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

by Lana Sky

  “No,” Fabio says so quietly I have to strain to hear him above my panting breaths. “I watched you destroy your life over revenge once. I refuse to let that happen again. You hear that, Donatello?”

  He steps directly into my line of sight. “I refuse to. You went through hell, I get it, but have you ever stopped—just once—to wonder what that was like for me? For Vincenzo?”

  His words have the effect of a punch to the gut. I go limp, watching the shredded flesh around my knuckles drip droplets of red.

  “We had to watch you die without having the benefit of a funeral to mourn you. Do you think that was easy?” I’ve never heard him like this, and he clears his throat, fighting to return to his usual tone. “It wasn’t. So, fuck Mischa Stepanov. He could ask for the moon, and I’d grant it. Why? I’m not afraid of him. He isn’t the one I give a damn about.”

  “Mischa wants my blood. Fine—” I lift my bloodied hand. “Have him come here and prick me his damn self. But not Olivia. Not Nico.”

  “They’re gone, Don,” Fabio says gently. “They’re gone. No one else can ever hurt them. Do you want to know why Mischa really asked for this asinine request? It’s because he thinks it will tip you over and that he has the upper hand. He wants you to drop the charade first, giving him the opening to go for your throat. I’ve spent longer with the man than you have, and I have no delusions as to his merciful side. I’ll let you in on a secret—he doesn’t have one.”

  As the words leave his mouth, the scent of roses hits me full in the face. Fuck. I don’t even have to turn around to see her lurking there, watching from the bottom step. For how long? Long enough.

  “He doesn’t care for anyone outside of his family, that is,” Fabio corrects, spotting her as well. “Do you want to give him the satisfaction of turning you into the villain after he nearly killed Vin? I haven’t forgotten that, and you better not either. The only way to win is to keep your head. Stay focused. Have I ever steered you wrong before?”

  He waits, letting my silence serve as his answer.

  “If you want my advice, you go in there with your head held high and your willing bride on your arm. You acquiesce to any asinine request, and you gather the evidence necessary to find the real culprit behind this ‘misunderstanding.’ You didn’t get to the top by using your fists. You used your head.”

  “Giovanni could have used a recruit like you,” I admit, but it’s no compliment. “You’re damn good at manipulation.”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t have the stomach for it. Speaking of ‘stomach,’ I got you a suit that hopefully fits you properly, so you don’t look in danger of busting out of it—” I hear a papery rustle as if he set his shopping bag down. “Put it on, clean yourself up, and meet me in the car in twenty minutes.”

  When I don’t argue, he finally turns to the girl. “I’ve already made it clear that you have made your voice heard in these negotiations.”

  Finally, I look at her. From her blank expression, she interprets the statement the same way I do—not as a respectful olive branch, but as a bone thrown to keep the beasts satisfied for the time being. In the grand scheme, Fabio doesn’t give a damn about her “voice.” He’s made it clear that he has his own motives for wanting this sham to go on. I suspect they all aren’t as selfless as he would lead me to believe.

  Maybe he’s been the puppet master all along. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised. He’s nothing if not resourceful. While my life went to shit, Fabio thrived despite the stigma of being attached to the Vanici name. While achieved on his own merits, Vin’s success was also a direct result of Fabio’s quiet influence. Someone had to help him into the best schools by providing the stability and references I couldn’t.

  He said it himself; whoever is behind the scheme with the harbor is smart. Too smart. Fabio could have grown bored of having to clean up my messes…

  The doubt doesn’t even have a chance to resonate before I flick it aside. Even in anger, I can admit that if Fabio is anything, it’s loyal. I also know that he’s right—he’s never steered me wrong yet. Though, no one could fault me for wanting to grab the damn wheel for a change.

  “Since you seem to be so accommodating, I would like to make a request of my own during this meeting.”

  “Donatello…” When he faces me, I note the strain around his mouth. He’s fighting to keep from frowning.

  “It’s only fair, isn’t it?”

  “Fine. What request would that be?”

  I incline my head, mulling over the options. Mischa aims to humiliate me, and his daughter to dominate. What arbitrary demand could prove to them both that I am no one’s whipping boy?

  “I’ll voice it at the meeting,” I decide. I even flash a smile to broadcast my good intentions.

  Unconvinced, Fabio sucks his teeth. “Donatello—”

  “I’ll play by your rules,” I say, heading toward the end of the hall. As I pass him, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my cool—but on my terms.”

  He sighs, but his reaction isn’t the one I’m watching for. There. A flit of emotion appears in the dark eyes of the woman nearby. Was it fear? Satisfaction? Smug anticipation of what might happen next?

  Either way, I’ll take pleasure in once again having her on her knees before me—figuratively this time.

  That mood spurs me upstairs and into the master bedroom. I strip my shirt and throw it on the bed, reaching for the new suit Fabio left. Only then do I see it.

  A strip of folded paper placed over the pillow, left for me to find.

  11

  Willow

  I’ve found that writing a letter to a madman is a lot like playing the piano. You require the right rhythm, and the confidence to execute the piece the way it’s meant to be performed—or in this case, lay down a challenge of my own.

  Did he read it? I catch myself observing him as we file into the car. He’s fully dressed, his hair slicked back. The clean suit and grooming set him apart from the ruthless figure who cornered me in his study. Instantly I’m on edge, my belly tensing.

  I look from the back seat window instead, but my reflection is a mocking specter, obscuring a view of the trees beyond. Fabio chose my outfit with his in mind, I think. Wearing this cream-colored frock, my hair loose, I appear innocent in comparison.

  The perfect willing fiancée in a sham engagement.

  In a way, our outfits are a chilling callback to when we first met, the day I discovered what a predator smells like. Thick cologne obscures his scent now, but hints of it buzz within my lungs, threatening to shatter what little resolve I have left.

  What the hell are we doing? From the outside looking in, we could be on our way to some lavish party.

  Not a parlay.

  Even the chirping of nearby birds and the yellow sunlight create a harsh contrast to the overall heavy mood. It’s all wrong. A moment like this requires a fitting soundtrack—one even the best composer in the world would have trouble devising. An unorthodox piece, bending the rules of music. Something with a slow tempo, followed by a series of off-key piano notes. Their glaring noise would herald the unnerving presence of one figure dominating the scene.

  Donatello.

  He is the catalyst upon which the entire impromptu symphony hinges. His breath alone plays a lethal cadence, infecting the mood of whatever domain he chooses to claim. Whether it be the house, or the car, or the small, quaint café we arrive at, driven by Fabio.

  I can’t help wondering if he knows just what “condition” Donatello will announce. Something devious, I’m sure. Malicious. Cruel.

  As I watch the tight line of my captor’s jaw from this angle, another, more terrifying, idea comes to mind. That his aim extends beyond getting revenge on Mischa. I’m his target. Whatever stunt he’ll pull today will be done with one goal in mind—reinforce the boundaries between us as he desires them.

  Captor and prey.

  “Here we are,” Fabio says as the van comes to a stop. He exits first and rac
es to open the door on my end before Donatello can move—by design, I suspect. With a deft twist of his body, he keeps himself between us, guiding me to the curb.

  The position provides him enough cover to whisper near my ear without Donatello seeing him. “Those letters. Have you found them, yet?”

  I look away in the hopes of disguising the truth. I found them, alright. Curiosity is a desperate itch that grows stronger the more I try to imagine just what those notes might contain. Oddly enough, Donatello doesn’t seem inclined to read them.

  Fabio, on the other hand, sighs when I shake my head. “Damn. Please. We must recover them—”

  “Are you giving my fiancée words of encouragement?” Donatello remarks coldly. He inspects my face with a piercing gaze. Whatever he sees makes his brows furrow.

  “Let’s head in, shall we?” Fabio says with a nervous laugh.

  The building across the street is our supposed destination, but not one I would picture for a meeting of this nature. It’s too cheerful, sporting a bright red awning that shields the glass front where white lettering spells out the establishment’s name: Donna’s Café.

  “A strange choice,” Donatello remarks. Something in his tone draws my attention, different from his usual rasp. Pain? His frown, however, reveals nothing.

  “I know the owner,” Fabio admits. “It’s a nice place, serves a vanilla biscotti, and it’s semipublic with a clear view of the city park—” He nods to an emerald plot of land across the street. “The perfect venue to host two men as liable to punch each other as they are to peacefully enjoy said biscotti and some thrilling conversation. Shall we?”

  He extends his arm toward me, his smile dazzling, but I’m nowhere near as confident. Unease floods my veins, infecting every muscle.

  As Fabio insisted, the café sports a cozy interior with beige walls and hardwood floors. A smiling woman greets us in the entryway. Fabio’s friend, I presume. She shows us to a private room near the back of the venue, which just so happens to sport a better view of the park. A stream of people flocks past, crowding the sidewalk beyond. Innocent bystanders.

  Or potential witnesses.

  Now it makes sense why Fabio chose this place—he’s left nothing to chance. A wooden table in the middle of the space is already set for four. Conveniently, the chairs are arranged so that Fabio and I sit directly in between Donatello and whoever happens to claim the spot across from him.

  Considering the purpose of this meeting, everything down to the presence of butter knives in place of a sharper utensil, seems carefully choreographed.

  “He’s late,” Donatello remarks coldly. Pale sunlight washes over him, and I don’t expect the thrill shooting through my belly. His black suit hugs his frame, deceptively softening the hard planes of muscle lurking beneath. At least until he raises a fist, propping it beneath his chin—the sleeve bulges. “I hope you have one of your scolding speeches ready.”

  “One isn’t necessary,” Fabio quips while reaching for a pitcher of water. Gracefully, he fills each of the four glasses, his hand steady. “He isn’t the one I’m trusting my reputation to.”

  Donatello scoffs, flicking his napkin into the air. “And yet, you seem willing to entrust all of our lives to him. A true display of your priorities, Fab.”

  “You and Vincenzo are my priorities,” the man remarks while spreading his own napkin over his lap. I notice the calculating way he scrutinizes Donatello.

  “So… Have you thought about whatever ‘condition’ you wanted to set?” he asks, cutting to the chase. Apparently, he hasn’t guessed this mysterious demand either. “It will need to be added to our predetermined paperwork, of course.” He lifts his leather briefcase and withdraws a black folder which he sets in the center of the table.

  “Paperwork.” Donatello’s laugh inspires goosebumps. “I don’t think this request needs to be written down. In fact, I think it’s so small, we can uphold it in name only.”

  His gaze cuts to mine as I try to decipher his tone. A threat? Yes, warns the ominous sensation running down my spine.

  “You know what? This just gives us the time to rehearse how this meeting should go. I present the documents,” Fabio suggests. “Everyone agrees to the terms, and then we all go about our merry way. No surprises. Understood?”

  Donatello grabs the nearest glass of water and takes a sip, his head at a skeptical angle. “There isn’t very much ‘merry’ to find in the situation, is there? Having to play tea party with the man who tried to kill my son—”

  “A fact that we all are very much aware of, and one you shouldn’t attempt to bring up during said tea party.” Abruptly, Fabio breaks off, craning his neck for a view of the doorway. Whatever he sees makes him sit straighter, tugging at his collar. “Speak of the devil.”

  I turn just in time to witness the entrance of said devil. As shame sears my cheeks, I figure it’s a fitting taste of hell. Mischa. He enters the room, scanning the surroundings with a predatory focus. Clothed in dark fatigues, he’s flanked by a guard I don’t recognize.

  My heart pangs. I don’t have the right to crave a friendly face. Still, I can’t resist the thought. Where is Evgeni?

  “Welcome.” Fabio stands, the picture of poise—at least until Donatello pushes back from the table and stands as well. He’s rough, jolting the silverware and causing the water jug to skid toward the edge.

  I hold my breath as he approaches the door, entering Mischa’s path, coming dangerously close to a set of silverware lying just beyond his reach. Rather than lunge for them, he extends his hand.

  “It’s good for you to come here.”

  My ears ring. I don’t recognize his baritone. Or perhaps I do—the speaker is just haggard with age and unrecognizable without his trademark grin. Only his old letters preserve him in this way—Donatello before life destroyed him. Seeing a glimpse of him now is anything but comforting.

  Ignoring him, Mischa claims the empty seat while his guard stands near the door. He looks at me directly, his gaze piercing. In that expression, I see all of his pain and irritation reflected. My fingers twitch, and I find myself grappling for my napkin. Using the excuse of unfolding it, I stare down at my lap.

  Because I’m a coward.

  “Forget your terms,” he hisses, his accent thick. “I’m here to bring my daughter home.”

  “Strange,” Donatello says. An unmistakable shift in baritone transforms his tone, and I wince in anticipation. Rather than rant, he moves. His steps echo, followed by a shudder running through the table as he returns to his seat. I imagine him bracing his hands over the surface, prepared to lunge at the slightest provocation.

  “I can’t bring my nephew ‘home,’” he says. “If you wanted to protect your daughter, Mischa, then you should have thought of that before you put a bullet through his brain.”

  “And you know all about putting bullets into skulls,” Mischa counters.

  My head shoots up, my gaze darting between them both. Mischa is stoic, but genuine confusion flits across Donatello’s face. “I don’t think you’re in the position to trade body counts—”

  “I’ve killed men,” Mischa says, baring his teeth in a grim imitation of a smile. He looks directly at me as he speaks. “Only men. Can you say the same?”

  Donatello blinks. “What the hell are you getting at—”

  “Enough.” Fabio somehow manages to straddle the delicate line between cordial and authoritative, effortlessly regaining control of the room. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Our terms.”

  He lifts his folder and opens it, displaying the documents within.

  “Both have been agreed upon by each party prior to this meeting, and while it may seem ‘foolish,’ I think we shouldn’t hunt for blame in a rush to point fingers—” His charming grin erases the sting from the insult. “I suggest we move past old slights and focus on the future. Speaking of which—”

  “Yes, let’s focus on the future,” Donatello says over him, “rather than dig up the body
of a dead woman and her child.”

  Color floods Fabio’s cheeks. “I don’t think now is the time to—”

  “Is there a reason you wouldn’t want a routine test done?”

  I cringe at Mischa’s tone. It’s cruel. His words from the other day were uttered with the same harshness. “Do you even know why the bastard sold you?”

  “Don’t fuck around,” Donatello bellows, lurching to his feet. “Though playing with the blood of innocents is nothing new for you. Your wife still sports the scars, doesn’t she?”

  “My wife is alive,” Mischa says, matching his icy, level tone. “But what about yours?”

  “Oh, dear.” Fabio’s quiet utterance punctuates the tension.

  It’s as if a storm rolls in across Donatello’s face. Recognition shoots through me—the same instinctive warning I felt the very first day I entered his office.

  “First, you want to toy with her dead body,” he snarls. “Now you want to slander her memory?”

  Mischa shrugs. “I may have hurt my wife. I never killed her—”

  “Enough!” A fist connects with the table hard enough to jolt it, but I’m surprised to realize Fabio is the culprit. “Olivia was my sister,” he says hoarsely. “My sister. I won’t hear any sick rumors implied. Understood?”

  He glances angrily from Donatello to Mischa. When no one interjects, he snatches a handful of documents and shuffles them.

  “Out of the three of us seated at this table, I am quite confident in assuming that I am the only one who can claim without a doubt that he hasn’t killed or maimed anyone. So, can Vincenzo. It is time to stop this game. In fact, have you stopped to wonder who might prefer that two of the most powerful men in the city be at each other’s throats rather than focused on the impending threat?”

  He withdraws a page from his stack and shoves it to the center of the table.

  “There is a new venture taking root in the city’s Western harbor front. Its origins are shrouded in mystery and so many layers of paperwork that even I have yet to unravel them all—but the primary investor’s aim is clear—to infiltrate the political system and forge contact with the biggest players of the underground networks. Our dear friends, the Saleris have been contacted, a fact I doubt either of you will find comforting. Well?”