by Lana Sky
She draws notice from every direction as we cross the room, my own included. There are a million other things that should consume my interest—staying alive for one.
Even in this unfamiliar realm, her eyes blaze with irresistible fire, her red lips pursed in contemplation. Her mind is an open book, mine for the taking. I can read her the same way I did in the barn, crouched over Paulie Vanetti. Like me, she sees the folly of this plan.
Do you know what you’re doing, Donatello?
I don’t. Though I can only blame myself if this backfires. Or her—the innocent Stepanova is a factor I haven’t seriously assessed until now. A girl who’s never ventured inside a club before, let alone seen a man. It’s pure insanity to expect she could play along.
“Wait.” I release her hand, tracing a path up to her shoulders as I bring my mouth near her ear again. “This is your moment, hellcat. Prove me wrong. You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Her answering shiver ripples through my tentative grip. Yes. She’s excited, though she flattens those red lips in a vain attempt to disguise it. Intrigued, I risk ignoring Gregori and his brood to step closer to her, leveraging my weight against her slight frame.
She shivers again as I swipe my thumb through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. On this battlefield, it would only make sense for her to falter, woefully unmatched.
But I swear I catch her inhale. See the muscle rippling in her shoulders as she keeps her head high. Her eyelids flutter, and I can envision the mental commands she must give herself, a list of them—Focus. Breathe… Fight. As unmatched as she is, she proves to possess her own weapon in this war with one simple motion. The art of surprise. She leans into my touch, and I’m the one caught off guard.
She looks at me directly, and my breath hitches in my chest, a guttural sound revving in my throat. In her eyes is a simple challenge as clear as day—You don’t own me. You don’t control me.
And there’s more.
You don’t scare me. Give me what you promised—Mischa alive, a bloody war subverted.
She’s right, but for a second, I forget why. I’d allow for an entire bloodbath if only to clear my fucking head. In her eyes, I lose track of everything...
Until they narrow, cutting away from me toward a figure watching us both.
“Donatello Vanici,” Gregori says, now holding the cigar between two fingers, each capped by a fat gold ring.
Shit. I grab her hand purely out of instinct—a response to the possessive stare I sense grazing her body from head to toe.
Unlike his son, this man knows better than to openly show his unease. He forces a smile instead, revealing a missing front tooth beneath his graying mustache. Word on the street is that a rival knocked it out in his early days, and despite his wealth, he never had it fixed.
Perhaps for the same reason Giovanni openly sported a scar on his throat, left by a would-be murder attempt. If anyone ever manages to get that close to you, they deserve to leave a scar, he used to say. Let it serve as a reminder—don’t let it fucking happen again.
I’m suddenly aware of the marks on my face, left by a writhing hellcat. They burn in her presence, and I feel the animalistic urge to return the favor. Mark her. Make her bleed…
“To what do I owe this visit?” Gregori asks. With a wave of his free hand, he sends his companion scurrying, but at least four men appear nearby to replace her. They merely watch.
For now.
Every passing second enhances the tension in this room. My gun is a lead weight in my jacket pocket, my fist a useless display. Forcing the fingers of that hand open, I tighten the opposite one, trapping the fragile digits caught within it. In essence, she is the only weapon I need.
“Don’t tell me you came for the hell of it,” Gregori taunts when I remain silent. “Or maybe you wanted to enjoy the show? Though, you always seemed too high and mighty to have your cock stroked—”
“I’m here about Mischa Stepanov,” I correct, stepping forward to take the hand the old man offers me. I shake it once, but when he turns to the woman, I decline for her. Who knows where that hand has been.
“Dear Mischa?” Gregori raises an eyebrow. “You have my attention.”
“I’m sure Mischa’s already come to you with some sordid little story meant to provoke you into joining his crusade against me,” I say, cutting to the chase. “What was it? That I’m a kidnapper? Attempted child-murderer? Outright asshole?”
“Among other things,” Gregori says offhandedly. He leans back against his leather seat, inhaling from his cigar. A gold ashtray sits next to him, and he casually flicks a heap of ash into it. “Though who the fuck cares what the truth is? Mischa has money and power on his side. What do you have?”
Always to the point he was. Our dealings weren’t many, but after every one, I distinctly remember the feeling of being fleeced, and the sudden need to take a shower.
“I’ll tell you—” the old man pauses to take a puff from his cigar. His next word punctuates the cloud of smoke he exhales. “Nothing. Your harbor just went up in flames. You have no ties to the famiglia. From what I hear, you’re a wanted man with a price on your head. Stepanov promised to make it worth my while if I helped him find you. I just never thought you’d stroll right up to me and present your fucking neck.” He snaps his fingers, and one of his men takes a menacing step forward.
I think my laugh is what startles him into backing down. Hell, the sound startles me, so rich it’s damn near genuine.
“Is that all? ‘Worth your while’?” I parrot. “I think I can do a bit better than that.”
“Oh?” Gregori inclines his head, his beady eyes narrowing. “You seem rather confident for a dead man walking, Vanici.”
“Confident, yes,” I counter. “Dead? Well, the devil must be shit at his job because as far as I know, I’m still fucking alive.”
Painfully, goddamn alive. Even while Vin treads somewhere in limbo, wasting away while I waste more time.
“Hmph,” Gregori huffs. “You and I both know that fact depends on how long you manage to stay out of mafiya hands.” He drags on his cigar before tossing it aside for good. With both hands braced over his knees, he sits forward, his beady eyes suddenly flashing with interest. “You think you can offer me money? I doubt you have enough to outbid Mischa. Besides, I wouldn’t be fool enough to stand with you alone. Even your reputation isn’t quite that fearsome. Stand against the mafiya, and you’d be dead before you opened that smart fucking mouth.”
“Funny,” I snap. “My mouth is open now.”
“Smart-ass.” He goes red, his cheeks puffing. I glance at his men, but none of them move—a fact that doesn’t comfort me one damn bit. I’ve already boxed myself in, and I’d bet my ass that Mischa Stepanov is on his way here.
It’s killing me not to grab my gun. Desperate to do something, I grip my tie and tug. As I do, the hand in my other grasp flutters as if to remind me of what little power I do have.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I don’t have a lot of time, so hear me well, Gregori. You say I have nothing? You’re wrong—I have all of the famiglia at my back.”
“The famiglia?” Gregori snorts, slapping his thigh. “Even after all these years, your sense of humor is legendary, Donatello. Antonio’s a stupid cunt, but he’s not that stupid. No way would he welcome you back.”
I smile wide. “You’re right. It’s a damn good thing then that Antonio Salvatore is dead.”
The reaction couldn’t have been scripted to have more impact. The entire room goes silent. You could hear a pin drop—or Mateo Saleri grunt as he rushes to stand beside his father. Gone is his smug sneer. His eyes home in on mine, openly suspicious.
“You?” He laughs. “I don’t buy it.”
“You should,” I say, letting my voice carry throughout the entire room. “Antonio took money to ‘buy’ a hit on the Stepanovs. He set me up, and I have his patsy on video admitting it all. Mischa has it as well, by the way,” I add. Predictably,
Gregori pales with horror. Whether he believes me or not is beside the point. If Mischa didn’t confront him with this information, there had to be a reason.
Smiling, I voice it out loud, “Do you really think he’ll believe Antonio acted alone? Like you said, he was a stupid son of a bitch. Too stupid to come up with something like that without help. Now his father-in-law? I don’t think anyone would call you naïve, Gregori.”
He sputters, his cheeks turning even redder. I think he’d launch himself at me if he could, which makes the fact that he isn’t more glaring. Another telling sign is that his men still don’t make a move.
“If Mischa’s not suspecting you now, it’s only a matter of time,” I say. “We both know Antonio was too greedy for his own fucking good.”
“Where is your proof that he’s dead?” he demands, throwing his bejeweled hands into the air. “Are we just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Go to his mansion and see for yourself,” I say. “His body should still be there.”
“What?” Gregori nearly falls out of his seat. “You went to his home?” Suddenly, something seems to dawn on him. His eyes go wide, his jaw slack. “Kisa—”
“Your granddaughter is alive,” I say. “For now. I shouldn’t have to add that threat, but if you wanted a reason not to attack me, there it is.”
The man sputters, turning five fucking different shades of red all within the span of a few heartbeats. “You bastard! I should—”
“I have a man with a blade at little Kisa’s throat, waiting for my signal. If he doesn’t hear from me, the knife bites deep. I can assure you, you won’t find her in time.”
His eyes bug as he mulls whether I’m bluffing or not.
I am. But he doesn’t know it.
Neither does the woman. Her fingers buck against mine, desperate to wrench away in disgust. I have no doubt that she’ll whirl on me, brandishing those hellcat nails with righteous indignation.
“Trust me,” I hiss through my teeth loud enough for only her to hear.
She goes still, and I barely refocus on Gregori in time to catch the moment he nods toward one of his men, who finally reaches inside his suit jacket. Shit.
“You can kill me,” I say quickly. “Or you can prove that you’re smarter than Antonio. I don’t want a war. Not even with Mischa.”
Mateo raises his hand, and his man stands down. “So what do you want? You think Mischa will take the time to hear your threats before he runs you through?”
I force a harsh laugh. “Mischa needs to stop and ask himself why he truly attacked me. Faulty intel? Or the pride of a man too stubborn to admit that he can’t even control his own daughter?”
The father and son share a glance. Mateo returns his attention to me first, an eyebrow raised. “From what I heard, you dragged that daughter from her own fucking birthday party and did what men like you do.”
I laugh again even as the fingers in my grasp turn to stone. “And what was that?”
He demurs with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’d rather not say in front of the lady.”
“This lady?” I tug her forward, surprised when she obeys, coming to stand before me. “You mean Willow Stepanova, unharmed and un-assaulted?”
Even before the words finish leaving my mouth, my eyes go down to her neck, but the bruises I expect to find have vanished. Makeup, I realize, even before I settle over that red mouth, unable to suppress my own confusion. She covered them. Why?
Belatedly, I remember my warning to her—Play your role.
“You are a fool,” Gregori snarls, lurching to his feet. “To parade the girl here—”
“Parade?” I grab her shoulder, feeling the delicate bones flex beneath my grip. It’s not a restraint—but a warning to the men who advance. Sure enough, they stop short, but one of them finally draws a pistol from his jacket pocket. I’m painfully aware of the time it would take to grab my own. Too long. Fuck.
All I can do is keep playing the long game.
“You believed Mischa’s fairy tales without stopping to ask yourself how I could break into his manor and drag the girl out not once but twice,” I point out, thinking fast. “You’ve been to Stepanov manor. I’d need an army, which you just pointed out I don’t have.”
The two men share another searching look, but I don’t miss the overriding emotion they both sport in the end. Greed.
“But you know what I do have?” I add, sliding my hand over the soft collar bone beneath it, grazing a trembling throat. “I have Mischa’s daughter, in love with me despite her father’s disagreement.”
I don’t look at her face as I spout that bullshit lie. Instead, I slip my fingers into her hair, controlling her scalp. Despite the contact, I still expect her to run. Wince, anything.
Anything but remain by my side, seemingly endorsing the lie.
“Love?” Mateo sneers, drawing my attention. “Isn’t she a bit too young for you?”
“The last time I checked, nineteen wasn’t the age of a child,” I counter with a confidence I don’t feel. Against my palm, the brush of her skin contradicts me—soft. Fresh. Innocent. My throat goes dry, and I force a swallow. “Mischa’s pride has made him desperate to start a war. Do you really want to align yourself with him all in the name of a petty feud? I’m not asking for your loyalty.”
“So, what do you want?” Gregori demands.
“It’s simple—stay out of my way.”
Mateo hisses. “And if you’re the liar? How the fuck do we even know you’re telling the truth? I’m of mind to think you did rape the girl—”
My pulse surges, drowning him out. I can’t resist the allure anymore—my eyes are on her. Her mouth. Those lips. If only I could make them talk to parrot whatever I want. Her silence is my limitation, and a paranoid part of me wonders if the little witch was banking on that.
I can’t make her say the right words, so what use is this ruse?
I’ll always be the monster in comparison. Perhaps I should fall back to plan B instead? Make it known that she’s my captive, my hostage—her life is mine until my demands are met.
But then I see those eyes. They flit up to mine, smugly aware of my shift in thinking. She’s too coy to smile in triumph or savor her victory some other way. She just stares, a corner of her mouth tilted in silent admonishment.
You were wrong, she taunts with that expression. Wrong. No one would ever believe I’m in love with you. No one.
My hand is against the side of her throat before I can stop myself. Good. Choking her out would be a decent step toward plan B. Her eyes widen as if she’s reading my mind, and I can only stare as she comes up with her own strategy on the spot.
It’s so predictable. I called her maturity into question. So, like any child desperate to participate in a round of chess, she clumsily reaches for the nearest piece she can touch, knocking over everything else in her path.
In this case? Her piece is me.
Her fingers splay against my wounded cheek. Before I can even tense to avoid her attack, she lunges, lurching onto the tips of her toes, narrowing the distance between us.
My breath hisses through my teeth. Damn her. I know her aim the second her eyes go to my mouth—but I’m even more sure of the fact that she won’t carry through. She’ll cower in the end. Slap me. Try to run.
Those lips won’t brush mine with a hesitance that fractures my resolve more than a bullet to the head would. It’s like I have been shot. My mind goes blank. Her breath is on my skin, her mouth so soft it’s like fucking silk…
My lips part, drinking in her taste however faint it is. Like fire and spice—the very embodiment of the lighter fluid I doused myself in at Havienna. Only in this instance, she’s both an accelerant and a match.
An inferno.
A drug.
A low grunt catches in my throat, my fingers grasping for a slender hip to steady her as I inhale, our lips a breath apart. She deliberately lingers here, daring me to react.
Because I
’ve already failed. Her scent is a poison, made ten times more effective by her nearness. I’m struck by both. Defeated. A surge of lust overwhelms every other thought. I want more. Crave it.
Until I remember who she is. What she is.
I recoil from her so violently she staggers. I only have a second to remember where I am. What I’m doing. Reflexively, I snatch her arm, keeping her close, but it’s too late. I’m off balance.
Any second, the Saleris will attack, unconvinced by the charade.
But they don’t…
It takes me a second to realize why. She may have been foolish, but her childish, idiotic move did what I don’t think I could have achieved short of snapping her neck—it got their attention.
“I’m warning you now, you don’t want part of Mischa’s family feud,” I rasp, looking up to find them still watching. “Stay out of it.”
“Or what?” Gregori purses his fat lips, grasping for another cigar from an ornate box beside him.
“Or you’ll get the same treatment as Antonio,” I reply without a hint of irony. “Little Kisa’s already lost so much… I’d hate to see her suffer any more.”
“Bold words,” Mateo snarls. “What’s to stop me from ordering my men to put a bullet in your brain now, taking the girl, and calling your bluff?”
Nothing, I realize. Still, I smile.
“I’ll tell you what you stand to gain instead—leverage. Mischa went after me out of spite and nearly killed my nephew in the process. Do you really think that you can stand in the way of what he truly wants? He aims to cement power for himself. Seize the moment and seat himself at the head of the table. By staying neutral, you can leave two men to settle our differences and keep him in check.”
“Don’t tell me peace is what you’re after,” Gregori spits. He’s fully righted himself, his brow furrowing. If he didn’t believe at least half of what I’ve said, I doubt I’d still be standing here. “What do you really want?”
My brain spins its own answer to that question—Dark eyes on mine, the scent of roses in my lungs, the taste of spice on my tongue. Her. As much as I can take…
