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

by Lana Sky

  He waits for confirmation.

  Donatello remains hunched over the table while Mischa finally shifts his gaze away from me—but their silence serves as the closest they might ever come to an agreement.

  “Go at each other’s throats if you want,” Fabio warns. “But I don’t think whoever was smart enough to pull off this attack will lurk in the shadows much longer.”

  “So why this sham alliance? It’s better if we each turn our resources to finding the snake,” Mischa suggests.

  Fabio’s smile betrays a chilling edge that robs all warmth from it. Instantly, I get a hint of the man who managed to rise to such a position, able to command two crime lords as though they were naughty children.

  “That would be a decent plan, if I trusted either of you. You want to know my motive in forging this ‘alliance’? Self-preservation. I’m a peace-loving man, but I’m also shrewd,” he says. “Shrewd enough to know that nothing gets two beasts to work in unison better than being tethered to the same cart.”

  “Those are bold words,” Mischa warns.

  “Very bold.” Fabio’s grin returns, dazzling and full. “But if my opinion meant nothing, I assume you both wouldn’t be sitting at this table right now. So, if you would rather squabble and fight, by all means. I won’t waste my resources on a solution that is doomed to fail.”

  Mischa stands. “Business and family are two separate notions. You want to discuss business? Let’s do it without my daughter being held captive—”

  “Captive,” Donatello counters in that eerily calm tone. “I didn’t drag her here, Mischa. I never have. In fact, you should ask her why the hell does she keep coming back?”

  “Watch yourself.”

  Donatello laughs. “Or what? You’ll kill me? Do it, like you should have done day one, rather than aim at Vincenzo. I’m the monster? I don’t cloak my actions under the guise of being a protective father.”

  “So, what would you describe your ‘actions’ in selling a child to a known trafficker?” Mischa counters. “Or are you still pretending that she died?”

  Silence falls with a startling impact. Donatello holds Mischa’s gaze for so long my lower back begins to throb; I’ve been sitting so stiffly. Finally, he inclines his head, gazing from the window. “I never hid who I am. I can admit what I’ve done.”

  “All of it?” Mischa prods. “Like your uncanny luck with wives.”

  More confusion flits across Donatello’s face, drawing an irritated scoff from Mischa. He’s hinting heavily at something—something to deal with Olivia—but for whatever reason, Donatello doesn’t seem to be in on the joke.

  Or he’s refusing to be.

  “If we are done with the schoolyard tactics, I’d like to discuss business,” Fabio says. He opens his folder again, withdrawing two sets of documents. He hands one to Donatello and the other to Mischa. “Our terms, as agreed upon. Unless anyone would like to make any last-minute adjustments...”

  We both look at Donatello, who says nothing.

  “Then are we agreed?” Fabio asks. “Peace, in exchange for coordination on pinpointing the threat?”

  Mischa remains silent, turning his gaze on me. “Is this what you want?” It’s the tone he used when we first spoke about Donatello, heavy and restrained. As though there is so much he wants to say.

  For whatever reason, he doesn’t.

  “I suggest we take her silence as an affirmative,” Donatello snidely suggests. “Or is she your property, too?”

  “She is family,” Mischa corrects, cutting his eyes to him. “That term means something to me. But it also means that she needs to learn the truth for herself—not all men believe the same.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Donatello says, shifting the subject. He extends his hand toward Fabio, prompting the other man to fish two pens from his briefcase. Donatello accepts one, signing the stack before him. Cocking his head, he observes Mischa. “Do you agree?”

  Mischa rises from the table and heads for the door. “I’m not going to play this game—”

  “This has never been a game,” Fabio says, his tone harder than ever. “You claim to care about your daughter? Then think of her—” He withdraws another page from his briefcase and places it on the table. “These are her demands. She’s made her voice heard, whether or not either of you want to hear it.”

  Mischa pauses, his body rigid. Swiftly, he turns on his heel and snatches the other pen. He signs on the stack nearest him and slams the pen down.

  “I guess we’re in agreement,” he says coldly.

  “It seems we are.” Fabio accepts the documents in stride, tucking both into his briefcase. “As promised, here is the information I’ve gathered so far on the as of yet unnamed threat.”

  Mischa returns to the table, accepting the document, as does Donatello. While they read, their frowns deepen eerily in unison.

  “Son a bitch!” Donatello looks up at Fabio. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

  “That whoever masterminded this rift between you two has quietly bought out a third of the harbor’s waterfront property? I thought that would be best discussed once the more volatile topics were squared away.”

  “But you don’t have an identity yet?” Mischa demands.

  Fabio shakes his head. “They’re clever, but with the combined resources of the mafiya and famiglia, we might be able to better pinpoint a name at least.”

  “If he’s as ‘clever’ as you say, then why haven’t we heard of him until now?” Mischa argues. “The Saleris or anyone else wouldn’t have the tact to cover their tracks. But we’re supposed to believe that someone new has come out of the blue? Bullshit.”

  “I’m working on it,” Fabio says. “My suggestion is that Mischa, you use your territory in the waterfront to your advantage. Start leveraging your position against the owners who have sold and see if you can squeeze out a name. And there is one more thing…” He tugs at his collar, his expression suddenly grim. “I think that, given the intelligence of this particular individual, we should be aware that there may be moles embedded where we least expect them. He has to be getting his information from somewhere.”

  “I will vouch for my men,” Mischa says, eyeing Donatello.

  Surprisingly, the other man doesn’t take the bait. He stares off into space as if he’s too lost in thought to notice.

  “Money can sway anyone,” Fabio says. “In the meantime, Donatello and I will work our contacts to find out where the money is coming from.”

  “Like one happy family,” Donatello snarls nastily.

  Mischa says nothing, rising from the table again. With one last glance at me, he heads for the door, his guard following dutifully in his wake.

  “Just one last thing,” Donatello adds. His faked nonchalance sets off alarm bells in my mind. Instantly, I’m on guard. “We didn’t discuss the wedding details.”

  “We can agree upon those later,” Fabio says quickly, gathering his briefcase. “Let’s—”

  “There’s no need,” Donatello suggests. “In fact, I insist on it.”

  “On what?”

  His smile is a chilling display of white teeth. “On planning every detail of the ceremony. I’ll let Fabio pick the place and make the security arrangements, of course, but everything down to the gown of my beautiful bride will be at my discretion.”

  My breath catches. For a harrowing heartbeat, the rest of the world fades to a murmur, drowned out by my surging pulse. The bright, cheery café falls away. All I see is him, staring back with a look that heralds only danger.

  It feels like an eternity before other noises break through. In reality, it’s been just seconds.

  Mischa’s eyes flash as he snarls a reply.

  Fabio beats him to it. “I thought your fiancée made her opinion clear on that front?”

  “She said she wants to pick her own clothing,” Donatello says, still holding my gaze. “But I’ll make an exception for the wedding dress.”

  Fabio frowns
, seemingly puzzled by that point of contention.

  But I’m not. Again, it only cements the suspicion I’ve had from the start. I’m the only one he truly perceives as his enemy. Mischa is just a distraction, a respected opponent in war.

  Me? I am a thorn in his side.

  12

  Don

  “Bravo,” Fabio snarls, clapping. “That was a marvelous performance.”

  We’re in my study, but already the place feels different. Dustier. Dimmer. By the day, this old structure seems to get even older, further removed from the past. Soon these walls will split and collapse in on themselves, swallowing anything left between them.

  “You made your point, Don. At least you kept it PG, so I guess I can’t complain. Here—” Pausing mid-rant, Fabio draws a different set of documents from his briefcase. “The insurance forms,” he says. “Should I ask why you wanted them now?”

  “No reason.” I take them, setting them on my desk. I feel Fab’s eyes on the back of my neck, and I’m careful not to give away too much interest.

  But those papers contain Vin’s future.

  “You reverted control of the port back to me, correct? What’s left of it, anyway.” How could I forget? Mischa Stepanov decided to set it on fire. In all the chaos since, I haven’t had the time to survey the damage.

  Regardless, the land itself is still worth something.

  “Yes,” Fabio says warily. “I haven’t gotten to finalize the finer details amid our recent eventful schedule, though.”

  “I want it all listed,” I say, raking my eyes over the language of the insurance document. “All of it goes to Vin.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re this worried about our troublesome newcomer?”

  I shrug off the thinly veiled concern. “Don’t read too much into it, Fab. Just do this for me, okay?”

  “Okay.” He reaches past me, gathering the documents. “But I think I’ll hold onto these at my office. And I shouldn’t have to say this… I don’t want to say this, but—” He meets my gaze, and for once, he doesn’t put on the poised, unshaken mask I’m used to. He openly wears his fear, his face constricted, eyes wide. “There is a clause that suicide would render the policy null and void. Vin would get your assets, but not your very hefty payout. Not that you would even consider doing something like that to him.”

  He waits, daring me to fill the silence that falls. Lie. Make an excuse. Anything he can use to solidify whatever suspicion is growing in his skull.

  “Goodnight, Fab,” I say, claiming my chair.

  He deliberately lingers in the doorway before retreating into the hall with a sigh. “Goodnight, Donatello.”

  I sense the moment he leaves the house, but I lose track of time after that. Without the insurance documents to distract me, my brain turns to its current chosen vice—her.

  The letter she left me burns a hole in my pocket. I felt it, searing away during the meeting with Mischa. And now? It’s hellfire-hot against my thigh, distracting me from reviewing the numbers Fabio presented.

  Like always, he’s right. The threat of a new player should be my sole concern. Not her. For all I know, she left me a blank piece of paper.

  And if she did…

  Fuck it, I’d see it as a sign—I got inside her head. I got her to back down. I won.

  Why prolong the inevitable? Triumph can trump business, just this once.

  Eagerly, I fish out the page, flicking it open with my thumb. A grunt rips from my throat. Shock? Or amusement. The little witch wrote to me, all right, the firm handwriting undermining her innocent mafiya princess image. No princess writes like this.

  You took those letters because you are a coward.

  I laugh out loud, but I keep reading, feeling my eyes narrow to slits.

  You pretend that you don’t give a damn, when in reality, you are the child now, hiding from the horrors you don’t want to face. What are you afraid of? That I’ll see the truth? I am not afraid. I want to know.

  Why did you do it?

  I crush the note in my fist, rising to my feet. It’s already later in the day than I feel it should be—as if thinking of her eats up more time than I realize. My study is nearly pitch dark. Beyond the window, the sun is below the tree level, painting the horizon blood red.

  The walls reflect the scarlet hue, embodying Mischa’s taunt—My wife isn’t dead.

  Again, Fabio is right. This fucking house is a prison—all along, I’ve convinced myself that being here hurts her more, but it’s a lie. Masochism might be the real answer. What else could explain wandering these halls, stepping over the bloodstains still visible if you squint hard enough? The past battles for supremacy every fucking moment. I swear I hear laughter one minute. Footsteps the next. A voice…

  “We need to talk.”

  That voice isn’t Liv’s. Still, I take my time looking over my shoulder to find Luciano behind me, someone real at least—and relevant to the topic that should be my sole concern. If Antonio was a puppet, then his closest disciples had to know something.

  “We do need to talk,” I say, returning to my desk.

  “I need to know your plan,” he says. “With Kisa. With the boys and me. If you keep us on, then we deserve a cut of whatever the hell you’re planning. No more secrets. No more orders. I’m not your fucking babysitter, either—”

  “Have a seat.” I gesture to the nearest chair. After a second’s pause, he sits. “I need to know who Antonio was talking to,” I say before he can reply. “If he were taking his marching orders from someone, you had to see something. A regular visitor. Something. Tell me what I want to know, and we can discuss fair compensation for your efforts.”

  He rakes his hand through his hair, cutting his gaze to the wall behind me. “Define visitor,” he says finally. “He only took business at his office. Those appointments were the Saleris, and a few associates.”

  “No one out of the usual?” Following Fab’s line of logic, this culprit is a newcomer, highly intelligent with wads of cash to throw around. Someone who couldn’t fly under the radar for too long.

  “Not that I recall. He didn’t do business with very many people. Now, who he had at the house? That’s a different matter.”

  I’m not surprised. Antonio had always been a hotshot, even in the days of old Giovanni. It was a rare thing to see him without a new whore on his arm—before and after his marriage.

  “He liked his parties,” Luciano adds. “Men. Women. Lions, tigers, bears. He’s had all manner of shit in and out of that place, and I couldn’t even begin to keep track. But there was one woman I saw more than the others. Older than his usual type. Blond. But I couldn’t tell you more.”

  I file away the description for later.

  “What about Kisa? Did you keep track of her?” I don’t know why she’s on the forefront of my tongue now. It could just be a sloppy segue to the real question on my mind when it comes to Salvatore.

  You have an alliance with one of the most powerful families in Hell’s Gambit, and a cushy position as the famiglia head. Why risk it all to take orders from an outsider?

  What the hell did he have to gain?

  “What about her?” Luciano says, his tone colder.

  “You’ve been with Tony since he took over, haven’t you? Did you know her mother?”

  He grits his teeth. So that’s a yes. I can’t understand his defensiveness, though. Unless, like me, he remembers what Kisa let slip.

  “She used to hurt herself?” I ask, recalling how the girl put it. Mama hurt her arms, and then she wore bandages, and then she went away.

  “You don’t know a damn thing about her,” Luciano warns. Apparently, this woman is a touchy subject. “Kisa’s just a kid. She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time. I agreed to help you fix Tony’s fuck up. Elisa wasn’t part of that.”

  “Elisa. Was that her name?” I doubt I ever met her. Antonio must have married her not long after Liv died, going off his daughter’s age.

  The bastard.
He took my life away and forged his own on the ashes.

  “Speaking of Kisa, it isn’t right for her to be cooped up here. If you want to dangle her over the Saleris’ heads, then fine. But she should be in her own bed, with her toys and her clothes. Don’t make her suffer because of her father’s fuck up.”

  “You heard the nurse’s judgment when it came to her wounds,” I say. “She’s what? Six? Seven? Not many children know how to slice open their arms with a dagger—”

  “It’s not her fault you leave weapons lying out in the fucking open, is it?” he counters.

  “She’s part Saleri,” I point out. “And yet Mateo hasn’t come barging through my door to get her back. Why do you think that is?”

  One reason could be that I put the fear of God into him and Gregori—another is that they’re too distracted to give a fuck, even about their own blood. My gut is leaning toward the latter option.

  Especially when Luciano stiffens, his expression hard. “Don’t bring her into this. She’s just a kid.”

  Just a kid. But the way he says her name draws notice. Hoarse. Similar to the same way I say Vin’s.

  Full of guilt.

  “You spend a lot of time with her,” I add, stroking my chin. “You could have taken her at any moment and sold her back to them. Hell, maybe that’s been your aim all along? I’m guessing Antonio wasn’t much of a doting father.”

  “You could say that.” His tone is careful, his expression blank.

  “You didn’t cry too much about Antonio.” Something that didn’t stick out until now. I remember the day he saw me on the steps of the Salvatore Mansion. Tony’s death didn’t enrage him the way seeing me with Kisa did. “Did he hurt her?”

  The girl isn’t right. I can look at her thousand-mile stare and know she’s been through her own personal hell. My mind doesn’t want to go there. But fuck it.