Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3)

by Lana Sky

Though, if I truly wanted to twist the knife and beat Donatello at his own game, I’d use anything to get a reaction from him. I’d prance around in Liv’s old dresses and dare him to say a damn thing in protest.

  But the memories starring her feel different from the others tainted by his betrayal. Sacred. They belong to innocent days when this house was alive with laughter and warmth—a time that seems so distant from the present, it might as well have been a dream.

  The current reality is a nightmare. The warmth is gone, replaced by a persistent, bone-numbing chill. My teeth chatter, every cell in my body tense with discomfort.

  Without thinking, I stoop and gingerly pry apart the lid of the box. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks, but remnants of heat ghost my skin, emanating from the clothing within. Even the remnants of Olivia feel like an antidote to Donatello’s frigid presence. The first item I find is coincidentally a cream sweater, neatly folded. I reach for it, pressing the soft fabric against my cheek.

  Liv… I remember her calming voice. Her gentle smile. Her grace, paired with Donatello’s brashness, was the epitome of beauty and beast, and I used to admire that contrast.

  Years later, having witnessed the aftermath of that affection firsthand, I now know differently. Love is brutal. Mischa’s devotion to his family spurred him to kill, and Olivia’s death destroyed what remained of Donatello’s soul long before he betrayed me. Though could such a man truly love anyone? I picture the way he looked at her that day in his office, and I’m inclined to think so.

  Though it could have been an act from the start.

  Of course, that cruel inner voice whispers. Why else would he lie with you in that bed if he loved her so much?

  My cheeks flame, and I hunt for any distraction from the memory. I can’t think about last night anymore. Getting dressed is as good a stall tactic as any, but as I withdraw the sweater, a glint of silver catches my eye. The source is too bright to be fabric, cool to the touch, easily fitting in the palm of my hand.

  It’s a container, square in shape and decorated with engraved vines that sparkle as I hold it up to the light. A jewelry box?

  I flick a clasp along the side to open it, only to find a stack of neatly folded papers filling the space. As I stroke the top page, two distinct smells pepper the dust-choked air. The first is lighter, floral? But the second… My nostrils tingle as I inhale it, a deeper, richer scent.

  I’d forgotten that he used to smell like this. Like masculine cologne and cigar smoke and the hint of peppermint-scented aftershave. I used to drink in the stench, sitting at his feet while he pored over documents in his study. This handwriting might even be his, but these missives don’t look like they correspond to business.

  A floorboard creaks from the direction of the hall, and I stiffen, running through the likely suspects. Luciano? The little girl? Donatello?

  The latter is the most likely. He’ll be chomping at the bit to taunt me, I assume. Throw last night in my face.

  Are you so eager to be corrupted, little wife?

  I cringe at his imagined voice, shaking my head to clear it. Still crouched, I wait for the door to fly open, revealing him behind it.

  Another step breaks the silence. Thud.

  Another. Thunk…

  That one was further away. Several more steps confirm my suspicion, and I sigh in relief—whoever the culprit is, they’ve retreated down the hall.

  But I’m not naïve enough to think he won’t come back.

  Whatever these letters might contain, examining them within Donatello’s orbit feels too dangerous. The air is too thick in here. Too heavy.

  I find my gaze drawn to the window, feeling reckless enough to jump from it. Anything just to breathe without inhaling him too.

  Instead, I tuck the box beneath the bedframe, removing the topmost letter. Then I approach the door, pressing my ear to the wood before easing it open. Luckily, the hall is empty, and I slip out before the lurker returns.

  It’s too early for the dawn light to have penetrated the house’s interior. Everything is quiet, bathed in shadow, like some twisted version of purgatory.

  Once I reach the first floor, the itching need to be outdoors feels even stronger—but I know better than to risk leaving through the front door. Turning on my heel, I navigate the hallway to the kitchen. Here, a battered screen door bars the access to the yard, easily unlocked.

  I ease it open, my lungs swelling with the crisp morning air. Despite my aching muscles and bare feet, I sense I could still run if I wanted. Take off through the close-set trees and never look back.

  I only let the fantasy dwell for a minute before turning my attention to the letter.

  In the end, I don’t go far, staying on the porch. My toes flex against the peeling wood as I scan the lonely yard beyond it. This section of the house is just as aged as the rest, the lawn overgrown and empty. A pale bit of sunlight pierces the cloud cover, and the fresh air displaces some of the tense atmosphere. Leaning against the siding, I lift the letter, straining to read in the overcast light.

  You have no idea how much I love you, do you? The author wrote, their passion evident in every stroke of ink. My cheeks heat, sensing the intimacy before I even read on. How much I crave being inside you, every goddamn minute of the day. It’s the only time I ever feel peace…

  I rip my gaze up to the sky, feeling my heart hammer against my ribcage.

  He wrote this to Olivia. His unique touch is evident from the strokes of ink to the deliberate way it was folded. The care recalls a thoughtfulness so different from the man he is now. A man who prides himself in always maintaining his control. Who denies his own lust merely to prove a point.

  He didn’t always. He used to confess his desire on paper for anyone to read…

  Because he loved her, that cruel inner voice insists. Just like he loved the idea of sweet, little Safiya—not you. Never you...

  “She’s not in the room.” The present-day Donatello’s voice booms like thunder, startling a flock of birds from a nearby tree. “Where the hell is she?”

  I whip around, expecting him to barge through the back door, but the kitchen is empty. The next second, a series of distant thuds betray his location—storming through the upstairs—and he isn’t alone. A familiar voice rings out, the tone soothing. Fabio?

  That’s right. We’re to meet with Mischa to discuss our sham of a marriage today. On its face, the idea would seem comical if it weren’t so tragic. Or strategic. When all is said and done, Donatello stands to gain more than revenge. Namely, leverage and power—two tools I’ve come to find that all men cherish.

  On the other hand, I’ll have lost the most.

  “Where the hell did she go?” He sounds closer, downstairs now, probably in the hall right beyond the kitchen. “Get a van ready. She fucking ran.”

  His murderous inflection sends a thrill through me. She ran. Just what might he do to this figurative Willow who dared to escape him? I almost wish that I had run. That I was out racing through the woods like hell, heading back to my family.

  Anywhere but here.

  This house holds only misery and confrontation. If I stay, I’ll have to face more than our “engagement.” I’ll have to see him for the first time since last night, but I’m nowhere near prepared for that moment.

  Will he ignore it?

  Pretend it never happened?

  Or will he give Fabio and everyone within earshot a verbal play-by-play…

  “I knew this was a stupid fucking plan,” Donatello continues to gripe, sounding clearer than ever. I swallow hard. If I had to guess, he’s only paces away. “And you thought we should reason with her.”

  He says it with so much derision. Reason. How dare anyone try. I’m merely an avatar for his hate, or lust, incapable of any rational thought. My primary purpose in life is to thwart him.

  Not this time. I won’t let him play the victim.

  Cautiously, I reenter the kitchen and find it empty, but my hunch wasn’t wrong. He is close. C
ommotion comes from the main hall, and I creep there to find Donatello throwing open the front door as if he plans on running out after me, his eyes blazing.

  For a heartbeat, the rest of the world mutes as I take in the sight of him.

  He changed into a black suit, but it hangs loosely on his bulky frame, the collar unbuttoned, shirt untucked. In contrast, a figure standing by the steps cuts a stunning silhouette in a crisp navy suit. Fabio. The only item distracting from his ensemble is a cream-colored shopping bag hanging off his left wrist.

  “I suggest we organize a more thorough search,” he says. “I’m sure she couldn’t have gone far. Have you looked everywhere—” he turns his head, spotting me. “Speak of the devil. She’s right here.”

  “What?” Donatello whips around, and the force of his attention hits like a physical blow.

  Somehow, facing him in the harsh light of day is worlds apart from the creature he can seem in the dark. There’s no vulnerability. No shadows to hide the worry lines etched around his mouth or dampen the intensity of his eyes. Narrowed to slits, they rake over me with none of the lingering interest he displayed just hours ago.

  “Where the hell were you?” His voice penetrates my skin, infecting the muscle underneath. I jump instinctively, and yet I have enough sense of mind to tuck the letter behind my back, out of his view. Or so I think. His head cocks, following the movement of my arm. “What do you—”

  “That doesn’t matter!” Beaming, Fabio advances down the hall, blocking me from view. Before I can react, he slips an arm around my shoulders, angling my body toward him. I stiffen, but he’s too busy steering me past Donatello to notice my discomfort. “What matters is she’s safe and sound. Though, apparently you weren’t the only one who forgot to get dressed this morning—” He casts my clothing a wary glance. I’m still wearing the dress I wore last night. Olivia’s, to be exact.

  “Luckily, the meeting with Mischa has been canceled,” Fabio adds.

  He sounds cheerful almost—nowhere near as panicked as he should be. I am. My brain jumps to the most likely reason why Mischa would refuse to meet—because he’s planning something far more thrilling than afternoon tea.

  “We’ve rescheduled for tomorrow,” Fabio explains, picking up on my unease. “Though, I did manage a different arrangement for Willow in particular, at the hospital later this afternoon—”

  “You didn’t.” Donatello’s tone is so cold I half-expect ice to form over my skin.

  I don’t understand why he’s so hostile at first. Then I remember—he’s not the only one with family at the hospital.

  “Of course, I did,” Fabio says, an eyebrow raised. “What better way to test both yours and Mischa’s commitment to this bogus engagement?” To me, he flashes the faintest hint of a smile. “Your mother is awake, my dear. Would you like to see her?”

  A wave of emotions washes over me, countered only by the glare Donatello shoots our way. But even he can’t detract from a rare bit of good news. Ellen is awake. Though, who knows what Mischa has told her...

  “Willow?”

  Meeting Fabio’s gaze, I nod.

  “Good. Then it’s settled,” he says, guiding me to the stairs. I get the sense that he’s positioning himself strategically behind me as a barrier against anyone who might approach from below. “I’ll make all of the arrangements,” Fabio says, raising his voice. “It will have to be a short visit, and contingent on your mother’s condition, of course, but it will give you at least some time.”

  “And plenty of time for Mischa to mount an attack while she’s gone,” Donatello snaps.

  His steps resonate through the floor, and I risk looking over my shoulder to find him mounting the bottom rung of the staircase. I make the mistake of meeting his gaze—and the house, Fabio, and the entire world vanish.

  If I hoped that he wouldn’t remember last night, one look at his eyes proves the opposite. He has.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he demands now, in a tone reminiscent of crackling hellfire. “In all of your scheduling, you left out me visiting Vincenzo.”

  Fabio. He’s talking to Fabio—a fact that doesn’t sink in until the other man turns to face him. “Don… I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No—” Fabio nearly trips while mounting the next step. “He’s still recovering from surgery, but as soon as there is a marked improvement in his situation, I’ll escort you there myself.”

  Donatello’s eyes flit in my direction, and I feel a sudden urge to shield myself in any way I can. With my hands. By running. Hiding. In his gaze, every inch of myself is on display. Nothing is hidden.

  Nothing.

  “Did you draw up the papers?” he asks, still speaking to Fabio. “Even if Mischa gets a reprieve today, I don’t think we should allow him to forget the terms. No one should forget them. I want every fucking detail in writing.”

  “And you’ll get that,” Fabio insists. “In fact, wait for me in your office, and we can go over the terms one on one.”

  “Terms,” Donatello hisses, his nostrils flaring. “I think it’s about time I devise a few of my own.”

  He storms off, barreling in the direction of his study. I sense that the last part of his statement was directed solely at me.

  “Willow?” Fabio taps my shoulder. “Are you alright?”

  I’m shivering. Forcing a nod, I mount the rest of the stairs on trembling legs. That pink room is a haven I practically race for, fumbling to get the door open.

  “I brought you some clothes,” Fabio says, following in my wake. “It’s not much, but it should last you for a few days. At least until we can arrange a shopping trip or have your things brought over from Stepanov Manor…”

  I look over my shoulder as he falls silent, and shame heats my cheeks—the mess I’ve made of Olivia’s belongings stands out in stark contrast to the overall barren room.

  I race to grab the clothing I’d left in piles on the floor, returning them as neatly as I can.

  Fabio enters the room after me. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he croaks. The pain in his voice shouldn’t catch me so off guard, but I fumble with the silver box of letters, dropping it. He knew Olivia, from what I remember. She was his sister.

  Of course, seeing her things would affect him.

  “I… They shouldn’t have brought you all this—” he clears his throat, gesturing helplessly. Then he reaches for the nearest articles of clothing, shoving them into the box. When he sees the silver container, he pales. “Why the hell would he—”

  He snatches it, and I can tell from his horrified expression that he knows exactly what it contains. For the longest time, he eyes the silver lid, his hand shaking. Then he starts to tuck it into the pocket of his suit.

  I don’t know what comes over me. I grab for it.

  Those letters are all I have of the past. Of Donatello.

  “I think I should take care of these,” Fabio says softly. “It’s just an old trinket—”

  “Fabio?” Donatello calls from what sounds like the base of the stairs. “What the hell is taking so long?”

  “N-Nothing!” Fabio starts toward the door, trying to shove the box into his pocket. He winds up dropping it instead, though I don’t think he notices, already lurching into the hall.

  Before leaving the room entirely, he hesitates, his gaze flitting in my direction. “He shouldn’t use her… He has no right to torture you like that. No right.”

  Torture me. The remnants of Olivia take on a newer significance—until I remember that Donatello wasn’t the one to bring me these items. Fabio himself saw me wear one of her dresses—the same one I’m still wearing now—but for whatever reason, this strikes him differently. He’s angry, his cheeks scarlet, his hazel eyes ablaze as he inspects me one final time. With a sigh, he retreats, his voice reaching back to me, “When you’re ready, we can set out.”

  I stare after him, more unnerved than I think I should be. I know he disagrees
with Donatello’s insistence we stay here, but the thought of his sister’s memory being used as a cudgel enrages him more. It makes sense. No one would stand for that.

  But it was the way he looked at her belongings, the letters in particular. Like whatever memories they conjured weren’t merely painful…

  They scared him.

  The reason why might lurk in the very paper still clutched in my grasp, but I release it as if burned. Maybe it’s far better to avoid learning the secrets that lurk within Donatello Vanici.

  Whatever happened last night was merely another round in this twisted game. A test. A new attempt for him to manipulate me and reinforce whatever hold he thinks he has.

  Dwelling on it is precisely what he wants me to do.

  So instead, I turn my attention to the one topic he doesn’t want me to focus on—my family. Hope flutters in my chest at the thought of seeing Ellen and Eli again. Then I remember the circumstances I’ve brought upon them, and the excitement turns to dread.

  Everything has been ruined because of me.

  Because of Donatello Vanici.

  3

  Don

  Her smell lingers in my nose hours later, potent enough to taste. Roses—though I know for a fact she hasn’t come near the damn flower. She smelled like sweat, too, and sweet… A scent my brain avoids identifying though the pulse shooting through my cock has no trouble—arousal.

  Irrefutable evidence that last night wasn’t a dream.

  As if I could ever imagine a scene so twisted. So fucking wrong. So goddamn intoxicating I can’t get it out of my head. Remnants of her heat sear my skin even now. I’ve never felt a body like hers. Soft enough to crush in places. Firm enough to grip in others…

  She’s a walking contradiction, playing the role of a stoic mafiya princess one minute. Transforming into a writhing little hellcat the next. Even inside my own skull, it sounds insane to spell out exactly what she did.

  The little minx climbed into my bed and slid those delicate fingers of hers into a place no heiress should want to be defiled by a monster.