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

by Lana Sky

  “Could you not point that thing at me?” Her airy voice reminds me of the well-bred girls from the musical conservatory.

  From her tone, one might think Donatello’s pointing something as trivial as a dirty hand in her direction. Not a gun. I stiffen at the sight of it, unsure of where he retrieved it from. Did he have it on him the entire time we were on the Saleris’ boat? Without lowering it, he gapes at the woman. “Who the hell are you?”

  Someone slender, with golden hair streaming down her shoulders. She holds herself with so much poise; the scarlet on her skin might as well be makeup. Then she winces, and her act slips.

  “There isn’t time for introductions, I’m afraid,” she says, her voice strained. A glance down reveals why—a gash slices through the meat of her thigh, the source of the blood. “They’ll already know I’m gone. Process of elimination states, there aren’t many places I could have gotten to—” She angles her head to face Donatello directly. “It’s only a matter of time before they’re on their way.”

  Her voice is the lone attribute warning me that my eyes are faulty. This woman standing before me isn’t Ellen. Even if their facial structure is eerily similar, their eyes the same shade of blue.

  Ellen could never look so cold—not to mention the lack of a scar on her cheek. This woman is someone else, and a name comes to mind, one I heard scarcely spoken at Stepanov Manor. Briar, Ellen’s older sister. As far as I knew, she left years ago, before Ivan was even born. Could this woman really be her?

  “I know this is a rather dramatic statement, but time is of the essence,” the woman snaps. Hissing, she drops her rag onto the ground and limps over it, pushing her way past Donatello. Both water and blood drip in her wake. She’s soaked, her dress clinging to her body like a second skin. “If they aren’t already aiming to swarm this little dinghy of yours, they will be soon,” she says. Bracing herself against a window, she peers out in the direction of the Santiago. “As expected, he’s already sent his little henchmen,” she remarks dryly. “If we aim to outrun them, I suggest you get a move on.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “That’s not important right now,” the woman says, waving him off. “What is important is this—do you intend to die in a watery grave with some uninspired explanation such as ‘engine failure’ to be listed as the cause? Because I can assure you that’s what will happen if he knows I’m here.”

  “Saleri?”

  “Son of a bitch!” She moans, grabbing at her thigh. “This stings. Well, I suggest you hurry.”

  “Shit.” Donatello glances from the window and races for the upper deck. Spotting me, he says, “Keep an eye on her.”

  “I’m sure you both are very formidable,” the woman says tiredly.

  I don’t think her weakness is faked. She stumbles to the nearest row of couches and collapses on one. Fresh blood is already forming a trail down her leg, dripping onto the floor. “I know this bastard had a bottle of whiskey around here somewhere,” she says through clenched teeth, scanning the room. Her eyes fall over mine, and she flashes a smile that would seem charming in the absence of blood. “Care to find it for me, darling?”

  As the engine stutters to life, rattling the body of the boat, I realize there isn’t anything else I can do. I head for the bar, reading the labels of the bottles there. Sure enough, I spy a bottle of whiskey, and when I bring it to the woman, she rips off the lid and pours a majority of the drink onto her thigh.

  “We’re moving at least,” she croaks, glancing from the window. “But can your friend sail this boat quickly enough?” Apparently, she doesn’t think so, because she lurches upright, grappling for any nearby surface to stagger her way to the stairs. “I hope you aren’t heading for the docks right away,” she calls, shouting above the noise of the engine.

  Donatello bellows back, “The fuck else am I supposed to go?”

  “Shit.” She grimaces in pain, biting her lip. “They’ll try to kill you if they think I’m here,” she says.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Donatello snaps back.

  Her eyes darken, turning inward. “Someone they want dead very, very badly.”

  “What’s stopping me from tossing you overboard right now?”

  “They might kill you anyway,” she counters. “Besides, you don’t know what I do. Perhaps we could help each other. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “How?”

  “I guess you don’t have a choice, but when we get to the docks, stall them until I can leave unseen.”

  “So much for you making it worth my while, huh?”

  “It’s not like being dead is a much better bargain, is it?”

  Donatello says nothing.

  “I’ll find a hiding place, then,” the woman shouts. Groaning, she inches back into the salon, scrambling to a corner of the room. She braces both hands against it and shifts her weight. With a metallic hiss, part of the wall gives way. A sliding door? “Help me with this,” she commands.

  Together, we reveal a hidden compartment containing assorted cleaning supplies and a metal safe.

  The woman slips inside, dragging her leg behind her. It’s a tight fit. She barely has any room to crouch.

  “Close it,” she warns, nodding to the door. “And trust me, if you want you and your friend to live, you’ll do what I say—I was never here.”

  A statement easier said than believed, considering the blood and seawater all over the stateroom. I return to the bathroom and grab a clean rag, swiping all the puddles I can spot. As I finally exit to the upper deck, the marina dock is already coming into view. Donatello beckons me over, his expression grim.

  “She could be full of shit,” he says, but his gaze is on the smaller boat still speeding in our direction, this time containing three men dressed in black. “I’d rather play it safe than sorry, though. Follow my lead.”

  I nod, and as we pull closer to the dock, he grabs one of the lines and jumps from the boat, tying it to the post. As he ties the first one, I hand him the second, trying my hardest not to look back.

  “I hope you enjoyed your time aboard the Santiago, Mr. Vanici,” a man calls. The other boat has already drawn up beside us. “Mr. Saleri would like to extend another invitation, should you accept. He also wanted to make sure that you weren’t too shocked by the events on land. If your boat sustained any damage, he will happily pay for the repairs.”

  “We’re just peachy,” Donatello snarls. “Though, you can tell your boss I definitely intend to pay him another visit. Soon.”

  Two of the men share a look, but the figure speaking seems unperturbed. “Would you mind then, if we took a look around? Just to be absolutely sure. Again, any damage, of course, would be personally covered by Mr. Saleri.”

  For a second, I think Donatello will refuse. Then he steps back and inclines his head. “Come aboard.”

  The three men don’t waste any time, and I hold my breath as they prowl around the boat, eventually entering the salon with Donatello on their heels. From their body language, to the detail they pay to every corner, it’s obvious that they’re looking for something other than damage. A person. I can’t help stiffening as they near the wall, but they don’t try to activate the hidden panel.

  “You’re welcome to take your sweet fucking time, gentlemen,” Donatello remarks after minutes have passed. “But can I ask you to speed it up? Unless your boss can clear a way through traffic after whatever the fuck just happened on the west end?”

  “Mr. Saleri thanks you,” the original speaker says, finally. In single file, all three return to their boat. “Have a wonderful day, but if you do happen to notice anything out of the ordinary, please remember that Mr. Saleri respects his friends and treats them well.”

  “What about the other ‘friend’ there with him?” Donatello asks. “The blond man with the glasses. He didn’t seem too chummy with Gregori.”

  “Mr. Saleri also values his privacy and that of his associates,” the man says with a thin smile. “Have
a wonderful day, Mr. Vanici. Oh, and I’ll take the liberty of informing you that any traffic to the city’s west half will be most likely unavailable. I hope you make other arrangements.”

  “Sons of bitches,” Donatello hisses once they’re beyond earshot. “They’re still watching us. Help me tie up, and we’ll go check on our guest when they’re out of sight.”

  We move slowly, taking our time with the lines. Once we finish, advancing footsteps approach, rattling the wood of the dock.

  “You have some damn nerve,” the manager declares, his hands on his hips. “I would have called the police, but they seem to be a bit busy—” he nods in the direction of the blaze. “I heard that traffic through the entire west end is completely cut off and won’t be fixed for hours. Must have been a gas leak or something.”

  “A gas leak,” Donatello rasps, gazing in the same direction. “My ass.”

  “Well, hopefully, you squared away everything with the boat and are ready to settle Mr. Salvatore’s accounts.”

  “Yeah,” Donatello says, turning toward the cabin. “Just let me take out the trash first.”

  We descend the steps to discover that the woman has already left her hiding place. She managed to find a length of fabric that she tied around her thigh.

  “What do the Saleris want with you?” Donatello asks.

  “The Saleris?” She forces a harsh laugh, wincing with the effort. “Do puppets truly have their own wants?”

  “A puppet,” his harsh tone implies he agrees with her assessment. “But whose? The British man’s?”

  She flinches, visibly paler. “I should probably be leaving—”

  “No.” Donatello takes a menacing step. “Not until you give me something. Who the hell was that?”

  “The real question isn’t who he is, but what does he want?” She points to the window where the glow of the fire ignites the horizon, painting it amber. “I’ll leave you with a piece of advice—you want to learn the truth? Find the nicest hotel in this area and stay there. I suggest the Norfolk, the highest room you can afford. Enjoy the nightlife and ask yourself why someone might want the city severed in two, even for a few hours.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s supposed to mean that the world is a cruel, cold place, Donatello Vanici. Think of who your allies are, as well as your enemies, and plan accordingly.”

  “And if I decide to call those men back?”

  The woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Then all three of us die. You think they won’t drag your little friend on their ship never to be seen again?” She looks at me with a ruthless sweep of her gaze. “It doesn’t matter who she is. Stepanova or not, he’ll make her disappear, and the most anyone will ever know is some nondescript explanation. But if it makes you feel better, then I’ll keep my word. Follow my advice, and by the end of the night, I’m sure you’ll get the answers you seek. The Norfolk hotel has a rather lovely view, the perfect place to witness any more ‘fireworks.’ Take care now.”

  She limps toward the exit, leaning heavily against the wall.

  As she mounts the steps, Donatello asks, “Do you think you can even make it off the boat before they spot you?”

  She offers him a weak grin, and yet it stands out as the most authentic I’ve seen all day. “I’m sure my knight in shining armor is already here.” Real pain leeches into her voice. Gritting her teeth, she mounts the stairs to the upper deck as Donatello, and I follow.

  Before anyone can question exactly where her knight in shining armor is, she hurries to the side of the boat and climbs over the railing, landing in the water with a splash.

  Her golden hair flashes for just a second before she disappears beneath the murky waves entirely.

  “Shit!” Donatello tugs open his jacket as if preparing to jump in after her, but she surfaces a few yards away, facing our direction. I swear she winks before diving once again.

  Frozen mid-lunge, he readjusts his jacket. “Who the fuck was that?”

  I don’t respond. If that woman was Briar, why would she be on a Saleri ship?

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here before we get any more ‘invitations,’” Donatello suggests.

  I follow him back to the car, where the chaos that rocked the city is even more apparent. The flames swell, seemingly higher than they’d been just minutes ago. Blaring alarms form a deafening clamor that persists even when we’re in the car.

  “Give me a minute,” Donatello says, once again withdrawing his cell phone. This time, he manages to get through.

  “Fabio, what the fuck happened?” Whatever the man says makes him growl. “Improperly stored chemicals at a warehouse? That’s what they’re assuming so far, anyway. Fuck.”

  I can hear Fabio’s voice resonating with authority. “Stay put,” he warns. “I can’t believe you even went to the Saleris without me. If you won’t drive around the blockade, find somewhere to park, and you wait for me there. I mean it, Donatello. Promise me.”

  After a long moment, Donatello sighs. “Fine.”

  He hangs up, raking a hand through his hair. “All traffic heading west through the city has been halted. Rumor on the street is that chemicals improperly stored at a warehouse caused the explosion, but I don’t buy that shit.”

  And the blond woman alluded to as much. Ask yourself why someone might want the city severed in two, even for a few hours…

  “I could go around the blocks and get back to the house, but it will take hours… Something isn’t right.” He glowers at the horizon. “What do you think we should do?”

  I stiffen. He’s doing it again, purposefully trying to unnerve me. But then I make the mistake of looking up and find him staring back.

  In context, everything we’ve done so far could be deemed grossly irresponsible. Reckless. Stupid, even. Fabio is right; we should return to the house and relay the information garnered from the boat.

  I don’t think I move or indicate my thought process, but Donatello sighs, gripping the steering wheel. His lips twitch, but it’s in the opposite direction of a frown. He’s grinning, his tone conspiratorial. “To the Norfolk hotel, it is, then.”

  19

  Willow

  To his credit, Gino—my biological father—never shied from the darker reality of his employment with the famiglia. In his mind, being a mobster trumped working as a mechanic any day. He gloated about it.

  “I won’t ever have to do that shit again,” I heard him tell my mother once.

  Unconvinced, she responded with a line similar to, “So what? Killing is easier for you than changing a damn tire?”

  To which he replied, “You bet your ass it is. Forget your fucking morals. A little blood and a hell of a lot of money look better than calluses and blisters any day.”

  That line always stuck with me—an example of who I never wanted to become. Someone so bitter and jaded that any mode of success appealed to them, no matter the cost.

  I came close to changing my mind, though. In those early days after being sold to Nicolai, I dreamt of killing Donatello Vanici with my bare hands. Over and over, day in and day out. Imagining his death knell was my nightly lullaby. Who could blame me?

  The vibrant red of his blood would have been a welcome sight compared to the horror my life had become.

  In retrospect, I might be compelled to thank him in a sick, twisted sense of the concept. That time taught me a lesson I will never forget—the world is cruel. The fleeting kindness a man might bestow on you one minute can be cruelly ripped away the next. Life is no beautiful fairy tale, but a grim horror in which women file in and out of rooms like cattle.

  Where men stroll about with weapons drawn and trade money with frivolity children play card games with.

  Life in that enclave was a brutal existence, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed of the famiglia under Donatello. I have to wonder, was he truly any different?

  Or was he just better at hiding the horrific side of his business?


  Seven years later, I feel no closer to the truth. The man remains as much of an enigma to me now as he was then—barring one major difference.

  I’ve never seen his mind in action quite like this. The manic cadence of his thought process reminds me of a symphony in disarray, every instrument playing out of tune. Chaotic. Beautiful. Madness.

  He is a creature of impulse and action. From a marina, to a club, to a yacht, to an exclusive hotel, the world from the viewpoint of Donatello Vanici is an endless rabbit hole.

  I can only go along for the ride and hope that we reach the end with my soul intact.

  Luckily, the Norfolk Hotel is just ten minutes from the marina, near the city’s center. A gleaming structure of black metal and glass, it overlooks a northern view of the bay. Though, while composed of beautiful architecture, there’s nothing overly remarkable about it.

  Donatello seems to agree. He says nothing as we enter the spacious lobby, and he proceeds to purchase a suite on the upper floor, as the woman suggested. It’s extravagant with a view of the city and the surrounding bay—though I suspect the elegance is lost on the man stalking through the layout with a single-minded focus. He heads straight for the adjacent balcony, bracing his hands over the railing, his hair rustling in the wind.

  Juxtaposed against the blackening horizon, he could be a fallen angel surveying the damned world he’s been cursed to.

  Or a devil, gloating over the destruction sowed in his wake.

  “The hospital is near here,” he remarks, nodding toward the complex just a few blocks over in the distance. “So is Felicità. A coincidence?” His eyes narrow as he mulls over the connection silently.

  I hate myself for inching forward, curious as to what he’s thinking. Hours without experiencing his hostility have lulled me into a false sense of security. It strikes me now that today has been the longest we’ve been together uninterrupted. The longest stretch of time during which he’s spoken to me without a tinge of malice.

  “Why the fuck would someone intentionally blow up a quarter of the city?” he asks, his irritation evident. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”