by Lana Sky
“Fuck!” I pivot, smashing my fist against the nearest section of the wall. Again. Again. Specks of white paint chip off, joining the dust coating the floor.
“Don!” Fabio rushes toward me, but I wave him off.
“It’s fine.” A look at my hand contradicts that statement. My knuckles are bloodied, scraped by the plaster, but I don’t feel any pain.
For seven years, I’ve felt nothing.
Liar. Last night, lying in bed with a writhing blond beneath me, I felt something alright. A wrenching pang in my gut as I watched her suck in air, her throat quivering. Pure, fucking misery—but I wasn’t suffering; I relished in it.
Goddamn it. I slam my bloodied hand against my temple as if that could drive her from my skull. It doesn’t work. She’s still there, taunting me with those eyes, her lips trapped between her teeth, an elusive emotion lurking behind that gaze. Anger? Hate? Disgust?
In that moment, I would have given her anything just to reveal what the hell it was…
“Are you okay?” Fabio’s shouting, his hand on my shoulder.
“No,” I admit. Being here is fucking with my head, blurring reality with the past. Fab’s right. I should go back to the villa at least. Or, better yet, somewhere far away from Hell’s Gambit.
I head for the door, but a figure appears there as if conjured from thin air to stop me.
Watching her is like being torn in half. My body reacts as any man’s would, my cock stiffening, blood pumping, while the beast in my skull stirs with the anger only she arouses.
Fabio, the bastard, went out of his way to portray the sweet heiress image the Stepanovs have projected to the world. The frothy yellow dress he gave her swallows her curves, bathing her in false innocence. My little principessa.
I almost prefer Liv’s dress on her. At least then she embodied exactly what she is—a thief, stealing from me whatever she can take. Grief, rage, Vincenzo, my sanity. She’ll claw it all away.
Dressed like this, she’s untouchable, holding her head high, gazing past me like I don’t fucking exist—and to someone like her, I normally wouldn’t. But she wasn’t always Willow Stepanova.
The walls of this house alone prove that. Every decrepit, rotting inch is an anchor to the past, giving me an advantage I wouldn’t have anywhere else. We leave, and it’s easier for her to ignore me and play the role of a mafiya princess, above it all.
To forget.
Here, we’re both in hell, burning amid the flames.
“We’re staying,” I say, looking straight at her. “We’ll fill the place with marital bliss.”
“Jesus, Donatello,” Fabio exclaims. This place is hell for him too.
But he doesn’t have to dance toe to toe with a ghost from his past every day. He doesn’t have to breathe her in every fucking second, knowing that she alone is proof of what he truly is at his core.
A monster.
Usually, she looks at me like I am one—until now. Her gaze flits over me for a heartbeat that lasts an eternity. Like she’s hunting for something beneath the outer shell she loathes. She sported the same look earlier when she came from the kitchen.
A memory rises up—her as a little girl, trying to pretend she didn’t have a water gun hidden behind her back. That was her favorite plan of attack—to lure me in close and then strike with the advantage.
We’re well past the stage of water guns. Considering that I have her knife, what the hell is her weapon now?
“Right…” Clearing his throat, Fabio chooses that second to brush her arm, guiding her toward the door. “Well, we’ll be off. In the meantime?” His eyes beg me to play along. Be a good boy. Heed his plan.
“I’ll stay out of trouble,” I snap, turning my back to them. “Which reminds me, I have some errands of my own for you.”
Fabio hesitates for a second before replying. “Such as?”
“Let’s say that I’ve found a new lease on life—” I have to laugh at how it sounds. “Anyway, I want to go over my life insurance policy. The one you had notarized for me. You still have it?” I run my hand across the surface of my desk to disguise the hitch in my voice. Not that Fabio would ever miss a damn thing.
“The one we drew up years ago?”
I nod. Over seven years ago, to be exact.
“Is there anything, in particular, you want to change?”
“No,” I lie. “That a problem?”
“Of course not. In fact, I’m glad you mentioned paperwork. I’ll leave some files here for you to look over. I’m especially interested in the waterfront property listings, and I’m curious to get your perspective.”
Knowing him, there’s more to it than that. First, a mysterious overseas business. Now local property listings.
“And?”
“And, I’m curious if you get the same suspicion I do,” he says. “Finding the answer might be a little like searching for a needle in a haystack, but it’s not like you don’t have the time. And, you can feed your paranoia regarding Mischa. While you’re at it, see if you can spot a pattern.”
“Fine.”
When he finally leaves, property listings aren’t at the forefront of my mind. A pair of limpid eyes are, and I tear into the hall, heading for the stairs without fully understanding why. Then it hits me—she saw something. Information worthy of coloring those dark fucking irises with an emotion in addition to the pity or hatred I’m used to seeing there.
A weapon?
Those clothes, Fabio said. I didn’t realize you gave her…
Gave her what, exactly? I reach her room, but the second I grip the doorknob, a fiery sensation explodes beneath my ribcage, so unexpected I grunt. Is this withdrawal? Or guilt?
Or both.
Gradually, the pain subsides, but I’m paralyzed. The past has me by the balls, but it’s my own damn fault for inviting this particular bit of nostalgia. How many times did I pass by this door, knowing Safiya was safe beyond it? How many times did I reassure her that I was here and would always protect her?
Too damn many—and yet every single time turned out to be a lie.
Get a grip. I fight to get my breathing under control, gulping at the thickened air. There’s too much dust in here. I’m suffocating. Before I know it, I’m racing downstairs, finding myself in the kitchen, aiming for the yard. More memories live in this room, though, and I don’t even make it to the door.
Olivia. Fabio rarely even mentions her, his own sister murdered in cold blood. Murdered in this very house.
In an ideal world, we would have never met. Born to a wealthy family, Olivia Botelli had been destined for a life far better than the one she got. I’ll never understand why she chose me.
“You were my fairy tale prince,” she murmured every time I asked. “Come to save me from a boring life. I’d always pictured he’d be blond, but you’re decent enough.”
Decent enough to marry, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t protect her.
Of all the places to die, it had to be here. In the house she loved, not far from this very spot. It’s crazy how I can look around this room one second and just see the emptiness. The dust. The decay.
Then I blink, and it’s full of life, the halls echoing with laughter. Liv’s… I can see her, standing at that counter over there, her hair loose, hips swaying. Barefoot, she’d be wearing a brightly colored dress that popped against the beige walls. “The brighter, the better,” she used to tease. “I need some way of getting your attention, old man.”
God, it’s like she’s here, her back to me, her neck bare. I reach for her…
And she vanishes. I eye my hands, startled by the calluses and scars that weren’t there in the past. The ravages of time have spared Liv, but they’ve hammered me.
Even her face is getting harder to recall. The same one I once spent hours memorizing every inch of, tracing every last freckle. On the other hand, her death is etched into my fucking skull—her body, lying limp, the puddles of her blood dotting the floor—but the good times are
just fleeting snippets…
I only have myself to blame. I’ve spent damn near a decade drowning myself in alcohol just to forget her. The fact that I succeeded shouldn’t come as a shock.
“You okay?”
I shake my head to make sure the figure standing in the doorway is really here. Luciano. When I blink, the bastard doesn’t disappear. Going off his raised eyebrow, I suspect he’s been standing there for a while.
“Yeah. I’m fine. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Food,” he replies, crossing to the fridge. “For your other guest, or did you forget?” He inclines his head toward the doorway, but a glimpse of black curls is all I get of the tiny figure lurking just out of sight.
Kisa Salvatore.
If I weren’t set on sobriety, she would be another figure I’d want to wash from my skull.
“What do you plan on doing with her?” Luciano asks, lowering his voice. “Sell her to the Saleris?”
I haven’t thought about it. I could always let her go. Dealing with the Saleris would be more trouble than it’s worth.
Though, I didn’t exactly think through taking her in the first place. Damn. Fabio’s been selective in his choosing which battles to fight. He complains about the fucking house but not the shit I’ve brought inside it. A new wife. A stolen child.
History repeating itself.
Who knows, tomorrow I might return to find blood splattered on the walls and bodies lying in the foyer. I can almost smell the salt. Around me, the cupboards distort, dripping red…
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Luciano snaps. His eyes are on my hands, grasping for the nearest wall.
“Nothing,” I snap. When I look up, the blood has vanished. “I’m fine.”
Leaving the kitchen, I enter the hall.
Fabio was right. Finding the man who set me up and staying one step ahead of Mischa is all that matters. The best method to achieve both goals is to fall back into my old role. Run the famiglia. Hunt for clues. Come up with a plan and make my glorious return to the city’s criminal stage.
Donatello is back, and he’s not afraid of anyone.
Least of all, Mischa Stepanov.
“Where are you going?” Luciano asks.
“To read about a waterfront property listing,” I call back. “It’s time to find a needle in a fucking haystack.”
Fabio and his hunches are never wrong, but he can be prone to a paranoid streak every now and again, which isn’t surprising, given his line of work. Money is the root of all evil, and he makes a living laundering it clean.
If Mischa or anyone else has their sights set on the city’s west waterfront, I can’t see the appeal. Developing a port from scratch would cost more money than it’s worth. Why pick Hell’s Gambit in the first place?
I can’t focus. Rather than ruminate over property listings, my attention keeps returning to the same damn subject.
The same woman.
Fuck! It was stupid to let her go with Fabio. Mischa will be there, hovering over his wife. If the bastard is smart—and he is—he’ll grab her, our “engagement” be damned. The second they enter Mercy, the mafiya will be waiting. My eyes narrow at the thought, and I plant my fist against the desk, scattering the documents lying there.
But would she go willingly?
Trying to predict her is dangerous. Almost as risky as letting her climb into my bed in the first place. I close my eyes and still see her. That haunting gaze. Those wet lips parted, eyes widening with an enticing fucking mixture of curiosity and alarm. Like she didn’t even know what pleasure was…
“You don’t know the first damn thing about what really happens between a man and a woman,” I told her. “You’ve never fucked…and I’m assuming you’ve never touched yourself, either.”
I’m still sure of that. Just like I know, this was her aim all along. To get inside my head and infect my lungs with her smell. Distract me to the point of such carelessness that I’ll let her skip right out of my reach.
Though, is she ready to quit playing with me?
I could always get there and find out for myself. I should do that. Grab her. Make her choose.
Mischa or me?
My vengeful fantasy goes murky before I have a clear answer as to who she’d pick. If I had to guess, no one could force “Willow” to do a damn thing.
Again, I recall those eyes heavy lidded, glittering in the dark. They bore into mine fearlessly, like she had every right to be there. To see into my damn soul.
She thinks she owns it.
It’s wrong to compare her to Liv. Fuck my brain for even going there, turning from the mafiya princess only to dredge up an old memory.
“I never know what you’re thinking,” she told me. The context is murky, but she looked sad. Damn, I hated the way her eyes could get like that, a cloudy shade in between brown and green. With one look, she could reduce me to a piece of shit, unworthy of her.
“You never let me in. I try so hard to think like you, but I never can. Are you even listening to me? Can you hear me? Donatello? Donatello!”
A scream cuts the air, and I’m on my feet, lunging into the hall.
“Liv?” My body reacts on autopilot, urging me toward the stairs, but the figure descending them isn’t Olivia. She’s too small, her eyes wide, and another name slips out of me before I can choke it back, “S-Safiya?”
“It hurts…” The fact that she’s speaking at all shatters the illusion. This girl isn’t Safiya Mangenello. Already, my brain is tallying up more clues that prove it—her eyes are blue, her hair dark and curling, but that shirt…
I remember picking it out in the store myself, wracking my damn brain to consider what a little girl might like. Something pink, I decided. Little did I know it was her favorite color.
“Kisa!” Luciano races past me, and I finally recognize the child before me. Antonio Salvatore’s little girl. “What the hell happened?”
Blood spills down her left arm, dripping onto the floor in rivulets. I blink, but it’s no hallucination. She’s been cut—and it doesn’t take long to find the weapon.
Luciano snatches it from her, hissing in disgust. “Where did you even get this?”
A grunt of recognition rips from my chest as he lifts the weapon high. The dagger is a distinct silver, with a dark handle, engraved with the word Mouse. I know where she got it from—my room.
I say nothing, but when Luciano sets the blade down, I grab it, slipping it into my pocket.
“Kisa, honey.” He spins her to face him, but she stares blankly ahead, unresponsive. “What the hell is wrong with her?”
“She’s in shock,” I surmise.
When he reaches for her injured arm, she blinks, finally meeting his gaze. “It hurts,” she says.
An understatement. The wound looks deep, slicing across her forearm. Judging from the amount of blood, the blade nicked a vein.
“We need to apply pressure to it.” I shrug off my jacket and wad up an edge of the sleeve around the slender limb.
“It’s deep.” Already I can feel the warmth seeping through the fabric. Standing, I throw the jacket aside and lift the girl into my arms.
“What are you doing?” Luciano is hot on my heels.
“I’m taking her to the hospital,” I say. “She needs stitches.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. I got my wish. Though who knows, Willow Stepanova could already be safely ensconced in her fucking mansion, forever beyond my reach.
Or I could get there in time to ruin this little family reunion.
“I’m coming with you,” Luciano warns, and I realize I’m already heading for the door.
“Good. You can cover me.”
The girl doesn’t react as I carry her outside, her wide blue eyes fixated on mine. That look… Someone else used to stare at me like this. Boldly. Like nothing on earth scared her, least of all Donatello Vanici.
Though that little girl had been taught more than enough fear in her life. Gino Mangenello
was my second in command, but I didn’t know the extent of the brutality he showed his wife and child behind closed doors. The day we met comes back to me so clearly; it’s like I’m there in my office, watching her peek from around his bulk.
Taking her in wasn’t my choice, but I never once doubted it. Not once.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Luciano calls from behind.
I look down and realize I’m standing just before the driveway with a trail of the girl’s blood in my wake. Teeth clenched, I keep walking. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t think you are, and I damn sure don’t think you should be driving.”
“I said I’m fine.” The further I move from that house, the better I feel. When I finally wrench open the door of one of Antonio’s cars—a flashy black sedan—and shove the girl onto the back seat, I feel even clearer.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Luciano warns as I settle into the driver’s seat. “Keep pressure on your arm, Kisa!”
I don’t think she hears him. By the time I start the car, she’s gaping into space again, her arm resting limply on her lap.
“You’re bleeding,” I warn. My voice isn’t naturally soothing like Fabio’s, and she jumps. “Keep pressure on it until we get it checked out.”
She clutches her hand to her chest at least. As her eyes stoically scan the road, I can’t resist the comparison—she’s nothing like Safiya—a girl so bubbly, despite her silence, it felt as though an entire chorus of people were battling to speak all at once. You only had to listen.
Antonio’s girl is an entirely different creature. She’s like her father, how he was back in the day at least. Like ice, an impenetrable wall from which you only ever got a glimpse of genuine emotion.
But Antonio was never innocent.
“Are you a bad man?” The small, crisp voice comes as such a shock I nearly veer off the driveway. As I wrench on the wheel to right it, a horn sounds from behind me. Luciano.
Ignoring him, I eye the girl in the rearview mirror as she turns the full brunt of those eyes on me. They aren’t a reflective brown, but piercing, her tiny lips quivering. “Are you a bad man?” she repeats.
“Yes,” I reply without a shred of hesitation.
