by Lana Sky
The answer doesn’t surprise her. “Why?”
She makes evil sound synonymous with a pair of shoes someone decides to put on in the morning.
Maybe it is that simple. I joined the famiglia and served Giovanni because I wanted to, but I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I stopped giving a fuck.
When did Donatello turn “bad”?
As pathetic as it feels to admit, only one answer comes to mind. “I don’t know.”
4
Evgeni
“This is it?” the woman remarks as our destination comes into view. “After how long you’ve been driving, I’d assume we’d be in China by now, at least.”
I bristle at her haughty tone, but she’s not exaggerating. For hours, I’ve traced the backroads sprawling around the city, trying to come up with some semblance of a plan. The day is damn near over, but this is the best course of action I could decide on. Keeping her in Hell’s Gambit.
For now.
“This is it,” I say coldly.
“You live in a slum.” Her apparent disgust betrays her knowledge of the area. Though, in all fairness, the place looks the part, complete with public housing and streets strewn with garbage. “Why am I not surprised?” she adds, her lip curled in disdain. “I suppose being a hired hand doesn’t pay much.”
I don’t correct her. Bringing her out in public at all is a risk, but one I’d rather take by coming here—an apartment intermittently used by the mafiya—than my main base. She could still run either way, but if she’s truly afraid of this man, she’ll prove it.
“You must have a death wish,” she declares as I park. “I tell you, the man I’m running from is a monster. You parade me in public.”
I frown. One point proven, at least.
“Move,” I tell her, shoving open the door on my end. “If you’re really on the run, the last thing you should want is to be alone.”
I forge ahead without looking back—not that I have to. She’s noisy in her haste to keep pace, her heels clacking, breaths heavy. Her desperation has a musical quality.
I look over my shoulder, hoping I’m the only one privy to it. The unease I felt earlier grows more potent as we enter the building.
The apartment is on the top floor, but it’s a hell of an ascent. The elevator has been out of order for as long as I can remember, leaving a rickety staircase as the only way up. The woman pants, sweat dripping down her forehead by the time we reach the flat.
I fish the spare key from beneath a ratty welcome mat before the door. When I unlock it, the woman scoffs, unimpressed.
“Don’t take offense to this, soldier,” she says, eyeing the barren entryway and the worn couch serving as the sole piece of furniture. “You could really use a woman’s touch.”
“Like Safiya Mangenello’s?” I say, taking a shot in the dark.
If she recognizes the name, however, she’s damn good at hiding it.
“Is that a lover of yours?” Her tone is sweetly hostile as she inclines her head to inspect me. “Charming. Though, I think you need someone with a bit higher standards when it comes to cleanliness.”
“I’ll tell you what I need—” I whirl on her, grabbing her arm. She’s quick, reflexively kicking between my legs, but brute strength is the one thing she can’t easily counteract. I pin her to the wall and kick the door shut. Leveraging my weight, I apply pressure to her shoulder joint, just hard enough to make her wince. “I need answers.”
She fights to suck in enough air, her voice a hiss. “You won’t get them if I’m dead.”
“No, but I can think of a variety of ways I could take advantage of your last moments. If you’ve done the ‘research’ on me that you claim, then you should know what I mean.”
I feel her shudder.
“You certainly talk the talk,” she says, feigning confidence. “But trust me, if you ask nicely, you won’t need force.”
“Fine.” I let her go, stepping back. “I’m asking nicely. Speak.”
She faces me, pressing her back to the wall, her hand rubbing her shoulder. “He wants the Winthorp fortune,” she says finally. “But that’s merely a side note. His real aim is to turn this city into his stepping-stone. I don’t know his full intentions, but I can assure you they aren’t pleasant.”
She pauses deliberately, forcing me to ask.
“How so?”
Her smile is sly. “Use that imagination of yours. I’ll give you a hint—he needs allies and equity. Fast.”
“What’s his name?”
Her lips twitch. I suspect she hesitates before saying, “I know him as Jonathan Harmon, but it’s just an alias. He’s smart, shielding his true identity between several dummy accounts. You won’t be able to find his real name; I can promise you that.”
I feel my eyes narrow. “And he wants your son to claim the Winthorp fortune.”
She nods.
“But he’s a child. Three, you said. Which means even if he did miraculously come into the fortune, he wouldn’t be able to touch a dime.”
But presumably, his mother could.
“Now you’re thinking,” she taunts as if reading my mind. “I knew you had it in you.”
Though I doubt she realizes the full extent of what she’s revealed.
“If anyone has a motive to want the fortune,” I say, advancing toward her a step. “It’s you.”
“Yes,” she says dryly. “I want to take on Mischa Stepanov all by my lonesome and skip merrily into the distance with his gun pointed at my skull.”
“Not if he were dead,” I counter, crossing my arms. “You hate him.”
“I do. But if I really wanted to go along with the plan, would I be begging you for an audience and staying in some piece of shit motel?”
The frustration in her voice rings true—as much as I loathe to admit it. She strikes me as the kind who doesn’t spook easily. And yet, she’s quivering despite that poised mask.
Her nerves are contagious. I swear I see a shadow flicker beyond the room’s sole window. A bird? Or something more ominous?
Ripping my gaze back to the woman, I decide to stop beating around the bush. “What are you afraid of?”
She sucks in a breath, her eyes darting from me to the doorway and back. Sensing her motive, I move to block the exit.
“You want to know?” Her eyelids lower, disguising her intentions behind thick lashes. “I’m afraid that your Mischa has no idea as to the deck stacked against him. Frankly? I don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”
Audible once more, that truthful note in her voice is hard to deny. I step forward, intrigued despite myself.
“I’m listening.”
Her lips part, but another flicker of movement beyond the window draws my notice. There. A warehouse lurks across the street, but my gaze hones in on a broken window in time to catch a flash of shadow. That is no bird.
“Shit!”
Relying on pure instinct, I move, shoving the woman aside. She cries out a split-second before glass shatters.
I land on my knees, tasting blood as my ears ring. She’s in my grasp, her body curled beside mine. One look at her eyes, and I know she didn’t plan this. Formlessly, her lips part, but she doesn’t scream.
“Run!”
Another buzzing sound cuts the air, this time easily identified. A gunshot.
This bullet shatters what remains of the window, ripping plaster from the wall behind me.
One attacker, I deduce, aiming from the west, most likely from a high vantage point.
“Stay low to the ground,” I demand, grabbing the woman by the arm.
Pivoting, I kick open the door and drag her with me, staying out of range.
Another shot whips past, shattering the edge of the door as I slam it shut.
A lone window illuminates this section of the hall. A glance from it reveals the next building over and the empty street below. There are no windows, at least. A sniper can’t cover this angle.
We were followed here. If I
were managing a hit on one lone woman, I’d send two men. One shooter, and a backup to cover the bases in case of an escape.
“They’ll be watching the exits,” I say, approaching the window. It’s a single pane, opened easily by lifting from the bottom. Below, a rusty fire escape provides a bridge between the height and the street.
The woman balks.
“We need to jump,” I say, pulling her closer.
She shakes her head, gripping the sill with trembling fingers. “Are you insane?”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s the only way out.”
And I suspect we have seconds to move before the shooter takes aim from a different angle.
There isn’t time for permission. I grab her waist and shove her forward.
“Go!”
She grapples for the wall, trying to steady her descent, but her foot loses traction too soon, and she plummets onto the base of the fire escape with a sound loud enough to alert the entire damn city.
Her pained groan stirs a semblance of guilt as I follow, landing in a crouch beside her. Already, she’s lurching to her knees, grasping at my shoulder as I head for the ladder leading to the street.
She moves cautiously, and I consider it a miracle when we make it to the street level without drawing an audience.
Yet.
Footsteps advance in our direction, and I grab her wrist, heading for a nearby alley. Hand on my holster, I scan the street, hunting for movement.
This is a sloppy hit, I decide as we reach the other end of the block without crossing anyone suspicious. Sloppy and reckless.
If her attacker didn’t want her dead, he wanted to prove a point.
Perhaps her cryptic speech wasn’t entirely for show.
This man is dangerous.
Taking a chance, I haul her toward the van and shove her onto the back seat.
“Stay down,” I warn.
Then I drive, unsure of where the hell to even go next.
5
Willow
I can’t put into words what it felt like to be accepted by Mischa Stepanov and his family. If someone held a gun to my head, the closest comparison I could make is coming inside to a warm fire after ages spent lost in a blizzard. Finally, I had shelter again. Everything Donatello Vanici ripped from my life, Mischa offered me tenfold. Safety. Security. Love.
How have I repaid his generosity?
With tragedy and pain.
In hindsight, it’s not that much of a shocking outcome. The events of the past few days have only proved what I’ve known in my soul—as much as I love the Stepanovs, I never truly belonged. I was a weed, plucked from a wayward field to grow amongst a cultivated bed of roses. They’ve shielded me within their beautiful, protected world, but no amount of love can change what I am—a suffocating, creeping outsider.
In a twisted way, I should thank Donatello Vanici for helping me to realize that. Never again can I simply exist as Willow, or even Safiya.
I am a piece on a chessboard, a prize to be won.
“I’m worried about him.”
The cautious tone snaps me back to the present. I blink, struggling to recognize my surroundings. White walls and polished floors abound. That’s right, we’re at the hospital, navigating a clinical floor. Or at least Fabio is while I trail in his wake. I increase my pace to draw even with him, not that he seems to notice.
“He has his issues, yes,” he continues obliviously. His tone leaves no doubt as to who he’s referring to. “I’ve never seen him like this. Never… I’m sure you see it, too?”
I just stare. His attempt at conversation is a drastic role reversal from Donatello’s insistence on maintaining the captor and captive dynamic, but I sense he’s speaking to himself more than me. Concern contorts his expression, his gaze turned inward.
“It’s that goddamn house,” he says under his breath, heading for an upcoming corridor. “Trust me, it wasn’t my idea for him to bring you there. I’m sorry. Those letters…”
He meets my gaze, lowering his voice. “Do you still have them?”
I weigh the option of lying, feeling selfishly protective of that dusty silver box for reasons I can’t explain. In the end, I nod.
“Thank god,” Fabio exclaims, pressing a hand to his chest. “I don’t think he’s read them—and he shouldn’t. Never. Do you understand? Please give them to me.”
My confusion must show on my face because he looks over his shoulder warily before leaning in even closer to me. “Please. Some memories… Some memories are better left buried. Those letters are just old trash, better off discarded. I need you to give them to me—please. And keep them away from Donatello. Can you do that? I know it’s offensive of me to even ask you this, but please… Try to understand what it’s been like for him.”
I recoil as if he slapped me. I wish he had. It would be easier to fathom than his request—try to understand poor, poor Donatello—the man who destroyed my life and left me for dead.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Fabio insists. Maybe he didn’t. The sudden hoarseness of his voice reminds me of one of my professors during a lecture on musical complexity. Ignore the background, he warned us. Focus only on the notes. See beyond the superficial noise to the pain beneath. That kind of emotion can’t be studied, only felt…
But there is a marked difference between music and madness.
“It’s like he doesn’t even remember. In his right mind, he’d never—” For several seconds, he seems lost, until a doctor brushes past him and he startles. Shaking his head, he continues walking. “It’s like he blocked it out or something. But at other times, he’s back there, reliving it over and over… No man could suffer what he’s been through without losing some sanity, but to go back to that goddamn house. Those letters. If he really has forgotten, he can’t read them. He can’t—” He breaks off, and I get the sense that he said more than he meant to. Clearing his throat, he gestures toward something up ahead. “Anyway, here we are.”
I follow the line of his gaze to a door presumably leading to another ward. A stoic man in black fatigues stands guard beside it, his face vaguely familiar. A Stepanov soldier?
Disappointment stings. I have no right to wish for anything, but I almost pray Evgeni is inside as part of Mischa’s personal retinue. He’d be angry with me, but at least I’d have someone familiar to guard against the guilt. Not that I deserve a lifeline.
The thought of facing Ellen and Mischa—let alone Ellen’s reaction to what I’ve done—is a harrowing possibility I didn’t have the sense to dread until now. My throat goes dry, my stomach in knots.
“I know your mother is awake,” Fabio explains, smoothing his hand down his suit jacket as the guard spots us. “I think your brother may even be in the same wing—though, I didn’t exactly call ahead for obvious reasons. Allow me.” Motioning for me to stay back, he approaches the man alone.
As I watch him, what little resolve I felt vanishes. I almost consider retreating somewhere—anywhere—to give myself more time to think. Come up with some way of explaining what I’ve done.
The guard, however, seems unmoved by Fabio’s words. It’s only when he points to me that the man stiffens with recognition. Heeding my cue, I step forward, but by the time I reach them, I only catch the tail end of what the guard says.
“Yes…yes sir—” He’s speaking into a headset affixed to his ear. Nodding, he opens the door and steps aside. “This way, Ms. Stepanova. Your father is expecting you.”
I swallow hard. Donatello’s mocking remarks run through my mind with every step I take—though he might have been right to worry. Mischa is the last person aiming to uphold this twisted bargain. I doubt Fabio alone is any match for the Stepanov retinue. There is nothing to prevent me from running now if I wanted to.
In fact, it’s probably the one way to fix the mess I’ve made. Go home. Return to that safe bed of roses and never dare to leave again.
As if reading my mind, Fabio looks at me and winks. “Let’s hope for th
e best, yes?”
Rather than respond, I turn my attention to our surroundings. My initial suspicion was correct regarding this being a private wing. Few medical staff populate the spacious hall. Only a few rooms appear to be in use—the occupants of one are in the middle of a conversation, their voices barely audible. A woman’s gentle hum rises above the others, as lilting as a bell chime. “You look so serious…”
Ellen. For a second, the sterile surroundings fall away, and the day of the attack unfolds like a never-ending nightmare. I keep seeing her face, pale from blood loss, her body limp…
“You should get some rest.” The deeper voice responding to her yanks me back to the present, and I wince as fresh guilt rips through me. Mischa. Do I even have it in me to face him again?
Before I can decide, yet another figure pitches in. “We’ve gotten a lot of rest already,” a boy declares. My heart clenches at that familiar tone, still as cheerful as ever. “When can we go home? I’m so sick of the gross pudding they serve here. It tastes like barf.”
“I’ll let you take the lead,” Fabio says softly, placing his hand on my shoulder. He inclines his chin in the direction of the voices. “Take all the time you need.”
Even from here, I can tell that the room is slightly larger than Vincenzo’s, with a wide window displaying the city’s waterfront. The jagged mass of skyscrapers forms an unexpectedly beautiful backdrop against the white walls.
“So stern,” Ellen says as I round the doorway. She’s sitting upright, her lips in a strained half smile—but her skin is still so pale only her hair gives her any definition against the white sheets. That, and the shadow cast by Mischa, dutifully standing over her.
Perched on the end of her bed, dressed in bright blue pajamas, sits a smaller figure, his attention consumed by the book lying open on his lap. His hair hangs wildly and unkempt, but his blue eyes sparkle with their usual mischief.
So much relief hits me at once as tears well in my eyes, threatening to fall.
But then I notice the bruise marring Eli’s lip, and the beige cast covering his right arm. The injury is severe enough that he manipulates the pages as he reads with his left hand.
