by Lana Sky
“Ali is special,” she says cryptically. “I’m sure if you think really, really hard about it, you might discover why.”
I let the barb pass, seeing beyond the insults to what she isn’t saying.
“So, this man has your son. Has no need for you, and you’re desperate enough to come to Mischa. He wants you dead?”
She smirks. “A lot of people want me ‘dead.’ Few have the balls or the resources to follow through—”
“But I’m assuming this Jonathan does. You’re on the run from him.”
“Run is such a very strong word,” she retorts. “And if he wanted me dead, I would be.”
“Unless you have something he wants. Something you aim to use to curry favor with Mischa.”
Her smile widens. “You do catch on quick.”
“That I do. You’re desperate with a sworn enemy being the first person you run to. Whatever you have, it must be good—but not definitive enough for Mischa to trust it outright, meaning you needed a patsy to vouch for you to get close.”
“Don’t be a showoff,” she scolds, waggling a pale finger. “Cockiness doesn’t suit you.”
“You know what does suit me? A drink—”
“What?” I sense her on my heels as I return to the road. “You need to go back!”
“I will—” I wrench open the door to the driver’s seat and turn to see her lurking by the tree line. “Once you give me a damn good reason to. Something more than a name and a cryptic warning. I want something concrete; otherwise, you can find another fool to manipulate.”
I climb in without looking back and start the van. My next destination should be Stepanov manor to make amends with Mischa and see if he knows anything to corroborate the woman’s story. If she really has a son, for instance.
The sound of the passenger’s side door opening catches me off guard. I turn, genuinely surprised to find her standing there, eyeing the vehicle in disgust.
“Don’t look so smug,” she warns as she climbs in beside me. “Whether I tell you a damn thing, he won’t know the difference. He’ll kill you too. Congratulations, Evgeni Volkov. You’ve just signed your death warrant.”
2
Willow
I was ten when I witnessed the ruthless cunning of Donatello Vanici up close. Looking back, I should have known then what I do now—he never loved me. Tragedy didn’t change him, either—the man was always a monster.
From the very start, he only saw me as a tool.
“Business” was the reason he gave for summoning my father to his headquarters an hour’s drive from the city. Typically, Gino went alone, but that morning he shoved me into the back of our battered station wagon as well.
Little did I know that Donatello himself requested I come along.
“You be on your best fucking behavior,” my father warned from over the steering wheel. “You even look at him the wrong way, and I’ll beat the shit out of you. Don won’t put up with you like I do. Just stay the fuck out of his way.”
I fully intended to. Up until that point, I’d only caught a brief glimpse of my father’s elusive boss. A man who wore a gray dress shirt and addressed me with a directness so different from the way most adults spoke to me.
Would this second meeting be similar? As our destination appeared on the horizon, a tendril of unease shot through my belly, compounding my dread. It was a fitting day to meet with a monster, in retrospect. A web of clouds obscured the sun, and everything looked an ominous gray, wilting in punishing heat.
The second we left the car, sweat dripped down my neck, soaking through the stuffy dress I’d been forced to wear. Gino had boasted with pride at being able to afford it—purely because of the generosity of his powerful new boss.
I couldn’t understand the allure one man could command so easily. Donatello Vanici. Gino uttered that name with the reverence usually reserved for a king.
Or a God.
The location of his office seemed anticlimactic in comparison. Just a squat series of buildings strewn across a desolate field, enclosed by an ugly metal fence. The main building featured an equally colorless interior with plain walls and linoleum flooring.
Unimpressed, I’d counted the ceiling tiles above as I followed in Gino’s wake. When he entered through a doorway, I thoughtlessly did the same…
And I froze mid-step. A new flavor tinged the air, reminiscent of cigarette smoke, cologne, and musk. Breathing it in, I knew instantly that it was the scent of a new creature, more than just a man.
He was a predator.
I shivered before I even saw him, feeling every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It was the same way I’d felt on a school trip to the zoo a week prior. “Don’t look the animals in the eye,” my teacher had warned. “They may be in enclosures, but you don’t want to trigger their natural urge to hunt…”
As we neared the lion’s enclosure that day, I understood exactly what she meant. The animal’s glinting eyes tracked my every move. If it truly wanted to pounce, a thin sheet of glass couldn’t protect me.
The same instinctive warning haunted me in Donatello’s office. He’s different, it claimed, a creature best inspected from afar.
His size was the first detail I noted, swallowing nervously as I did so. Massive, like a wall of muscle, he sat behind a desk almost as tall as I was, staring down the world with a calculating focus. A rich navy, his tailored suit—overall, a much better outfit than our first meeting—enhanced the color of his eyes, a hue so dark, it touched on black.
Beautiful, I remember remarking in awe. It was the first time I realized someone could embody two opposing things at once. Donatello Vanici had beautifully dangerous eyes.
“Glad you could come,” he said in crisp Italian. The rough cadence of his voice bolstered my predatory comparison—as nuanced as the most ferocious roar. He didn’t utilize Gino’s brash method of curses paired with shouting. His authority went beyond swagger.
“It’s nice to meet you again, Safiya,” he declared next, seeking me out despite my hiding place behind Gino. I froze beneath the scrutiny, more confused than afraid. Most adults treated me as though I were a part of the furniture, equating my silence with stupidity. Usually, I had to wave and pantomime to get any attention.
Not with him. His gaze lingered over me, much like that lion’s, proving that our first meeting was not a fluke. He was different, more perceptive than anyone I’d ever met.
“Do you know why I invited you here?” he asked.
I shook my head instinctively, but I wasn’t his focus.
My father shuffled closer to the desk, his head bowed in deference. “No sir,” he said, but it was a tone vastly different from how he spoke to me. Groveling. “I thought it might be take your brat to work day, or something.” He choked out a harsh laugh that his employer didn’t return.
“Not quite.” Donatello folded his hands before him, and I suspect he deliberately let the seconds tick by before stating, “Optics. The Hortega have been like fucking vultures. Apologies for the language—” he cut his eyes toward me, though Gino scoffed.
“The brat’s mute. She can’t repeat shit, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
At that point in my life, I’d heard every curse word under the sun from him. Still, something inside me had swelled with a strange mixture of awe and alarm at the way Donatello Vanici uttered just one. Fucking. In his world, curses were lapses in judgment meant to be apologized for. Every word had a purpose to him. A place. A meaning. Conversation was his very own game of chess, played expertly with a skill most took for granted.
“Hortega?” Gino sounded sloppy in comparison, mangling the pronunciation. “You mean the Cartel.”
“Yes, the cartel.”
Anger was another aspect where this man differed from my norm. In Donatello, rage was a slow-moving storm. He never even had to raise his voice to convey it. His eyes darkened first, much like rain clouds, as his lips flattened into a stern line.
“Their raids
have been more targeted than usual,” he continued in a voice as sharp as lightning. “They’ve been attacking nearly every shipment. Almost as if they know exactly when and where they’re coming in.”
A strange emotion colored his voice. Suspicion? My mother sounded similar when she asked if I’d made a mess, despite being well aware of the answer.
Picking up on the same mood, Gino shifted in place, running a hand down the front of his cheap suit. “You think there’s a mole?” His voice sounded even enough, but his fingers shook.
Donatello nodded. “They’ve been covering their tracks fairly well. However—” He inspected a gold watch on his wrist. “The next shipment comes in tonight. Few men know that, and yet the Hortega have been staked out along the road for days. Whoever their mole is, he’s feeding them their info in real time.”
“Son of a bitch!” Gino scoffed, clenching his fists. “Do you know who it is?”
“I have my suspicions,” Donatello said. His upper lip quirked in a chilling imitation of a smile. “For one, I know the Hortegas have been hitting up the Saleris’ properties as well, looking for an opening—” suddenly, his smirk spread into a genuine, chilling smile. “But today? I plan to stop my leak for good.”
Gino frowned. “How?”
“The Hortegas and their rat have been looking for an opening. And, you, my friend, just gave them one.”
Gino whirled around to follow the line of his gaze.
To me.
My heart stopped; my mind went blank. Words can’t describe the fear I felt in that moment. I don’t know what I might have done—peed myself? Maybe, if the man who so effortlessly incriminated me didn’t meet my gaze the next second. I can’t recall exactly what he conveyed. A wink? A nod? A slight tilt of his jaw?
It happened too quickly to pinpoint, and yet I sensed his message instantly—Trust me.
Gino, however, sputtered with confusion. “W-What?”
I’d never seen him like that—struck dumb, his face twisted in concentration as he wracked his mind for whatever scheme or lie he might have accidentally revealed. In a way, I pitied him. Almost. It was the same disorienting fear he loved rousing in other people.
His torture, however, lasted the space of a heartbeat before a guttural burst of laughter erupted from his employer. “Relax, Gino,” Donatello said, still chuckling. Despite the jolting cadence, it wasn’t a happy sound. More crazed than anything else. “You’ve done me a favor. Do you remember what Giovanni used to say when it came to dealing with sons of bitches like the Hortega?”
Gino shrugged halfheartedly. “I… I don’t follow—”
“You play dirty.” Donatello flattened his hands against the desk and stood. Any resemblance he had to a zoo lion vanished. He wasn’t a caged beast, but a monster on the prowl. “What your enemy perceives as a weakness becomes your weapon. Think of it this way...”
He crossed the room to a window overlooking a lonely expanse of field. From this angle, the grayish daylight illuminated the softness of his features. He appeared regal, like some benevolent king from one of the fantasy books I’d read—but when he spoke, it was with the ruthless cunning of a general at war.
“They see the men come in and out of this complex, and they have no idea when to strike,” he mused, glaring at the horizon. Where I only saw gray sky and trees, I imagine he viewed a territory ripe for conquering. “They have no idea what our defenses are, and it’s a risk to attack while blind. But if you bring in a child… Suddenly, an opening presents itself—a weakness. If I were the mole, I would run straight to the Hortegas and urge them to hit me now. Good old Donatello would easily fold rather than risk a child being injured on his watch. Juan probably expects that he can pin me down until the shipment arrives and take it without so much as a fight. I plan to use that arrogance to my advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
His next smile resembled a snarl, more befitting of the lion than a man. “I mean that if I were a soulless son of a bitch like Juan Hortega, I’d make my move now, even if it risked exposing my mole. There aren’t many suspects capable of feeding him that kind of knowledge. If you want to know the truth, it’s that I’ve suspected everyone—” He turned, leveling the full brunt of his gaze toward Gino. “Even you.”
I can honestly say it was the only time I ever saw Gino truly afraid. Terrified. Such fear transformed him, shrinking him to nothing despite his bulk.
All he could do was stammer his innocence. “You…you know you can trust me—” he pointed to me as if my mere presence meant something. “I brought my fucking kid here. You know that I wouldn’t—”
“I do,” Donatello said, and Gino nearly collapsed with relief. “But, it’s time for you to earn my trust. If you want to stay in the famiglia—my family—then prove you’re willing to die for it.”
“What about the girl? You want to use her as bait or something?”
Donatello’s eyes narrowed as if the idea of putting me at risk insulted him. “In a family, everyone shares the risks, even me.” He raised his voice. “You can come in, Liv.”
On cue, a woman appeared in the doorway, and lovely was the only word I could think of to describe her. She looked delicate amid such an industrial space, her upturned eyes a shade in between green and brown, her sun-kissed skin glowing. Even Gino seemed caught off guard, clearing his throat in respect. The way he deferred to her was shocking in itself, but Donatello’s expression was what resonated with me. Despite my sparse experience with love, I knew that this had to be the utter epitome of it—this man, his head inclined, his eyes blazing with undeniable passion.
Never had I ever witnessed something more beautiful.
Or terrifying.
“This is my wife, Olivia,” he explained, cradling the woman’s cheek against his palm. “Only a handful of men know that she’s here. If one of them is the mole, they’ll squeal that information directly to Hortega. The bastard wouldn’t miss the chance to attack if he thought he had me pinned. Olivia will stay with Safiya. They won’t be in any real danger,” he added, returning his attention to Gino. “By coming here, you’ve already displayed your loyalty. That makes us family in my book, and I always protect my family.”
It was a reckless move in hindsight, using your own wife and a child to draw out an enemy. Looking back, I can admit that I never felt truly afraid, hidden in a back office with Olivia while only God knew what took place. Why?
Thus was the confidence of Donatello Vanici. He said it himself—we were family. For two years, I cherished the safety that came with being his.
But I was naïve.
The truth is, Donatello Vanici never loved me.
I was only a tool—and now? I’m his weapon.
“I’m going to bend you to my will, little bird,” he swore just days ago. “I’ll erase any identity you’ve had before me. As long as you’re here. You’re mine…”
Though, when all is said and done, I’m the one who agreed to marry him—and if he believes he holds the upper hand, he’s wrong.
He may have taught me my first lesson in betrayal, but Mischa instilled his own teachings in me—how to turn vengeance into an art form. The only way to defeat someone like Donatello Vanici is to play by his rules. To view the world as a game with a checkmate being the only goal.
Last night the rules changed. He may have set this war into motion, but I won that battle, using the one virtue that he sees as my weakness against him.
My body. My innocence. His lust…
Lying beneath him, I held the power for once—he admitted it himself, his voice raspy against my ear. “You like to exert control over me?”
Control is a strange way to describe it. What it felt like to have him watch me explore myself in a way I never have—and never before someone else. It should have felt wrong, the exact opposite of control.
Instead…
Flesh transformed beneath his scrutiny, becoming electrified against my touch. Raw. Alive. My throat constricts at the mem
ory, and I have to fight to steady my breathing.
But you enjoyed it, some sinister voice in my head whispers. You enjoyed every minute of it...
I shrug aside any shame that threatens to descend. Maybe I had every right to enjoy it. After all, I utilized the same war tactic he himself praised all those years ago—What your enemy perceives as a weakness becomes your weapon.
Or, in this case, a double-edged sword. Because, for a second, I glimpsed something more elusive than his hate, and it haunts me. It’s easy to despise the caricature of him I’ve created in my skull. But the real man?
He’s a walking contradiction. Laughing menacingly one moment, moaning in agony amid the throes of a nightmare the next. I’m never prepared for the vulnerability he shields behind that mask.
He claims Safiya Mangenello meant nothing to him, but her name is carved into his chest—and yet he won’t even tell me why he sold her.
Sold me.
The answer shouldn’t matter. Damn him.
Crack! I stumble over something, forced to brace a hand against the wall to stay upright. The motion snaps me from my thoughts, and I’m back among the grim reality of this old pink room. This is who Donatello Vanici is—a monster who turned my childhood home into a prison.
It shouldn’t be possible to hate him any more than I already do—but my body hums with the force of it, as though I could explode.
When I look down and spy the cause of my near fall, though, all thoughts of him vanish.
Objectively, the box lying in the middle of the floor is nothing special. It’s stained in places, coated in a layer of dust that betrays how long it must have languished in the corners of this house. The only clue as to what it contains is a mass of colorful fabric peeking beyond the partially closed flaps, and the faint scent of feminine perfume tinging the air.
Olivia’s, to be exact, Donatello’s wife. Apart from one blue dress—the same one I’m wearing now—I haven’t scrounged any more clothing from that small collection.
I can barely bring myself to look at it.
