thinking. What I fear. What I hate.
“Isn’t that right, little hellcat?” His finger flits along my lower lip, raising chills in its wake. “No. You’re afraid about what that might mean—that you aren’t afraid. Don’t tell me you enjoy playing with danger?” He strokes my jawline as I grit my teeth.
“I could leave you guessing as to what I intend to do to you. I could feed you a million senseless fears. Torment you through vague taunts and threats…”
He fingers a lock of my hair, winding it around and around the width of his finger.
“But I won’t. I’m going to marry you. In front of your father and God, I will marry you. You’ll consent to every step along the way. I’ll become your monster to protect. You’ll have no choice.”
My monster.
I don’t know what he means, but his eyes are even darker, his mouth the closest he can come to a smile. Even in obvious madness, he sounds so serious. Too serious. A million thoughts come to mind, each more dangerous than the last.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he warns, lifting my chin against his calloused palm. “You think I’m going to ravish you, little hellcat? Rip you open over nice, white bedsheets and then display them in the m
orning for your father to see?”
I can’t resist the imagery sneaking into my skull, illustrating his words. The heat in my cheeks turns searing.
“I won’t,” he says belatedly. “That would be too easy. Too merciful… And if there is one thing I am tired of being, it’s merciful. You see, mercy is what got me here.”
His tone rings with a double meaning—here, standing in an enclosed room with a figure from his past, he thought long dead. Here, proposing insanity with a dangerous smile.
“I am through with mercy,” he says, using his grasp on that strand of my hair to climb higher. Soon his fingers scrape against my scalp, guiding the position of my head until I have no choice but to look at him. “I am going to marry you, little hellcat, but do not worry. Our union will not last long.”
The way he says those words triggers a wave of unease that rides my spine.
“You’re wondering why? Am I threatening you?” He laughs again, but his gaze becomes distant. Colder, if it’s even possible. “No, little hellcat. I’ve decided to warn you—after our wedding night, your fears when it comes to me will be moot.”
My dread must show on my face, feeding the slow, ripe smile to shape his mouth. The same emotion I felt when I lashed at his face strikes again. Burning. Blazing. But this time, I don’t hit him—my teeth snap instead, barely missing the tip of his thumb.
He frowns, withdrawing his hand. I caught him off guard. Frantic, I realize it’s the only way to fight against him.
React.
Already he’s recovered, fingering a strand of hair a safe distance from my mouth. “Until then, I’m going to become your monster, little hellcat. Lurking in your closet—and you are going to shield me from Mischa. Corrupting you will be his punishment.”
He’s speaking through me, his gaze distant, even as his fingers work through my damp, tangled hair. “Get dressed.”
Abruptly he pulls back, letting me go. His eyes rake over the black dress I’m wearing now. He lumbers into the hall, returning a second later with something he must have already had at the ready—a black case that he throws onto the counter, spilling its contents as a result. Makeup, all different brands, seemingly collected by the various women who might have stayed here at one point.
With him?
“Play your role, hellcat,” he cautions, distracting me from the thought. “Good enough, so even I believe it. I won’t waste my breath threatening your life, either,” he warns, entering the hall. “I don’t want a captive bird. But in case you do need some motivation, think of her.”
The little girl—but his disinterested tone betrays the threat for what it is—hollow. His real tool to motivate me is something far more intangible than another life.
Pride.
Do I have what it takes to play his game?
Or will I cower in wait of rescue like the little girl he thinks I am…
14
Evgeni
After the way our last meeting ended, I don’t expect Mischa to call me back to the manor so soon—and definitely not hours into my shift covering Mrs. Stepanova.
I know the second I see the succinct text—You’re needed at base, now—something’s wrong.
My mind races with potential reasons, Willow first among them. As I park near the front walkway, I sense the mood shift before I even step foot inside the house. Unease tinges the air, affecting everyone on the property.
Case in point? The first man I pass on my way inside has a gun drawn out in the open, a sight so galling, I do a double take.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand, snatching for his wrist. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
I glance at the house where the children could be watching through any one of the windows. Mischa may ensure that his property is well patrolled, but the foremost rule is to never reveal the true nature of that presence to his children.
The man before me is well aware of the rules, and yet he shrugs me off, still brandishing his weapon. “New orders from the boss himself,” he explains. “We’re to stand at the ready. At least until his ‘guest’ leaves.”
“Guest?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Few “guests” could warrant this kind of vigilance. Donatello Vanici, for one...
Or someone far worse.
“Are they in the study?” I start forward, my shoulders tense.
The man shakes his head. “The main hall.”
Shit. My alarm only grows, and I have to stop myself from running the entire way there.
The hall is where Mischa holds court only for the most joyous occasions—or the most grave. The man he loved like a father’s funeral was here. His wedding took place in the same space. More recently? His daughter’s debutante.
And now?
The drastic difference in attendees is one startling change. Instead of well-dressed socialites, Mischa alone dominates the room, flanked on either side by two guards, along with another figure I don’t recognize.
Perhaps, because he’s in pieces.
Someone delivered them in what once might have been a large blue box delicately wrapped and adorned with a white bow. Hell, it could have been mistaken for one of Willow’s debutante presents at first. Instead of the typical necklace or bauble, a severed head lies within on a bed of tissue paper, along with a bloodied hand presumably from the same unfortunate individual.
“Who ordered this open?” I demand, scanning the box intently. I don’t see a name or other identifying feature. “Was it even searched properly—”
“I did,” Mischa says. One look at his face, and I suspect the delivered body parts are only partly the cause of the tense mood in the air. I can only name one other time he sported this pained grimace, that being when his wife and son arrived at this very home barely alive.
“This came with it,” he says, presenting a tablet, sporting a blurred image of several figures in a room. A warehouse? Taking it from Mischa, I press play.
A man’s voice rings out from the device next, cold and booming. I recognize it instantly—Donatello Vanici’s.
A high-pitched cry answers, and my blood runs cold before I note the low pitch. Not a woman’s, at least. Not Willow’s.
But then I see her. She’s visible for just a second, her back to the camera, blond hair loose. Her dress is filthy, but otherwise, she seems unharmed. As the video continues to play, I start to question for how long. Is this a recording of her death?
That fear only grows when the camera pans over Vanici’s face. Despite the video’s poor quality, it’s easy to read the murderous intent in his eyes. Instead of Willow, he’s fixated on another figure, however. Someone out of view.
“This is him,” a man behind Vanici says. “Paulie Vanetti.”
I cut my gaze over to Mischa and find him watching as well, his face stone. I can’t tell if that name means anything to him, but it triggers a vague sense of recognition in me. Vanetti. I’ve heard rumors of a mercenary like that, prized for his ruthless skill.
When I return my attention to the video, I can barely make out the figure in question, kneeling on the floor. Bound?
“So this is the man Antonio contracted?” Vanici asks.
“It’s him,” the first man replies. “He’s been cagey on the work he did. I don’t think he’ll tell us freely.”
“There is no need for threats.” Vanici crouches on one knee, inspecting the man before him. “Was it you?” he asks softly, flicking his thumb along the other man’s cheek. “The Stepanovs. Were you the man Antonio hired to do his fucking dirty work?”
Recognition washes over me, and I almost can’t keep myself from blurting my observation out loud—I was right. From the corner of my eye, Mischa remains impossible to read, his eyes fixated on the screen.
“Let’s hear it,” Donatello demands, yanking the man’s gag free. “Speak. Were you the lapdog Tony sent to do his bidding?”
“Go. To hell,” Vanetti croaks. “Where the fuck is Tony? I’ll teach that son of a bitch to—�
��
“Tony’s dead.” Rising to his feet, Donatello flicks the discarded gag aside and clasps his hands behind his back.
“You answer to me,” he says, towering over the captive man. “Did he hire you to do it?”
“The fuck is this?” The man’s eyes continue to dart warily around the room. “What the fuck is going on, Luciano?”
“Luciano,” I echo. This name I recognize. “Famiglia agent.”
If that surprises Mischa, his eyes reveal nothing. I get the sense that he’s focused on something else entirely. “Keep watching,” he says.
“Tony paid me over a hundred grand for it,” Vanetti stammers. “I just did as I was told, okay? It wasn’t nothing fucking personal.”
“Personal,” Vanici snaps. “Oh, but this was personal. If you won’t take my word for it, then take hers.”
He inclines his head to a figure barely visible behind him.
“This is the man who attacked your mother,” Vanici tells her. “The reason why your father tried to kill my son. Did you know that? You knew. Didn’t you? Is that really why you came running to me, little principessa?—”
“Son of a bitch,” Mischa growls, slamming his hand against the desk.
He’s already seen this, I suspect. But despite it all—his daughter captive, standing so close to a madman—this is the part that unnerves him the most. Her, standing toe to toe with Donatello Vanici as he taunts her. But not just any taunt—principessa, said with such scorn there’s no doubt that he means it as an insult.
“Let us not forget… I didn’t drag you here as my captive. You came to me,” Vanici growls.
I’m so busy watching Mischa, the next parts of the video register only in the broadest terms. Vanici extorts supposed proof from Vanetti that he was responsible for the attack on the Stepanovs. Anger burns hot in my chest, and I’m already planning a full on assault on Antonio Salvatore and his assets—dead or not.
Even as I do, I keep glancing back at Mischa, alarmed to find that he doesn’t seem to feel the same. This video proves that he—literally—jumped the gun. He potentially waged war against the wrong man.
