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

by Lana Sky

  It goes deeper into my soul, unearthing something that perhaps is a figment conjured by the alcohol in my system. Or maybe I always knew but never wanted to face it.

  I never hated him because he left, or because of his betrayal. My entire life has been a series of betrayals—that isn’t what hurt. What’s festered all these years until I can feel it consuming me from the inside out.

  He took away my ability to hate. To love. To fear—and feel anything at all while knowing that someone understood me unequivocally. Sign language, or music, or the desire to speak at all was irrelevant around him. Until he left. The monster took my voice away.

  He made me feel silenced for the first time in my life, and I’ve been suffocating in that silence for seven long years. I never loved him—I understood him in the deepest, most primal sense of the word, a language that transcends all others. Through him, I could finally accept the twisted, hateful parts of myself I’d grown to fear…

  And he stole that from me. He took away the girl I was, his precious Safiya, and he smothered her. Denied me of her. He consumed her.

  And it’s a crime I can never forgive.

  I know now that only one form of retribution can even begin to cover the cost of what he took from me—him. All of him. Those parts of him he’s sworn never to let me have. Those broken slivers of his soul he’s squirreled away all these years. Through those scattered pieces, I can finally take back the only thing I’ve ever wanted from him. Needed.

  Myself.

  “Don’t do this to me,” he says in a voice I’ve never heard before. It’s an animal’s howl, so pained and broken in its utterance that it might not be words at all. A moan. A plea.

  A mercy, but one he never afforded to me.

  “Don’t…”

  Don’t make him look at me and see the tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. Don’t make him stay when every fiber of his being is urging him to run. Don’t make him face the creature he’s made of me.

  A broken woman who can barely stand up. Who staggers to him like a starving creature and grapples for whatever part of him she can reach.

  This time, he surrenders, falling back against the couch, and I’m the predator for once.

  His heat is my nourishment. I can’t get enough. Skin on skin. His breath hot on my neck. His body motionless as I claw open his shirt and run my fingers across the bare flesh beneath.

  It’s terrifying how you can hate someone so much. Revile them.

  And crave the feel of them at the same damn time. My fingers trace him like living beings in their own right, seeking to devour every inch of him. To memorize the scars, too numerous to count, some noticeable only by feel. A surface-level scratch made by something sharp. A deeper, rougher wound that probably took weeks to heal. And finally…

  The jagged marks he made himself, spelling out my name as proof of what he tried to ignore. I live in him, this person I’ve never let myself truly be in seven years. Petty Safiya. Hateful. Vengeful.

  But all those good things, too, that I’ve strived to recall. The joy of sitting quietly in the peace I only ever found around him. The confidence that I no longer had to hide or pretend. I was an open book, and it had felt so good to finally just be—without worrying how I came across. No one to pantomime for in the hopes that I was understood.

  “Shit.” He stiffens as my nails burrow into the ropey scars, but I can see in his eyes the process of him physically holding himself back. He knows what I do.

  I’m owed this. The ability to explore him to my heart’s content. To closely inspect every ridge and drop of ink forming his tattoo. It’s mine. Every inch of him is mine.

  And all he can do is submit to me.

  Exploring him in this way feels like relearning a language I never realized I’d forgotten—only with time it’s grown more complex, with far more nuances than I remember.

  He is a map of various scars and flaws and old injuries, but he only flinches when I graze what little unmarred flesh remains. Right below his collar bone. Along his throat and up…

  It’s strange how a face I’ve seen or imagined hundreds of times can seem so different up close. His eyes are more than just brown, dark enough to touch on black, judging me with a precision that cuts deep.

  His stare used to make me feel so small. Like I was just one of a handful of creatures worthy of deserving the attention of Donatello Vanici.

  Now, I see myself reflected in those irises, older, sporting an expression I’ve never seen in a mirror.

  I run my hand along his cheek, sensing the strong panes and chiseled muscle beneath. His skin feels worn, speckled with dark stubble. I take my time tracing every inch, every hair, every pore, memorizing them all.

  His frown is so much more complex up close, his lips in a stern line, his mouth contorting with the effort it takes to maintain it. A frown that becomes more prominent by the second.

  “You’re drunk,” he rasps, though from his tone, I can tell that he doesn’t believe that. One sip of alcohol can’t alter a person so drastically.

  But years of pain can. If I’m drunk, it’s on his indifference. His apathy. His lies. Even now, he can’t fully give me what he promised—he still has to maintain control, tensing beneath me.

  Lately, I’ve only found one way to unnerve him.

  His lips part as if sensing my intention before I even press mine against them.

  I want him to cringe. Recoil. Resist.

  But I always underestimate the way my body reacts to him. It’s a slow-rolling fire, much like the blaze consuming the west end of the city. Scorching and suffocating all at once. Consuming heat and wicked flames.

  Nothing in the world compares to it—the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his breath. He grunts in alarm as I slip my tongue inside, stealing a taste for myself. Then another. More.

  It’s revenge more effective than anything that could be achieved with a knife or some other form of assault. It goes deeper than any wound, bridging the gap that even words can’t breach. I’m in his head, in his soul, privy to all of the subtle things that make him tick, and the fact that he hates this…

  At the same time, his body betrays him, relaxing into mine. His hands grip my hips, settling against me with a familiarity that takes my breath away. Desperate for more, I rock into the firmness of those fingers.

  Then I grab one, manipulating the thick ridges and firm knuckles.

  “What are you…” He grunts in shock when I guide his hand lower. “Stop.”

  I feel more of him, pressing against me from every possible angle. His chest against mine. His thighs, so thick and rigid with muscle.

  “Stop!” He shoves me off, lurching to his feet.

  I watch him pace, raking a hand through his hair as if the act alone can help reassemble his control—and it does. His stern frown returns, his eyes darker than ever. “Just stop. Enough.”

  But it will never be enough. Greedily, my tongue traces my lower lip, hunting for his taste, and I feel the enormity of his loss all over again. He’s managed to turn the tables, regaining all the control.

  And there is nothing I can do about it.

  “Here.” He crosses the room, snatching an empty glass from the bar cart. Then he retreats further into the suite and returns with the glass full of water. “Drink this,” he demands, shoving the cup into my hand. “Sober up.”

  He leaves again, and I hear a door slam.

  But he’s still in the suite somewhere, regrouping.

  Regaining his composure.

  Regaining control.

  20

  Evgeni

  I can smell the city burning from here. The acrid stench is chillingly familiar, unlocking a swath of memories I’ve spent years suppressing.

  Fire is a tricky, beautiful element. So slow to build. Quick as hell to rise. Before you know it, the blaze is beyond control, devastating in its destruction…

  There’s nothing on earth like it. I’ve seen how quickly it can consume sticks of wood—a
nd yet how sluggishly it can creep over a human body, licking away skin and bone at a leisurely pace. The smell haunts you forever.

  Hands down, it’s the most gruesome death I can name.

  Drowning would be a close second.

  I shake my head to clear it and refocus on the sole reason I’m here, and not closer to the blaze. I should be there, helping any way I can. Let Briar Winthorp find her own way out of the trap she’s set with her secrets and lies.

  No matter how deeply I believe that, I don’t move. Instead, I scan the water, hunting for the equivalent of a needle in a haystack. Or, to be more specific, a woman in an ocean.

  The bitch set me up, I’m sure. Most likely, a sniper is perched somewhere nearby, waiting to take a shot, while she lounges on the boat floating in the distance, cackling over how well her “reckless” plan worked.

  I can’t even blame her for gloating. She got to me. Got inside my head…

  And, speak of the devil.

  What I mistook at first for a trick of the light, turns out to be a mass of golden hair, floating just beneath the water’s surface. Her body? No. A glimpse of pale limbs reveals she’s very much alive, propelling herself through the current.

  She rises slowly like some fucked up mermaid, her skin so pale she glows against the water. Her hand grips the edge of the dock first, fingers grappling for purchase. A heartbeat after, she surfaces with a gasp.

  I lunge, grabbing her wrist, but I sense that my strength is the primary force lifting her from the water. She lands on her side, coughing up greenish liquid in between her pants. I marvel at the sight of her, measuring the distance from the yacht.

  Did she really swim all that way?

  “Run,” she croaks, her chest heaving, dress glued to her body. “Now!”

  She doesn’t need to tell me twice. A glance along the marina reveals that the guards are suddenly alert, patrolling the docks.

  Crouching, I lift her in my arms and head for the rental, shoving her into the back seat. It quickly becomes apparent that I won’t be receiving my deposit upon return.

  “Damn.” I thought she found another dress at first, longer than the one I bought. The extra scarlet is just blood, coating her legs. Too much. I inspect her for the wound, zeroing in on her left thigh. It’s deep.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “No time to play hero now,” she scolds, her voice so tight I barely hear her. “We need to move.”

  I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know she’s right.

  “Fuck.” I lunge into the driver’s seat and take off, merging into the thick of traffic. It’s already slowed to a crawl, jammed in every direction. We’re sitting fucking ducks.

  But so is anyone who happens to follow us.

  That good news, however, is quickly tempered by the glaring reminder darkening the horizon on my left. Though her initial phrasing was rather ineloquent, it sums it up.

  The bastard blew up the city.

  “What happened?” I look back in the rearview mirror, and I can take a guess. “He hurt you?”

  She laughs weakly, gesturing to her leg. She managed to tie a length of fabric around the wound, but it’s already soaked, dripping fresh blood. “This scratch? It was inflicted during my daring escape. I’ll be fine.”

  She won’t be. There’s too much blood, leeching the color from her skin at an alarming rate. She’ll die without treatment, and soon.

  Rather than say as much, I focus on weaving through the traffic and manage to advance at least a block. Now the only question is where to go.

  “I’m assuming you learned something?” I ask her, glancing back to make sure she’s still conscious. “What is he planning?”

  “The hospital,” she croaks, her head lolling every time I hit the brake. “But we won’t have much time. I managed to find out that little tidbit, at least. Though I don’t know his aim. The boy, I’m guessing.”

  “The hospital? Eli.” In the chaos of the explosion, the police will be stretched thin, and Mischa’s men will be cut off from the rest. Judging from how long it’s taking me to go a block, it will be hours before they can reach the hospital in time.

  “He’ll want him alive,” she adds. “For now. His plan, however… It’s complicated. He could attack tonight. Or tomorrow. It could be a coincidence. Or strategic. I know he has a mole in the Stepanov ranks—”

  Exactly what I feared. But who?

  “Did you get a name?” I prod, hissing as a car cuts me off before the next intersection. “Fuck! Did you get anything?”

  “He’s… He’s difficult to predict.” She’s breathing heavily, every word a struggle. “This all could be a diversion. I don’t think he bought my act for too long, either.” She croaks a watery laugh.

  A diversion. Only a madman would go through these lengths for no good damn reason. There has to be a reason.

  “What else is he planning? Another explosion?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. He had me watched like a hawk and gave me little direction. I had to get creative with my methods. When things got too hot… Let’s just say I ‘jumped’ out of the frying pan.”

  Meaning that she jumped off a forty-foot yacht into the bay with no life vest? I choose not to question her now.

  “Damn it.”

  There’s no way I can get to the hospital in time. Still, I grab my cell phone and try calling one of the men. The connection won’t go through at all.

  “Service must be out,” I assume, hissing. Though my device claims to have full bars of connection. Could there be some kind of jam through the Stepanov network? “I wonder if he planned that.”

  I slam on the brake as traffic stalls again, and an ominous thud comes from the back seat.

  “Briar?” I look over my shoulder to find her lying on the floor, her breathing heavier. A low groan betrays she’s still alive.

  “Your…driving skills…leave much to be desired, soldier.”

  “We’re not going to get there in time with this mess,” I hiss, scanning the road for a spot to pull over. “I have to move on foot—”

  “If I can make a suggestion,” the woman says tiredly. “I know someone who might be able to get there in time. Two someones, in fact. How much use they’ll be, remains to be seen…”

  My eyes cut to slits as I weigh the dangers of trusting her again. The short answer? I don’t have a fucking choice. “Who? If the phone lines are jammed, I probably can’t reach another cell phone—”

  She smiles, her eyes glazed. “Call the Norfolk hotel. I’m sure their landlines are still working.”

  The same hotel she requested I book.

  “What can they do?”

  “Connect you,” she rasps. “Ask for Donatello Vanici.”

  21

  Don

  The water I’m splashing on my face is ice-fucking cold, but nowhere near cold enough. I’d need actual ice to counter her. Still, I cup handfuls of the liquid until I’m dripping wet, my shirt almost soaked through.

  Fuck. Like a coward, I contemplate waiting in here until the roads clear. I should let Fabio deal with her. Better yet, send her back to Mischa.

  As if she’d be that easy to get rid of. No…

  Facing her is inevitable.

  But today isn’t that fucking day.

  I step back from the sink and reenter the main suite, heading straight for the balcony overlooking the city. As if from miles away, I hear a musical chime that doesn’t belong amid the backdrop of sirens coming from outside. A telephone? One designated for the room, perched on a glass table that I pass on my way out.

  I let it ring, turning my focus to the city, ignoring everything else.

  Already the evening sky mimics the unnatural orange glow from the fire. It feels more pressing than ever to decipher the riddle of its meaning. From the Saleris, to their “guest” to the woman who snuck onto the boat, it all feels too calculated. Too complex, like some elaborate fucking scheme that I’m only seeing a sliver of.


  By the time I unravel the web itself, I’ll already be caught in its snare.

  Lost in thought, I miss the exact moment someone approaches, watching from beyond the doorway. The wind plays devil’s advocate, bringing their scent to my nostrils. Roses.

  Indecision leaves me grappling with the need to go, versus staying regardless of the tension. Will we have to reconcile whatever the fuck just happened? Yes, but later. For now, I throw myself into solving the problem presented to me.

  The only time we seem capable of tolerating each other is by working together.

  “This is the Saleris’ territory,” I say, thinking out loud. In fact, most of the city center they control is viewable from this very height and location—I doubt it’s entirely by coincidence, either. That woman, whoever she is, suggested this place for a reason.

  “The hospital is there,” I reiterate, spying the building in the distance. “Felicità is over there… Why the fuck would someone want the city severed in half, even for a few hours?”

  I lean against the railing, pondering that very riddle.

  “The Saleris make most of their money from the club. They traffic their women from all over, arranging escorts for high-class clients. Thanks to Gregori cultivating ‘friends in high places,’ the police don’t dare to look in their direction.”

  It’s only as I hear my own voice echoing back that I realize I’m spouting this shit, not for my own benefit, but for the figure inching closer, her smell so potent I can taste it. I’m choking on it.

  She’s so eager for information, able to overlook anything else between us. Curiosity is her true vice, not liquor. All things considered, I’m inclined to give her another dose.

  “No one knows where they keep their ‘inventory,’” I say. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d assume something mobile. A truck convoy, perhaps. I’ve heard rumors of the tactics they use, setting up ‘work placement’ agencies under the guise of scoring their girls legitimate employment. Once they arrive in the city, they find themselves wearing a thong in Felicità instead. If the Saleris were in on the explosion, cutting traffic off for an unforeseen amount of time wouldn’t be very beneficial to their business model. Unless…”