by Lana Sky
“Mr. Saleri is inside,” the man says, gesturing toward a door I assume leads into the main cabin.
“Stay close to me,” Donatello warns, returning his hand to my lower back. “Confronting Gregori and Mateo on their turf in the city is one thing, but this feels off.”
I can hear the unease in his voice, but as we pass through the doorway of the cabin his features harden. On the other hand, I wind up blinking while my eyes struggle to adjust to the shift in lighting. Where Antonio Salvatore’s salon was drenched in black, the Saleris have chosen white as their accent color. Everything from the walls, to the polished floors, is in the same pristine shade.
Everything but the three people occupying the space. One of them is a tall man leaning against a glass-top bar near the back of the room. His dark green eyes contrast the monochrome background, bringing the image of a snake to mind. His name comes to me instantly—Mateo Saleri, the man Donatello assumed I’d be “under” by the night’s end. As he had in the club, he doesn’t give off an overly sinister aura. Just a calculating sense that he’s watching everything, missing nothing.
The man seated on a leather couch in the corner, however? He radiates nothing but cold, dangerous energy. His eyes narrow as he spots Donatello, and I get the sense that he would like nothing more than to watch him drown in the waters below this very boat.
He must be Gregori.
The third man lurks just beyond the others, seemingly fascinated by the view of the water.
“Vanici,” Gregori snarls. Bracing his hands on his knees, he sits forward, his jowls flapping. “You have some damn nerve—”
“Let’s be polite to our guests,” Mateo says over him. He runs a finger along his lapel, displaying a thick gold ring around his thumb. “After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends,” Donatello echoes in a tone of ice. “Friends, who buy up obscene amounts of property on the sly? Friends, who work with Antonio Salvatore to set me up?”
It’s such a bold accusation that I don’t understand why he would make it now—until I see the two men’s reactions. Their body language alone gives them away better than a signed confession. Mateo maintains his sly, faux-welcoming grin, but the expression takes on a hardened edge. At the same time, Gregori cuts his eyes to the only man in the room I don’t recognize.
Donatello seems to notice the stranger the same time I do, his eyes narrowing. “And who is this?” he wonders out loud.
The man in question doesn’t respond. He’s thin, blond with sleek black glasses perched atop a delicate nose. A tailored navy suit sets him apart from the more casually dressed Saleris. Unassuming, he stands near a row of windows looking out over the upper deck, a leather binder under one arm. At a glance, there’s nothing remarkable about his face. He isn’t unattractive, but not striking. Until my gaze falls over his neck. A mottled pink mass of flesh forms a vicious semi-circle from his left ear down to his collar, stretching beneath the neckline of his crisp white shirt. Burn marks?
“Him? He’s a harmless guest,” Mateo says smoothly, turning to the bar. “Invited here, unlike some.”
“A guest,” Donatello snarls, his gaze still on the blond man. “He wouldn’t happen to go by J.W. would he?”
The malice in his tone sends a shiver down my spine—but if any of the three men recognize the initials, they expertly conceal any guilt.
“Don’t tell me you crashed this little party, Donatello, merely to point fingers,” Mateo scolds. Smiling, he fishes a glass from a nearby shelf and pours liquid from a crystal decanter into it. Rather than drink, he shakes his wrist, sending the liquid swirling. “That’s not very friendly, is it?”
“Cut the shit.” Donatello slides his hand from my back and steps forward. “You played your little word games before, pretending you were in cahoots with Mischa—but don’t deny that you’ve been working with the son of a bitch who tried to set me up all this goddamn time.”
“How dare you!” Gregori huffs. “I’ve had enough. Get him out of—”
“Wait.” Mateo raises a hand, silencing him. Setting his glass aside, he turns from the bar, his grin firmly in place. “Before your accusations raise my father’s blood pressure, do you have proof?” he demands of Donatello. “Or are you determined to do to us what you did to Antonio Salvatore?”
“I should put a bullet in your brain for that alone,” Gregori snaps, his face reddening. “After what you’ve done to my granddaughter, I should—”
“What I’ve done?” Donatello interjects. “What about what Antonio was doing to Kisa?”
I don’t know what he means, but the words have the effect of flipping an invisible switch. Gregori’s eyes widen with an unmistakable emotion—alarm.
Mateo recovers faster, choking out a laugh. “I’ll let that insult slide if you return the girl by the day’s end. We’ve indulged you enough.”
“Indulged,” Donatello says. “You don’t let your granddaughter stay with a man who murdered her father to placate him. You do it when you’re too busy to give a shit. What have you two been up to?”
“Nothing too nefarious,” Mateo says smoothly, but his devious grin undercuts his words. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so stupid as to come here alone, with no backup. No one to witness if you happened to fall overboard. No one besides your little toy. I’m sorry, your fiancée.”
“So why extend your invitation?” Donatello asks.
“All in the name of goodwill,” Mateo says.
“Goodwill,” Gregori harrumphs, but his eyes again dart toward the blond man.
He stands unobtrusively in the corner, watching this entire exchange with little to no interest. But just as I start to look away, I catch his eyes flicker in my direction. They’re an unusually bright shade in between blue and gray, enhanced by the lenses shielding them.
“Cut the bullshit,” Donatello snaps, drawing my attention. “What are you up to? Don’t tell me you make a habit of renting out the entire marina just for three men to take a waterfront tour?”
Mateo’s eyes narrow further. “And don’t tell me that you make a habit of showing up unannounced just for the hell of it.”
He returns to the bar and pours two additional glasses of liquor, one of which he offers to Donatello. “Word on the street is you’re attempting sobriety now.” His grin is anything but supportive.
If the statement catches Donatello off guard, he doesn’t show it. “I prefer a brand of liquor I don’t think you stock.”
“You still drink that shoe varnish?” Mateo chuckles and sips from the glass himself. “It’s good to see you on your feet again, old friend. I’ve heard stories about you. The once high and mighty Vanici hopping from motel to motel, lying in his own piss while his nephew was off to school. There was a particularly nasty rumor that, before you went on the straight and narrow, you needed at least a bottle of vodka just to get out of bed—”
“We all have our vices,” Donatello interjects coldly. I watch him, unsure of the emotion rising in my chest. Was anything Mateo said true? His eyes give nothing away. “I think I prefer mine to yours.”
Mateo chuckles, swishing the liquid in his glass with a flick of his wrist. “Beautiful women, you mean. A damn fine vice if I say so myself. Though, considering what the rumors say about your union with the lovely Ms. Stepanova here, perhaps our tastes are closer aligned than you think.” He drains his glass and sets it aside, grabbing the untouched serving. Holding it aloft, he slinks forward. “If you won’t have a drink, what about your friend?”
He’s close before I can react. Uninvited, his fingers capture my chin, lifting it. My first impulse is to recoil, but a burst of heat at my back roots me to the spot.
“Don’t touch her.” That voice…
It rings out like a beast’s growl. Mateo’s closed lips warn that it didn’t come from him.
“Relax, Donny,” the man taunts. He runs his thumb along my lip before brutally jabbing the pad between them. I bat him away instinctively—at the same
time, my hair rustles, the only warning before another hand latches onto my shoulder.
“Touch her again, and I’ll—”
“No need for the dramatics,” Mateo says, laughing. He withdraws from me, lifting his glass in salute. Slowly, he takes a sip, his eyes glittering without a hint of remorse. “I merely wanted to see the beauty for myself. A Vanici landing a Stepanov. I wonder what she sees in you. I guess she likes living on the edge, what with your history of losing your wives to mysterious circumstances. If danger is what you’re after, my dear, I can more than oblige.”
Donatello says nothing.
Denied the fireworks he seems to be after, Mateo frowns. “I hope this union will be far different than the last, at least. You deserve some happiness. Though hell, from the rumors I’ve heard, I can’t lie. I would have done far worse to my wife—”
“Enough.” The hand on my shoulder withdraws, and I find myself shoved aside as Donatello takes a menacing step forward. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Mateo holds my gaze with a chilling smirk. “It means that your new little fiancée should know exactly what happened to the last—”
“Sir!” A man wearing a black suit races into the salon, approaching Mateo directly. He murmurs something into the man’s ear, and Mateo stiffens, all desire to provoke Donatello seemingly forgotten. “You can’t lose someone on a fucking boat,” he snarls. I don’t miss the way he glances toward the blond man before gritting his teeth. “Find her. Now.” His tone is low enough that I barely hear him.
“Yes, Sir.” The guard retreats just as quickly. The second he’s beyond view, another figure speaks, commanding the focus of the entire room.
“I think it’s time for us to retire to the fresh air, don’t you?” The voice is so startlingly different from Mateo’s rasp or Donatello’s baritone that it takes me a full second to pinpoint where it came from. The blond man. He steps forward, completely unperturbed by the tension in the room. Instead, his focus is on his wristwatch. Looking up, he clears his throat and heads for the exit. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
Mateo and Gregori share another glance. This time I pinpoint what passes between them. Wariness.
“After you,” Mateo says, following the men out.
Donatello’s hand returns to my back, drawing me to his side. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s worried. His jaw is clenched as we trail the other men to the bow of the boat. Even after a few minutes, we’ve drifted further from The Lady Killer, and the ever-present guards remain a visible reminder of the danger.
“A beautiful day,” the blond man remarks, running his hand along the railing. Apparently, he senses none of the unease. In fact, though it’s far removed from the typical expression, I’d define the slight tilt to his mouth as a smile. “A crisp, clear sky. A welcoming breeze. A wonderful greeting to this fair city.”
Mateo clears his throat nervously. “It’s good you’ve found everything to your liking—”
“Not everything,” the man corrects, but a subtle shift in his inflection resonates like an off-key note. Or a slap. “The day is far too nice for an argument, don’t you think?”
Both Saleris stiffen.
“Yes,” the man continues. “Far too nice. I hope any minor inconveniences can be set aside. All in the name of progress.”
“Of course,” Mateo says in a rush. “Whatever it takes to—”
“Good.” After another glance at his watch, the man leans forward, bracing his hands against the railing, his eyes on the horizon. “Progress is a wonderful thing. Advancement. Change.”
“You sound like an investor,” Donatello interjects. I bet he’s remembering the property listings. Could this man be responsible for directing the purchases?
“Investor?” the man replies—one of the first times he’s addressed Donatello directly. “Perhaps. An investor in progress. In fact, I’m confident that and more is in our near future, ready to commence. Any minute now…”
A low thud rumbles in the distance like a carefully choreographed moment meant to add emphasis to his words. Thunder? A larger boom reverberates next, so loud I’m sure it can be heard through the entire city.
An eerie silence falls in its wake. Even the water itself seems to still, every nearby creature from the men I’m with, to the birds above stunned into a muted anticipation.
And finally, a flash of light battles with the sun itself, emanating from the westward direction. It’s so bright my entire vision goes white. Then orange. A brilliant, gleaming orange that licks at the sky in a slow-rising swell.
“What the fuck?” Donatello shoves me behind him as the boat lurches beneath us, caught by a sudden wave. I have to grapple for the nearby railing just to stay upright, nearly knocked off my feet. “What the hell was that?”
As if in answer to his question, an even louder boom rocks through the city. It’s so loud. My ears ring as the sensation of the blow resonates in my very bones.
There’s no mistaking such a violent crack of noise. A single term comes to mind—explosion. Plumes of rich black sweep up to edge the orange licking at the horizon, and I finally recognize the vibrant shapes for what they are—flames. Even from here, a chorus of sirens and alarms begin to swell, audible on the breeze.
“Jesus Christ,” Mateo exclaims.
Gregori gapes at the sight, but I get the sense that he’s more resigned than alarmed.
The only person seemingly unfazed at all is the blond man. “Beautiful,” he says with genuine admiration, his smile more apparent than ever. “Right on time.”
“Fuck…” Donatello hisses through his teeth. “Where is that fucking coming from?”
“The West District,” the man says coldly. “Far from any residential area, though fatalities are to be expected. Well, what a blaze. I think we’re done here, gentlemen.”
Mateo snaps his fingers, summoning a guard. “See these two off the ship. This was a pleasant discussion.” Sarcasm drips from his tone, clashing harshly with the quiet voice that rings out next.
“Pleasant indeed.” The blond man inclines his head as if he just remembered that other people were in the vicinity. Against the backdrop of the blood-red flames, he looks ghoulish, remarkably pale. “I believe the two of us should become more acquainted, Donatello Vanici.” He extends his hand, revealing fingers so slim they look liable to be crushed in the firm grasp Donatello captures them with.
“I don’t become acquainted with people I don’t know,” Donatello says in a tone that straddles the line of threatening. “Especially not people involved with the Saleris. What the hell are you up to?”
The man’s lifeless grin widens. “Of course. I look forward to us getting better acquainted, then. Gentlemen? I think we should be going if we want to stay on schedule. I will be sure to send you an invitation, Mr. Vanici. We must meet at a later date.”
Donatello lurches forward. “Wait—”
“Time’s up,” Mateo warns, stepping into his path. “I think you better do as the man says and wait for your fucking invitation.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Donatello snaps, his eyes on the blond man. “But I’ll need a name to add you to my calendar.”
The other man smiles faintly before nodding, smoothing a hand along his suit. “Shall we, gentlemen?” He strolls back inside the main cabin as the sounds of chaos from the city swell, punctuated with distant shouts.
“Branching out your clientele?” Donatello asks Mateo. “He doesn’t look like the type to enjoy fucking some kidnapped girl who thought she would be coming to the city as a ‘waitress.’”
Mateo’s eyes gleam orange, reflecting the distant blaze. “You have no fucking idea.” Turning to his guard, he snaps, “Get them the fuck off. Now. Before I decide to not ‘stay on schedule.’”
“This way,” the guard ushers us back to the ladder leading to the smaller boat. As we pull away, I spy Mateo Saleri storming across the upper deck, a cell phone glued to his ear. His furious shouting is au
dible, even from here. “Where the fuck could she have gone? Look again!”
A lone figure watches from the bow of the boat, his eyes on the water. A shade of steel, they eye the waves as if they’re a sight more offensive than the damage and destruction unfolding in the opposite direction.
I swear I feel him staring as we finally return to the Lady Killer.
“Jesus Christ,” Donatello hisses. “What the fuck was that?” He fishes his cell phone from his pocket. “Service is out. Fuck. Look at that…”
I can’t look away. The horizon is now black with smoke, the flames flickering higher. The breeze nips at my hair, and I can only imagine how far the fire might spread, aided by it.
“Sit tight.” Donatello returns to the helm. “We need to get the fuck out of here... What the hell?”
I look over, startled by splotches of red smeared near the entrance of the cabin. They gleam in the sunlight, still wet, almost like droplets of fresh paint. Did he spill something before we left?
“Get behind me,” Donatello commands. His hard tone betrays that he knows exactly what the substance is. I think I do as well, though a part of me shies from what it implies.
Blood.
“Stay close.” He moves slowly, descending the stairs into the lower level, his hand on his pocket.
I follow him, feeling dread build with every step I take. Once we reach the salon, it’s painfully obvious that my hunch isn’t wrong. The salty stench of blood is overwhelming, mingling with the scent of saltwater. Even more puddles of scarlet and water mar the floor, growing larger the further we venture. Some look flattened, oddly formed. Footprints? If so, they blaze a trail across the salon toward a closed door.
“Who the fuck is in here?” Donatello demands. No answer comes, so he wrenches the door open, revealing a narrow bathroom and a woman hunched over the sink, casually dabbing at her thigh with a wadded cloth.
