by Lana Sky
“I hope you were this way with the girls while I’ve been gone,” Ellen taunts Mischa without noticing me. “They won’t dare disobey you then.”
“Is that so?” A wrinkle alongside his mouth softens the otherwise austere expression. Until he sees me, and his lips flatten entirely.
I choke on his silence, though it lasts barely a second before a smaller figure bounds in my direction.
“Will!” The force of his hug nearly takes me off my feet. His good arm wraps around my waist, and I’m reminded of just how tall he is now. “Where have you been? We’ve been asking and asking—”
“Willow!” Ellen extends her hands, her entire face alight with a smile.
I step forward, suppressing a shudder at her touch. She’s as fragile as porcelain, liable to break if I apply enough pressure. An IV snakes from her wrist, feeding clear liquid into her veins. Bandages encircle nearly the length of her right forearm, and the glaring bruises hammered beneath her eyes look ghoulish in the overcast daylight.
As if to distract from the physical reminders of her recovery, her faint smile widens. “You look so pale, darling.” She smooths her hand along my cheek.
“You look tired,” Eli chimes in.
I glance at him, wondering if Mischa has told either of them the truth.
No. I decide. Eli would be furious if he had.
“Easy,” Mischa says, placing a hand on Ellen’s shoulder as she tries to sit upright.
Ignoring him, she pulls me closer. “Look at you,” she croons, running her fingers through my hair. “You look exhausted, sweetheart. Both of you. Don’t tell me you were worrying yourselves sick over me—”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Mischa spins on his heel, lumbering toward the window. His long hair hangs down his shoulders, wild and unbrushed. From this angle, the shadows dwelling in the divots and lines of his sharp features are deeper than ever.
Ellen releases her own quiet sigh. “Did something happen? You’ve been acting odd all day. Are the girls okay? Ivan?”
“I can go home if you need help,” Eli suggests. “I can. The doctor says my good arm is—”
“Everything is fine,” Mischa insists in a softer tone. “Everything.” This time, his eyes find mine, conveying an unspoken warning.
And now I know for sure—he hasn’t told them. Not about Donatello. The engagement. None of it.
My hand falls from Ellen’s, and I step back, feeling dirty in this clean room. My breathing quickens, my throat even drier. That childish sentiment rings truer than ever—I don’t belong here.
“You need to rest,” Mischa insists, returning to his wife’s side. “Both of you. Once you’re well enough, we can bore you with every detail.”
When he eyes me again, I don’t see the judgment I expect to find. There isn’t room for anger. He looks so old. So worn. So tired.
Because of me.
Shame spreads through my body like fire, eating away what little doubt I might have left. I’ve been so damn selfish. First by leaving, and then again by playing Donatello’s game. What is the cost of peace when it comes with so many caveats attached?
And why protect Donatello Vanici when time after time he’s proven that he doesn’t give a damn about me—because that’s what I’ve been doing, whether I want to admit it or not.
By going along with his insane plan, I’ve been protecting him from himself.
And tormenting my own family in the process.
“We should go.” Mischa heads for the door. “I’ll be back later tonight.”
“With Ivan and the girls?” The hope in Ellen’s voice is so palpable I flinch, but another rare smile tugs on Mischa’s mouth.
“Of course. I’m sure they can’t wait to bombard you with all their complaints about my bedtime stories in comparison to yours.” His voice is too deep, his gaze distant as he turns away; I sense he’s holding something back. Ellen doesn’t miss it, either.
“Are you sure?” She grasps for a handful of the sheets, threatening to rise. “Is something wrong—”
“No,” Mischa replies, returning to her. With gentle pressure, he eases her back against the pillows.
“And Elena? I’d like to see her before she goes home.” Her lips part in a genuine smile. “I assume Willow will help you with her until I’m released. And Anna, of course—”
“I’ll have her brought over soon. Sleep,” Mischa insists. “Come, Willow.”
“It’s not fair,” Eli grouses, an uncharacteristic whine in his voice. “The baby gets to go home tomorrow. Why can’t Aunt Ellen and I go, too?”
I sympathize with the longing glance he casts toward the window. Days of bedrest must be torture when he’s used to spending his free time roaming the Stepanov property.
“You know the doctors suggested a few more nights of observation,” Mischa says. His gruff tone betrays that he isn’t necessarily happy with that prognosis. Still, concern for his family supersedes all. “The second you both are cleared, I’ll bring you home myself.”
“It’s because of my stupid arm—” Eli eyes his cast with disgust. “But it’s getting better. I swear. They just wanna poke and prod and—”
“Not now,” Mischa says, heading for the door. “Let me get Willow home, first.”
I flinch at the insinuation as I follow him into the hall. Perhaps Donatello wasn’t paranoid after all…
Defiant, soft steps pad in our wake. Eli. “Can I walk out to the car at least?”
“Not this time. Go back to your room,” Mischa commands in a sterner tone.
“Aww!” With an exaggerated sigh, Eli marches into a room across from Ellen’s. Fabio suspected correctly—they share the suite.
I wish I could stay longer. Stay hidden in this little sliver of their universe and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Shielded by these walls, Donatello Vanici is just a memory…
“Willow.” Mischa’s already nearing the exit, his back to me.
I swallow hard, increasing my pace to keep up. Every step feels weighed by enough shame I fear I’ll go through the floor as Mischa finally turns to face me.
My eyes burn with the tears I’ve kept at bay all this time. Finally, they threaten to fall as I look up to face him.
But he’s already lunging toward me. His heat slams into me with the force of a train, contrasting the relative gentleness with which his arms crush me to his chest. It’s an earnest embrace, so tight I can’t breathe, and I’d stay here forever if I could. For a brief moment, Donatello Vanici is just a bad memory…
Just as quickly, Mischa lets me go.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, whirling to face a figure I didn’t realize was still standing here, out of view from any of the rooms. Fabio. “The bastard’s way of taunting me? I know that’s the trick he likes to play—”
“No trick,” Fabio insists, his hands raised. “Merely a gesture of good faith.”
“Faith?” Mischa’s voice resonates like thunder, so loud I’m sure he can be heard from the lobby. Belatedly, he seems to realize that as well. With one last glance at Ellen’s room, he storms ahead, barging from the private suite with Fabio and me on his heels.
Cocking his head, he poses another question from over his shoulder. “I assume your faith is the only thing stopping me from taking my daughter home?”
Fabio frowns, confused. “I don’t—”
In a blur of motion, Mischa pivots, grabbing my arm without warning. The force with which he yanks me to him nearly takes me off my feet. From the corner of my eye, I see the guard at the door step forward to bolster the unspoken threat.
To his credit, Fabio doesn’t even flinch. “You and I both know that were any harm to befall me, your little spat with Donatello would escalate.”
“You think Vanici is in the position to threaten me?” Mischa replies, his voice low.
“Perhaps not.” Fabio shrugs. “You have ten times the men and resources—but Donatello can wreak more damage than you can imagine, even alone.�
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“I’ve heard of the kind of ‘damage’ he likes to cause,” Mischa snarls. “So have you. After what he did to your sister—”
“Olivia’s death was an accident,” Fabio says smoothly. “A terrible tragedy.”
His voice remains level enough, but I catch the subtle wince he suppresses behind that blank expression.
“An accident.” Mischa raises an eyebrow. “Has he even told her the truth? Have you?” His eyes narrow with a sudden realization. “He hasn’t, has he? The fucking coward. And you. I would have thought you would be above this sick little game—”
“I don’t think we should discuss the past here,” Fabio insists, his tone soft.
Mischa’s fingers tremble, biting into my skin with a strength I don’t think he’s aware of. It hurts, compressing muscle and bone, but I don’t resist. This pain is only a fraction of what I’ve already caused him. If he ripped my arm off, it wouldn’t be punishment enough.
“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” he harshly accuses. “What he did. I thought maybe you were in denial or believed his lies—but you don’t even have the decency to tell her the truth. What really happened to your sister. Why he sold her like chattel—”
“Trust me, you don’t even know the half of it,” Fabio warns, but the words lack bravado. He’s not boasting. He’s begging.
For silence?
What really happened to your sister…
Is Mischa implying there was more to her death than senseless violence?
“The past is in the past,” Fabio continues. “I love Donatello like a brother, but I wouldn’t wish his wrath on even my worst enemy. I can’t predict him. Given that the mishap between you two nearly resulted in the death of his nephew, I’ll be honest—the fact that we’re both unscathed is a blessing. For now, at least, there is a path to peace, however ridiculous it may be. I suggest we take it.”
Mischa scoffs, releasing me—but not as a gesture of good faith. Using his weight as a barrier, he blocks me from view, instead. “You do have a way with words. If the past is so inconsequential, then why don’t you tell her now, what he did?”
I crane my head enough to see Fabio, still unfazed. “There is no point in dwelling on the past,” he repeats. “Allowing your daughter to come here was a display of goodwill on Donatello’s part. I hope that you can match that courtesy by attending our meeting tomorrow. Rather than bring up old grievances, our time might be better spent tracking down the man who caused this mess in the first place.”
“J.W.,” Mischa says, his accent thick.
I can’t suppress my body’s reaction—revulsion. Bile threatens to crawl up my throat as I remember the brutality Donatello utilized to glean that bit of information from a man he tortured. Then killed.
“According to my best men, no one by that name exists,” Mischa adds.
“He’s clever,” Fabio admits. “As we speak, Donatello is tracking down leads as to the culprit’s identity. We can discuss this further tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
I can’t see Mischa’s face from this position. Every second that passes without a response from him makes my breathing hitch. Finally, his fingers capture my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“You insist on this?” I suspect he doesn’t want an answer. Whatever he sees in my expression makes him turn away, releasing me. “Of course, you would… You’ve always been so damn stubborn. The only way to make you see the truth is to prove it to you.”
Without another word, he storms off, leaving his guard by the door. A wary glance is the only acknowledgment the man sends my way before he returns his attention to the hall in general.
“Well…” Fabio sighs, tugging at his collar. “That was intense, wasn’t it?” He forces a faint smile, and I have a new appreciation for his quiet authority. Few men could keep their composure in such a situation.
Though, fewer men could tolerate the varying moods of Donatello Vanici. The latter proudly sports his title of a monster—with selling a child being one crime among many—but what does that make a man who so faithfully stands beside him?
Surprisingly, Fabio’s expressions are more nuanced than even Donatello’s. “I hope the visit went well?”
I look away, trying to process the tumult of emotions battling to shape my mood. Foremost, I’m relieved to have seen Ellen. Though, the next time we meet, will she grace me with that same loving smile? Mischa hasn’t told her what happened yet, though how could he? How do you even begin to explain something so insane?
Fabio, I suspect, would have trouble despite his charm.
“I see,” he says softly. “Well, these things do take time to adjust to, even in the best of times. And I can admit that this isn’t the most tactful of times to mention it, but I would really like that box of my sister’s. In exchange, I will personally ensure that Donatello allows you regular visits. Deal?”
When I look at him again, a wide smile obscures anything he might be thinking beneath the mask. He’s an expert at shrouding his emotions. Is he truly concerned for Donatello?
Or does his wariness of what that box contains go beyond that?
“We’ll worry about that later. Come with me,” he says, extending his arm. A warm smile heralds the abrupt change in subject, but I doubt he’ll let the topic rest for long. “We’ll head back, though we need to make one last detour, if you don’t mind.”
Minutes later, we arrive before a familiar hallway on the fourth floor. It’s changed since the last time we were here, but I recognize it instantly. Vincenzo’s wing. Now a hive of activity, medical professionals dressed in white congregate across from the lone occupied room.
“You can wait here if you’d like. I only need a few minutes,” Fabio says before approaching them.
Someone I assume to be a doctor stands to greet him, but I’m too far back to hear their conversation. What few words I do catch make my stomach constrict. Coma. Brain waves. Uncertainty.
I’ve had enough of death and suffering, but for whatever reason, an invisible hook seems to catch my spine, compelling me into Vin’s room, regardless. Crossing the threshold, I feel like an intruder, unwelcome in this neat, quiet place.
Not that the sole occupant can voice a complaint. Vincenzo. His bed is in the same place, but the machinery around it has drastically changed, and an unexpected pang of relief makes me sway. Gone are most of the tubes and heavy equipment. He seems to be breathing on his own, though even more bandages cover his head than I remember.
That’s right, Fabio mentioned a surgery.
Frozen in place, I press a hand to my chest in response to how fast my heart is beating, every pulse resonating like a blow. I have no right to ache for him. It’s my fault he’s here…
He doesn’t react as I approach, and the steady rise and fall of his chest is the only sign of life. When I press my hand to his cheek, however, it’s warm.
It’s surreal seeing his boyish features matured, enhancing his resemblance to his uncle. Some things never change, though, and I brush my thumb against his mouth, remembering his impish grin. No matter how serious the moment, one joke from Vincenzo could erupt the world in laughter.
I’m sorry. I wish I could say those words out loud, but I trace them against his lips instead. I’m sorry for everything. For the past. For never getting the chance to say goodbye…
What did Donatello even tell him? The truth? That he left me. Sold me. Betrayed me?
My finger freezes as another possibility comes to mind. What if Vin knew all along? Could I stomach knowing that?
I haven’t come up with an answer when a flicker of movement draws my attention to his face, and every other thought leaves my mind. I know what I’m seeing must be a trick of the light—or a hallucination—but when I blink, nothing changes. I swipe my hand over my eyes, expecting reality to shift.
It doesn’t.
Vin’s eyes are open, partially hidden behind thick lashes. Dark and rich, they fixate on me, so much like Donatel
lo’s, it’s chilling.
But instead of hate, another emotion takes shape, ten times more painful to witness. It glimmers faintly, giving life to his otherwise gaunt, sunken features. An answering flutter flickers in my chest, impossible to mistake for anything else. Hope.
His lips part, his voice nearly drowned out by the squeals of nearby machinery. “Saf…”
I strain my ears to listen, leaning closer. It’s as if he’s fighting with everything in him to stay lucid. Even if he can’t trust what he’s seeing…
By his sides, his hands twitch over the sheets, too heavy for him to lift. Finally, his eyes drift shut. “Am I dead?”
His gravelly sigh sounds resigned. He’s dead. He has to be.
Because he thinks I am too.
No! I grip his hand tighter, willing him to understand what I can’t put into words. I’m here. I’m alive.
His lashes flutter as his eyes re-open, but this time, they’re distorted by a sheen of moisture. Tears. “Safy—”
A piercing alarm blares from one of the monitors connected to him, triggering a symphony of chaos. Almost instantly, a flood of people come rushing into the room, all of them speaking at once, jostling for proximity to the bed.
I find myself shoved aside, forced to observe, unable to help. A woman in white pushes past me, racing to adjust the various tubes and lines snaking from Vin’s body.
“Vincenzo!” That shout rings out, louder than the rest. Confused, I whirl toward the door, expecting Fabio. Another man stands there instead, his dark eyes ablaze. “What the hell is happening? Is he okay? Vincenzo!” He starts forward, but a burly doctor rushes to block his path.
“Can everyone clear the room, please?” someone else insists.
The next thing I know, I’m in the hallway as the door to Vin’s room is shut, muffling the noise beyond it.
I turn in the direction I last saw Fabio, but someone snags my forearm in a vice grip, locking me in place. Considering the fact that Fabio is racing toward me now, he isn’t the culprit.
“He spoke to you,” my captor breathes against my ear. Donatello. Am I surprised he ignored Fabio’s plea? No. Nothing is sacred to him, certainly not a promise. “What… What did he say?”
