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

by Lana Sky

  “Your Johnathan planned this,” I surmise. “But not to get the harbor.”

  “Who knows?” She scoffs again. “We’re all just little pawns to him. Pieces on a game board he believes he can move around at will. And like little puppets, they all fall into his trap. Except for your Willow,” she adds, meeting my gaze directly. A hint of what could be admiration sparkles in her gaze. “She’s spoiled his perfect plans.”

  Willow. That name is the least I expect to hear dragged into this mess. “How?”

  “She’s brought the two men he wanted to kill each other to the same table. I doubt she’s smart enough to keep it up, but boy was he pissed when he found out.”

  “Found out what?”

  “About their ‘engagement.’” She makes air quotes but doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

  Engagement. To Donatello Vanici?

  Damn, I don’t know why I’m so shocked. Mischa alluded to the bastard’s plan for vengeance. I just never thought the son of a bitch truly meant to go through with it…

  “But after tomorrow, he’ll still come out on top,” the woman says. “I don’t think anyone can stop him.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “He aims to strike several places at once. But like I said, I never knew his plan in full. Just what I’ve told you.”

  An explosion in the city.

  A ploy to cause a rift between the Stepanovs and Vanici.

  Working with both Salvatore and the Saleris.

  “There has to be a way to get to him,” I say, picturing the marina. I’m not familiar with the area, but no time like the present to learn. “I have contacts I can use.”

  I withdraw my phone and message Mario again, unsurprised when he doesn’t reply right away. Will anyone pick up my call after learning of the rift between Mischa and myself? A question for another day.

  Still, I don’t let her see my doubt.

  “Slow down, hero,” she scolds. “There is another way… I go skipping back to him with the information he wants and get close enough to learn what he’s planning.”

  I laugh. Then I turn on my heel and head for the door. “You are smart, I’ll give you that. You almost had me duped.”

  “I wouldn’t do it for free, you goddamn fool,” she snaps. When I look back, she’s lounging on the bed, her arms crossed defensively. “I want something from him as well. Without Mischa, you are my only shot at getting it.”

  If it weren’t for her obvious disgust, I wouldn’t believe her. “Why the hell would I present you back to the man you claim to fear?”

  “Because it’s the only way to save your Willow,” she replies. “And Eli, the boy. I’m sure he’ll be targeted, as well. He needs him dead, you see? Or do you want both of their deaths on your conscience?”

  She smiles when I say nothing.

  “Well, then. I can’t go to him dressed in a towel. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to prefer my body naked.”

  A tacit, or perhaps intentional hint that she isn’t sleeping with this man.

  “How is that my problem?”

  She fixes me with a lethal smile. “It seems you have shopping to do, soldier. Don’t skimp on the budget, either. I’m a size two, and I prefer the color red. It looks lovely on the water.”

  “You want me to buy you a dress?”

  She shrugs. “Correction. I need you to buy me a cover. One he won’t suspect when I come crawling back. He can’t know I left him on my own.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to look the part?” I rake her over, inclined to provide my own assessment. Beneath the coy veneer, she looks exhausted. Battered. Afraid. If I were a man questioning her loyalty, I’d believe her escape if she showed up on my door like this.

  Minus the nudity.

  “Why the costume?” I ask.

  “Darling, a Winthorp is never underdressed, no matter the occasion. If I went back to him looking like a drowned rat, he’d see through me instantly. He’s the calculating type, remember? I need to look like a queen, so confident of my role that I’d take the time to buy myself a new dress before groveling for his mercy. So is the way of my world. How did you put it? A spoiled heiress.”

  Do I believe her? It’s a sick, cruel way of viewing the world.

  Which means she’s right, of course.

  After all, she was once a Winthorp—a family of vipers who plotted amongst themselves with the same zeal they ruled the city with.

  They’d skin themselves alive rather than reveal their weakness before an enemy. In that line of thinking, a new dress would, of course trump the fear of death itself.

  So is the way of her world.

  16

  Don

  Fabio got one thing right.

  She’s mine in a way Mischa will never have her—we’re too alike. It’s a similarity reminiscent of that instinctive rift between cats and dogs—but a bond, nonetheless. We know each other.

  She thinks she’s seen the darker side of me, and I’ve already glimpsed the forbidden pieces of her. Beyond just her body—I’ve seen the impulses she’s learned to suppress. The fangs she won’t dare bare at the fancy dinner parties that populate her future.

  She thinks by writing a note, she can get under my skin. It’s stupid to play her game by writing in return, but for whatever reason, nothing else feels right.

  So, I sit in my study and fish out a new page, unable to squash the impression of being back in fucking high school. How to start?

  I know you, little wife, I write. I know what keeps you up at night. The fears you dwell on inside that pretty little head, hoping your father can’t see them. I know you. You’re afraid you’ll fuck it all up, just like I did. You never felt like you were one of them.

  You never belonged there.

  I pause, gripping the pen so tight it rips through the page. Damn it. A sudden thought prevents me from trashing it. She’ll see that tear, and she’ll know. Hell yes, she’ll know. What exactly?

  The trademark trait we share—rage. Endless, consuming hatred for what we can’t control. I can’t control her. Spilled ink and torn paper prove that everything I’m writing is the fucking truth.

  I want the truth from you. I want you to spell it out for me. Every little thing. Tell me what’s in your head. Or not.

  Forget Fabio and this sham deal. I’ll let you go tomorrow, back to your precious, cozy Stepanov manor. I’ll let you go. Just don’t respond. Ignore this letter and keep your words bottled up tight. I swear it on my life.

  Though what worth is that?

  Scratching out that line, I add another—I swear it on Liv’s grave.

  I slip the letter under the closed door of that pink room and enter my own without a second thought. In the morning, her bags will be packed, and we won’t have to pretend anymore.

  I’m so confident, that for the first time in days, I don’t fight to find oblivion. Sleep comes like a one-two punch, pitch-dark and dreamless…

  Until I’m jarred awake by the creak of the door opening. Soft, feminine steps resonate next, drawing a groan from my mouth. So much for a peaceful sleep. I’m dreaming of Liv…

  But Liv never smelled like this. My nostrils twitch, the scent unmistakable—Roses. Reluctantly, I peel my eyes open to see the culprit standing at the foot of the bed.

  Fuck Fabio for giving her these clothes. This dress, in particular, is gossamer-thin, with a conservative neckline; it shrouds her in innocence, the perfect garb of a mafiya princess. White wouldn’t be the color I’d choose for her myself. Not with those dark, watchful eyes.

  She looks better in black.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  The answer is obvious—my new little wife took me up on my offer.

  Sure enough, she extends her hand, revealing the slip of paper perched between her fingers. Damn her. I weigh ripping it to pieces.

  Coward, a part of me snarls, sounding suspiciously like Fabio. Can you face her or not?

  Shrugging off the haze of sleep, I sit up. The way
her lips twitch makes me look down.

  Damn. I stripped my shirt, wearing just my slacks, lying on top of the sheets. Her sudden modesty is a puzzle I’ll mull over later.

  Shifting to sit on the end of the mattress, I snatch the note from her and open it, straining my eyes to make out the scrawled letters in the dark. A sliver of moonlight plays to her advantage, illuminating the tail end of her statement.

  You owe me the truth. If you’re not afraid of it, then give me the rest of the letters.

  “I don’t owe anyone a damn thing,” I point out, but hell, even I can hear the lie in those words. I owe her more than an answer. If only the truth wasn’t far simpler than what I think she’s after. She wants a detailed confession, a broad outline of all my sins.

  All I can give her are three words—I don’t remember.

  She should crave the lie. It’s the only closure she needs. I make a far better villain that way. Still, I promised her.

  Inclining my head, I ask, “What do you want to know?”

  She inches forward, letting the moonlight bathe her face in its silvery glow. Those eyes convey her thoughts so clearly I grit my teeth. Fuck, it’s like…

  I’m in her head, able to hear her beg—Tell me. Just tell me!

  “You want to know why I left you? Really?” The answer on my tongue is a variation of the same one I’ve grown accustomed to telling. Because I didn’t give a damn. You meant nothing.

  Then I swallow and change tact.

  “You want the truth? I… I don’t even remember why. I remember what happened,” I clarify as she steps forward, unable to disguise her interest. “Gino… Your father was working for the Hortega cartel. There was a trio of them, embedded in the famiglia, each taking their orders from a different location at different times so they couldn’t be traced. It was smart,” I admit. “Smart as hell, but Gino slipped up. I learned he was one of the moles, and I confronted him.”

  It’s funny how some parts of the past are so murky while others? They’re crystal fucking clear. Gino had swaggered around, convinced I’d never suspect him. Without direct evidence, I never would have. I trusted him. My right hand, a man I considered a brother, a fratello.

  For a second, he’s in front of me…

  Then I blink and realize I’m looking at his daughter. She never resembled him outright, but they have a similar ability when it comes to me—I always underestimate them.

  “He wasn’t the only one,” I say. “Antonio Salvatore was working for the cartel as well, I think—the bastard was just better at hiding it. They wanted to take over. Wanted me dead. But do you know what I did when I found out about the son of a bitch?”

  She doesn’t react. Does it hurt her to hear this? God, I hope so. At least then, she has something more to hate me for.

  “I showed him mercy,” I croak. “For you. I didn’t want… I was going to let him go. I beat the fucker within an inch of his life, but I didn’t kill him. And then… Well, you know what happened next.”

  She was there. I see her face, tethered to a fragment of memory. I wrack my brain to follow it, trying to remember. Sea salt. Hot sand. “We were at the beach, weren’t we?”

  Her eyes flash with recognition, and it’s enough to recall the rest.

  “You, me, and Vin. I was teaching you both to swim.”

  The sun had been shining, the day beautiful. She and Vin frolicked in the sand, and it was damn near perfect.

  “Then Liv called. I don’t remember what she said, but I went back.”

  And I found her dead.

  “I lost my shit that day,” I tell her hoarsely, not that it matters. It’s a pathetic excuse, but it’s all I can give her. “I must have blacked out. Gone insane. If there was a reason… I don’t know. I can’t—it doesn’t matter. I did it, and I know it’s too late for sorry…but I am. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

  The way her breathing hitches echoes like a train crash. Time hinges on the slow pause before she swallows, stunned by the admission.

  It takes effort to decipher the rest of her reaction. I turn and see her standing there, just watching. I will never understand how I can meet that stare and know that I have nothing else to offer her.

  I lost the right to make amends seven years ago.

  But what did Fabio say? Try.

  “If you were a man… If you were in the famiglia, we’d settle this one way,” I say, though I know what she wants—me dead. Soon enough, she’ll get her wish. In the meantime, there’s no harm in trying Fabio’s plan. Get inside her head. Get her on my side.

  Find out what the fuck Mischa might be hiding—and who the hell tried to set me up.

  “I’d let you have an offering,” I tell her absently. “I know a man once who demanded the cock of a bastard who violated his daughter. Is that what you want? Castration? Money? Blood? Just say the word, and it’s yours.”

  I mean it. Like hell, do I mean it…but her flashing eyes convey her answer. I don’t want anything from you!

  “Sleep on it,” I suggest. “Save it for a rainy day. Maybe Mischa’s life would be a good starting point—”

  Tears. They don’t belong, glistening on her cheeks. I’m on my feet, advancing on her within a heartbeat. Confused, I swipe at one bead of moisture, cradling it on the tip of my finger. I don’t believe it’s real until it breaks open, wetting my thumb.

  I’m telling her what little of the truth I can, but I’ve only wound up hurting her more.

  “You loved me that damn much, huh?” I croak. “When I turned out to be nothing more than a piece of shit. I couldn’t protect Olivia. I couldn’t even protect you. You should have been glad to get rid of me.”

  I see it now. Why she’s really so angry. She’s dwelled on this image of who she thought I was, but it was a lie. I’m not the Don she remembers.

  Though was that man really so good to her? That much of a role model?

  A man who couldn’t even please his own wife?

  No.

  “Was it because of what I did to Gino?” That has to be it. I grab her, pressing my thumb against her bottom lip as if forcing the answer there. It makes more sense for her to mourn her own father than me. “Is that where your grudge stems from? I don’t regret killing him. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  She slaps my hand away. Finally, I think I have the right answer. Until her eyes meet mine, blazing with more pain. More hate.

  The guilt ripping through my chest is only a fraction of what I deserve to feel—a lifetime of pain for hurting her. “Damn it. If Gino isn’t the cause, then why…”

  Her lashes flutter, and in her eyes, all I see is my own reflection. Me.

  “Just tell me what you want,” I say. Like I’m fucking begging.

  But she refuses me, turning for the door.

  “No!” I grab her wrist before she’s taken a step, easily yanking her back. “Wait. I want to hear it,” I rasp against her ear, gripping tighter as she tries to pull away. “I want to know. Fuck. Just tell me what it is. Why?”

  Why she held on all these years, letting that rage fester and smolder…

  Why the fuck couldn’t she move on? Forget me.

  “Tell me!”

  Her harsh exhale packs the intensity of a scream.

  I see her fist forming, but I don’t move. The blow strikes the middle of my chest, drawing a startled grunt. I don’t even have to look to know it’s the spot where her name is etched into my skin.

  She extends her fingers, letting the nail of one bite into the flesh. Without her having to say a word, I understand her point. I’m a liar. I tell her she meant nothing, but the evidence to the contrary is here, right beneath her fucking hands.

  In the moonlight, the whole thing gleams, starkly grotesque. Her name, scrawled in red, done with a knife and the aid of a mirror. I remember that…

  Trembling, I stroke the outline of the first letter with the pad of my finger. I see myself, cutting it initially, letting the blood run rivulets down my skin as I grou
nd the ink into each fresh wound. I remember the pain—searing, burning agony—and knowing that it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near punishment enough.

  How could I do that to her?

  “You want me to cut myself again?” I ask her, gripping her hand so that the palm is flat against my skin. Her muscles tense, threatening to break away, but I grab her harder. “I’ll do it, if that’s what you want. Tell me!”

  Though it’s not like I need her permission.

  Reaching into my pocket, I withdraw her dagger. I don’t even remember carrying it all this time. It still has the Salvatore girl’s blood dried over the blade. Regardless, I press the sharpened edge to my chest.

  “If that’s what you want. I’d slice myself open again—but we both know it wouldn’t be enough, would it?”

  Anger blazes across her irises—Hell no, it wouldn’t.

  “You should have never put your trust in me.” A tall order to ask of a child. Still, it’s an argument I feel compelled to make. “You should have moved on. Lived your perfect life. You deserve that life.”

  Symphonies and fancy schools. Money and safety. A father who’d kill for her. A life most would kill for.

  Only she doesn’t agree, for reasons I doubt even she understands. Again, she fights, resisting my grip—but I don’t let her, clenching her forearm until she relents.

  “I won’t insult you by thinking the past can be erased. It can’t. What I’m offering you is…”

  How would Fabio put it?

  “Peace.”

  I finally release her, but she doesn’t run, so close I can smell that inexplicable scent wafting off her skin. Roses. I breathe it in and, for a moment, I forget everything between us. The past. The hate. I just smell her as a woman…

  Perfect. Beautiful. It’s so damn apparent that she doesn’t belong here, amid cloying clouds of dust and cobwebs.

  She’s always been destined for more than me. More than anything I could ever offer her.