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

by Lana Sky

  If there is a plot involving the city, there’s no reason why I can’t get to the bottom of it my damn self. Starting with the Saleris’ yacht.

  It’s already on the water by the time I reach the marina. At least part of her story wasn’t a lie. Luckily for the Saleris, it’s a decent day to sail, bolstered by a steady breeze.

  Typically, I suspect the marina would be packed with boaters looking to take advantage of the beautiful weather. Instead, it’s empty—of the average citizen, anyway.

  I don’t fail to notice the men scattered at least a ten-block radius, up and down the water’s edge. Dressed in black, they blend in well with their surroundings. Too well.

  The longer I watch them, the more hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I know a trained man when I see one. The caliber of this sort looks high enough to match the Stepanovs’ private retinue.

  And, as if on some unknown cue, my cell phone goes off.

  “Volkov.”

  “6th street to 12th,” a woman says in my ear, her voice hoarse. “You have an hour to clear it.”

  Son of a bitch. I eye the number she’s calling from but don’t recognize it. A trick?

  Then I spy the white vessel gleaming on the water. The only boat on the water, to be exact. “You’re on the boat.”

  “Meet me at the Marina,” she croaks. “Be there near the last dock. Row E. Don’t try to be a hero, either. Just wait for me. I expect you to bring a very fast horse, soldier. We won’t be able to leave the city after. If we don’t die, that is.”

  It’s a grittier outlook than any she’s revealed so far. She’s worried.

  Which means I have to reconcile that she might have been telling the truth from the start.

  “So, there will be an explosion?” I demand. Sixth street. That’s the location where those men were working, carrying God knows what into those warehouses. “What is he planning? Why?”

  “Oh, there will be more than an explosion,” the woman rasps. “But it’s different than I thought. I’m not sure if I can—”

  Without warning, the line goes dead.

  I’m already climbing from the car, my gaze on the water.

  Then I remember her words. Don’t try to be a hero. Wait for me.

  Fine. She can gamble her life if she wants to, but no one else’s.

  Without taking my gaze from the yacht, I make a call, bringing the phone to my ear.

  “Evgeni?” Louie’s voice is a shadow of his boisterous tone from last night. “What the hell, boy? First, you run off on me to be Mischa Stepanov’s whipping boy, and now you’re up my ass—”

  “I need another favor,” I say. “Same price. Whatever you want.”

  “Seriously?” He grumbles, cursing under his breath. I imagine him climbing out of bed, trying to sober up. “You must be desperate. Hit me.”

  “I need you to clear the West end docks of everyone. Now. Call in some favors to the police if you have to—”

  “Whoa! Slow down. I told you that some serious motherfucker was in charge of that shit. I stick my nose in there and—”

  “And you’ll have my balls in a vice,” I counter. “You want me on the hook for whatever you want? Then tell me you can do it.”

  He sighs. “I can try. That’s it. What the hell has gotten into you, anyway?”

  “There’s another thing. I want you to find out whatever you can about a woman. Two, actually. The first is a Safiya Mangenello. That ring a bell?”

  “Never heard of her,” he replies. Grudgingly, I sense he isn’t lying.

  “What about the other? Her name is Briar Winthorp—”

  “Ice-cold cunt,” Louie snarls with a venom that catches me off guard. “A bitch you better avoid if you like your cock intact.”

  An accurate description. “I’m assuming you’ve met her, then.”

  He barks out a vicious laugh. “You bet your ass I have. The little bitch. She—” Abruptly, he breaks off, clearing his throat. “Just stay away from her, sonny boy. The bitch is bad news.”

  “Bad news,” I echo. A sudden thought comes to mind. I should have seen it before. “She mentioned Amina. That’s a name she couldn’t learn from just anyone.”

  “Ev…”

  “I’m assuming that you supplied her with the ‘research’ she might need to know about my past.”

  “Ah, fuck. Listen, Ev. I didn’t have a choice. The little bitch leveraged a debt from years ago and offered to pay it off. It’s a cold world out there, alright? After you left me in the dust for old Mischa, can you blame me for wanting to make a little coin off all our good times? You were a hell of a bounty hunter. The iciest motherfucker I’ve ever seen—”

  “When we meet again, I’ll remind you of the importance of privacy,” I say, hanging up.

  At least now, one mystery is solved. Someone had to pay good money to steer her to Louie. All to get to me.

  Do I truly believe she’d go through all of that trouble merely to meet with Mischa?

  Hell, no, I don’t.

  Not one damn bit.

  In fact, it’s time to get answers from the mafiya leader himself. I keep my cell phone in my hand and dial his direct number.

  The line barely rings before it goes dead—too quickly for Mischa to have ended it manually. Did he block me?

  It’s an act too petty for someone like him.

  Something’s wrong.

  You’ve been blacklisted, Mario claimed.

  What the fuck does that mean?

  I turn toward my rental, aiming to head straight to the manor my damn self. This mystery has gone on long enough.

  But leaving now would mean leaving her. If she is truly in danger…

  Fuck. I glare at the yacht, imagining her cackling on the upper deck, amused at making me jump like her little puppet. Her betrayal would be an easy fantasy to believe…

  If it weren’t for one little slip-up, that’s been haunting me from the start. Hell, maybe it’s why I’ve humored her this damn long.

  Ali. She referred to her so-called son as Ali more than once—a nickname, conveying a softness that a completely heartless bitch wouldn’t bother to utilize. I know that from firsthand experience.

  My father never called me by any name other than the one he gave me—Evgeni Victorovitch Volkov. Day or night, he referred to me as that. Only that. Pride wasn’t his reasoning. Just discipline, the way a trainer would ensure its guard dog never learned anything but the strictest commands. To gain complete control over a living being, you must first strip them of emotion. Humanity. An identity.

  A woman who didn’t give a damn about her son wouldn’t slip and call him Ali while proclaiming her lack of concern.

  Though hell, why does it even matter? She’s a shitty mother overall, and that should be enough to counter any guilt I might feel for leaving her behind.

  The choice isn’t that hard to make.

  In the grand scheme, I should let the bitch drown.

  18

  Willow

  Ellen once described love as madness. I remember the moment so clearly. We were in my room, and she stood gazing from the window as she spoke, her blue eyes distant.

  It’s hard to put into words, she admitted. It’s more or less something that you have to experience for yourself to truly know it. All I can say is that one minute you think you understand normal affection, concern, love even. And the next you don’t. The whole world becomes lopsided around your perception of one person. Their life becomes yours, their fears and emotions as well. Everything you are takes on a new definition. Wife. Mother. There are so many variations of love, and yet they all boil down to the same, driving promise. You’d die for them.

  I knew she meant every word.

  And I felt horrified that I couldn’t relate in the slightest. Something had to be wrong with me. I was broken, incapable of feeling anything close to her version of love.

  Now, I know the truth. I was just overused. A fried electrical socket, forever defective.

&nbs
p; Why? Because Donatello Vanici overwhelmed my young system with more emotion than it could handle. He taught me care and affection.

  He taught me hate.

  Being around him arouses all of those past sentiments and more in a warped, twisted context. Emotions, in general, feel hotter and more vibrant around him, like I could explode from the sensation alone. Combust. As long as he’s alive, I will never feel normal again, whatever that means. His death would be one way to reconcile the damage; I know that.

  Or…

  Steal back whatever he took all those years ago. Considering that I don’t even know how to put that into words…

  It’s a daunting task. Love isn’t a strong enough term—or perhaps too strong. Trust, maybe?

  Trust in him when I’d already learned to withhold it from everyone else. Trust that he would never let me down like they had. Never betray me.

  It hurt like hell to hear that he never cared, but at least I had something to hold on to. Now he claims to not even remember why he sold me. A pathetic, stupid lie. It has to be. Selling a child isn’t something you’d forget—unless he truly is a depraved monster.

  Or a man with a psyche so damaged he can’t truly recall anything. I wrack my brain, trying to square the man in my memories with any one of those scenario Donatellos. Neither fits.

  He wasn’t crazy, at least not back then. He wasn’t cold or distant. Though, I am aware that my recollections don’t completely match reality, distorted from childhood and a rose-colored view. Olivia saw a very different man from my Don. Someone she pleaded with, displaying desperation I will never understand.

  I miss you. I miss you. I miss you…

  Maybe that’s what Fabio wanted to hide? His sister had grown out of love with her husband…

  A flash of the way he used to look at her appears in my mind in painful clarity—but I refuse to pity him. Instead, I’ll take him up on his offer—use him. Take everything he has to give and salvage something from it.

  Olivia wilted in the shadow of his indifference, but I won’t.

  I refuse to.

  For the first time in days, my thoughts feel focused. With this newfound clarity, I dress in a simple gray sweater and jeans from the selection Fabio procured for me, and I leave the room with the determination of a soldier facing an opponent on the battlefield. Intuitively, I sense he’s already awake, plotting somewhere deep within the house. I follow the impulse downstairs and wind up before the mouth of his study.

  Unsurprisingly, he’s hunched over the desk, one hand propped against his forehead. The angle alone betrays the lines etched into his face by age and exhaustion. A thrill runs through me, though I write it off as grim recognition. His mouth is in that hard line I remember; his bottom lip skewered between his teeth. He’s working on something. Before him is a wealth of assorted documents, spread out haphazardly.

  “You’re still here.” His tone is cold, but neutral. As he lifts his head, I don’t find the hostility I’ve come to expect.

  Neither change comforts me.

  This iteration of Donatello Vanici is a chameleon. One adept at portraying whatever guise is required to achieve his chosen aim. Last night was all an act meant to lower my guard. The real question is, why?

  He sits back without revealing the answer, swiping his hand over the papers before him. A tilt of his head beckons me closer, but his eyes contain a dare I don’t have the energy to decipher. With every step I advance, I tell myself that it’s on my own terms. Of my own free will.

  He hasn’t fooled me. I’ll turn the tables soon enough…

  “Sit.” He gestures to the leather chair before him, but I don’t move. It’s childish defiance. I expect him to snarl his command again, but a slow grin contorts his mouth instead. “Suit yourself.”

  He shoves a stack of papers at me and picks up a pen. “You are a smart, sneaky son of a bitch out to undermine me from the ground up. How do you do it?”

  I blink. His expression remains blank, and his voice lacked the anger I’m used to—he didn’t mean that statement literally. It was a question. One having something to do with the documents he nods to.

  I scan the nearest one, feeling my brows furrow. The series of numbers and random statements printed on the sheet read as a jumble of nonsense at first. The more I read, however, the more sense of it I can make.

  Locations? All for sale, seemingly within walking distance of each other, but their stated designations make no sense when taken all together. A butcher shop. A fish market. A random bookstore a few miles down.

  You are a smart, sneaky son of a bitch out to undermine me from the ground up. How do you do it?

  I let myself embody that sarcastic hypothetical. How would I destroy him if I had endless resources at my disposal? The first image that comes to mind steals my breath—stripping before him in darkness, forcing him to view me in the one way he shouldn’t…

  No. To truly destroy him, my plan would be far simpler. I’d buy an army, not buildings. Then I’d drive him out of the city brick by brick and erase any trace of the name Vanici.

  “Here—” he shoves a folder before me, containing more documents. These, however, all pertain to one location. A port with his name listed as the owner.

  I look up and catch him watching me in return. A shiver runs down my spine, my throat dampening. He’s openly transparent, eyeing me like he’s waiting for something. Hunting for it. Then, his upper lip quirks, and I almost drop the page in my hand. I haven’t seen this expression in seven years.

  The smirk he’d sport during the games we used to play, when he was all but sure of his win—until I proved him wrong, winning instead. I taught you well, he’d remark after…

  “Maybe I was wrong.” While I was lost in thought, his smirk disappeared, replaced by a frown. “Give it back—” He grabs for the folder, but I pull it out of his reach.

  Eyeing the pages again, I scramble to connect the dots on my own.

  Several locations, all within close distance, and one pivotal business owned by him. Without thinking, I rummage through the remaining pages until I find a map tucked amid the chaos.

  Donatello loudly clears his throat. He’s watching, still waiting. And yet…

  I’m too fixated on the puzzle he’s presented to care. Despite my better judgment, his dare piqued my interest. How do you do it? An answer lurks in the murky bits of information; I can feel it. You are a smart, sneaky son of a bitch…

  I only know one man who fits that descriptor perfectly. So, I ask myself—If I were Donatello Vanici, what would I see?

  Danger. Paranoia would color my outlook of the world in hostile shades of gray. In his eyes, even a harmless butcher shop has ulterior motives.

  But would Mischa see things any differently? Yes. Mischa is a crocodile prone to lie in wait for his chosen prey, while the man before me is a lion, apt to go for the jugular as soon as it’s presented to him.

  My own throat contorts around a hard swallow. This isn’t right. No matter which mindset I put myself in, the information refuses to make sense.

  But what if I tried a different, untapped outlook?

  My own. How would Willow Stepanova see it? Or Safiya Mangenello…

  Cocking my head, I observe the documents again. The various bits and pieces blend and meld, but I still don’t see a way of making sense of them.

  Until I make the mistake of glancing up. Donatello glowers at the center of it all like a blazing bullseye, and my focus shifts. Not as a hunting predator, but something far more calculating. A watchful, careful animal that knows when to lie in wait and when to strike, so still and small it can seem invisible. Yet, dangerous in its own right.

  I reach for another document, and then another, arranging them according to the pattern unfurling in my mind. There. It’s so clear to me now. I’m the one smirking, drawing a single grunt from the man across from me. In answer, all I can do is grapple for a pen and write on the corner of the nearest page.

  It’s a web.

/>   “A web?” Raising an eyebrow, he stands, moving behind me. His shadow is poison against my newfound confidence. I hate the way I watch him, searching for a hint of approval. He is poison. My body prickles with this newest dose, my breaths quickening as he runs his fingers across a document I’d placed in the center.

  The port.

  Suddenly he slaps his hand down over the map. “Son of a bitch.”

  I release the breath I wasn’t aware of holding. Hidden within the gruff tone was an emotion he couldn’t suppress—grudging respect? It vanishes as he grunts again, snatching up another document. “So, their aim isn’t to drive me out; it’s to box me in. But why? For what?”

  I shrug. Why else does a spider spin a web at all?

  To catch a fly.

  But even I can admit that it would take a rather large web to snare a lion.

  I expect him to elaborate more, explain his reasoning at least. Instead, he lifts his hand abruptly, sending a trove of documents to the floor.

  “Get dressed,” he says. “And not like that—” He nods to the simple sweater I’m wearing now. “Not that innocent shit Fab got you. Find something else. Something…” He seems to fish for the right words as he storms from the room. “Something that makes you look like you deserve a seat at the table.”

  It’s a double-edged request, conveying so much of what he thinks of me. Unimpressive. Unworthy. Easily ignored. I bristle, irritated by his assessment, though do I even want to appeal to a man like him?

  My mind flashes back to that moment in the darkness, and I lose track of everything but the tightness in my chest.

  “Show me what I’m missing,” he demanded. “This is how you can hurt me. Show me what I’ll never have...”

  “Meet me in the car,” the present Donatello calls from the hallway. “I need to have a little word with the Saleris… And I’m taking you with me.”

  The Saleris. That name sounds familiar, but I don’t realize why until I spy the building we approach through the windshield of Donatello’s sports car. In the overcast daylight, it looks like just any other midrise structure near the city center.