by Lana Sky
I find my attention being drawn to the corner of the bay wrapped around this part of the city like a noose. The water sparkles like a blaring beacon, under my fucking nose all this time.
Of course.
“Unless they have another method of entry. The docks. They smuggle the girls in through there. And, with the land they snatched up, they’d have the ability to store whatever they bring in. That would set up Gregori to expand his establishment well beyond Hell’s Gambit.”
But that wouldn’t explain the explosion.
“Mischa’s territory forms a noose around the Saleris’,” I add, turning my focus to the swaths of land extending beyond the city center. “If he were gone, they could claim the entire city.”
Nearly every fucking thing this side of the fire, to be exact. A damn good bargain for playing the role of someone else’s patsy. But what is the ultimate goal?
Why would someone go so far as to use the Saleris, let alone empower them with so much territory?
“They stand to gain a lot in the end,” I muse out loud, answering my own question. “But whoever is pulling the strings must stand to benefit much more.”
I keep seeing the other man who had been on the Saleris’ yacht. Someone unimpressive enough, but I’ve learned from my days with Giovanni Rossi that looks can be deceiving.
“Who would benefit from the appearance of a fire drawing resources and attention away from the city center?”
I see her move from the corner of my eye. She grips the banister, drawing up beside me, her gaze fixed in one direction. The hospital.
“Mischa’s wife and son are still at Mercy,” I say, putting the pieces together for myself. “If I wanted to stage another hit on the Stepanovs, now would be a perfect time. Mischa has some men stationed there already, but a small number, I’m assuming. On a typical day, it wouldn’t take long for backup to arrive.”
But now?
“Given the chaos, reinforcements could be delayed hours at least,” I suspect. “Any other day, Gregori or Mateo would have to make the call to slow any traffic through the city center. With enough firepower and the right timing, someone could stage an attack in the heart of Saleris’ territory without implicating them on the surface. The hospital is a sitting target.”
I look to the woman beside me, curious if she’s come to the same conclusion—but her gaze is turned toward the interior of the suite. My ears pick up what has her attention—that noise again. The phone.
It could be a hotel employee calling about some matter related to the suite. I’m tempted to let it ring, but something makes me answer it this time.
“Vanici.”
“If you truly want peace with Mischa Stepanov, now is your chance to prove it,” a man says. His voice is too gruff to belong to a concierge. It’s not Mischa or Fabio, either.
“Who the hell is this?”
“That doesn’t matter,” the man replies, his tone short. “Get to Mercy hospital before it’s too late. The Stepanovs might be a target, and I’m sure your nephew is too.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“Traffic is at a standstill,” the man says. “You’ll have to run there. Stall long enough for me to arrive.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Rather than answer, the bastard hangs up.
Son of a bitch. I eye the receiver, weighing my options. I’m not inclined to take orders like some whipping boy—at the same time, I don’t like the idea of the hospital being a target. Not one fucking bit.
Getting in touch with Fabio is the smartest course of action—or even Mischa himself. I grab my cell, trying to call those particular people in order.
Neither one goes through, and time is ticking.
As it stands, my only backup is the woman behind me.
“Here—” I reach into my pocket, knowing full well that I’m giving her more than a weapon—her own knife, to be exact. I’m giving her control, a chance to turn the tables if she wants to.
Attack me. Run.
Her eyes gleam as though she’s weighing those very options. Which appeals to her more?
“We need to get to the hospital,” I say, offering her the blade. “Your family could be in danger.”
So could she. Rethinking my plan, I start to withdraw the knife. “Or you could stay here. Wait for me—”
She shakes her head, her eyes blazing. When she offers the flat of her palm, I know that whether I allow her to or not, she’s leaving.
“Fine.” I press the blade against her hand. She has nowhere to put it, though. “Here—” I shrug off my jacket and shove the knife into the pocket. “We’ll have to run there. You stay with me, you got that?”
She nods, chin jutting in the air, gaze fixed with determination. Looking at her, I have to admit—as stupid as a thought it might be—when it comes to her, I know better than Fabio.
Black is the only color that suits her.
22
Willow
I have no idea who he spoke to, or what about. I only trust the truthful way he conveyed those words—Your family is in danger.
When he lunges for the door, commanding me to follow, I do without question.
We can’t have been in the hotel for more than an hour, but as we exit the building, it’s apparent just how sheltered we’ve been within those walls. One step from the main doors and the chaos stemming from the city’s west end is deafeningly intense.
Smoke tinges the air as sirens continue to blare. People congregate on corners muttering, their faces turned in the direction of the blaze.
But beneath it all, I can’t escape a feeling of wrongness. Donatello senses it as well, his eyes narrowing. Without warning, he grabs my arm, pulling me closer to his side.
Selfish thoughts intrude in a moment where my sole concern should be on my family. I hate him for touching me. At the same time, I need him to. His nearness is an anchor against the pandemonium, bolstering me when otherwise I’d be too anxious to think straight.
With his scent in my lungs, my thoughts are crystal clear. He’s worried; I can see it in his eyes. For Vin? For my family, even? …For me?
Fearlessly, his steps propel him from block to block. I’m panting in my haste to keep up, but the further we go, the more obvious it becomes that driving would be out of the question. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper, and I know a grim possibility he doesn’t mention out loud.
If Ellen and Eli are in danger, the small retinue of Stepanov men stationed at Mercy is all they’ll have for protection. Beyond the city, in Stepanov Manor, Mischa won’t be able to reach them.
“We’re almost there,” Donatello warns. His composure alone dispels the fear threatening to choke me. He turns calamity into clarity, his voice persistent, somehow easily audible despite the noise.
“I don’t know what to expect,” he cautions as the Mercy Hospital complex comes into view. When we near the main entrance, he grips me even tighter, lowering his mouth to my ear. “We’ll get to your family, first. Move them toward Vin’s wing.”
A fact easier said than done once we reach the lobby.
The spacious area is packed with concerned visitors all clustered around the front desk, shouting various questions. Only a few of the lights remain on to illuminate the usually bright space.
“Yes, there was a power outage,” I hear the receptionist say, her strained tone desperate to convey calm. “The hospital is running on a generator for now, but there is no risk to patient care. However, patients on the fourth floor are being evacuated to another wing for their safety…”
My heart lurches. Vincenzo’s floor.
Donatello must realize as well. His jaw clenches as we pass the receptionist completely, but he doesn’t slow, heading straight for the elevators.
“Shit,” he snarls when we reach their location.
A yellow caution sign has already been affixed to one, warning they’re out of service hospital-wide.
Already pivoting, Donatello heads for a nearby s
tairwell instead. “This way. Wait—” His eyes flash with indecision as we mount the first flight of steps. Overall, the stairwell itself is eerily deserted, every breath and sound amplified times a thousand. “Vin… I need to make sure he’s okay.”
But if there’s a threat against my family, there isn’t time to waste.
He must see that in my eyes because he hisses through his teeth. “It will be stupid to split up. But if you want, you can get there first,” he says. “Keep the knife on you. Stay out of sight. Wait for me—”
I nod, already starting up the staircase.
“You wait for me,” he warns. “We don’t know what the hell to expect.”
Meeting his gaze, I marvel at what I find. Concern? So brief and fleeting I could have imagined it. Still, it shocks me to my core. In that moment, he…
He looked like himself again.
“Did you hear me?” he snaps, his tone as gruff as ever.
I nod a second time.
“Good.” He continues up the steps, keeping pace with me until we reach the second floor. “Your family’s wing is here,” he says. “Vin is two floors up. Get to them if you can, but you stay out of sight otherwise. Understood?”
He doesn’t move until I start past, entering the floor proper. The door closes behind me with a deafening thud. When I look back, gazing through a pane of glass providing a view of the stairwell, he’s already gone. All that’s left to do now is try to remember the way to Mischa’s wing on my own.
Was it through this corridor?
Or the next?
Mischa’s paranoia proves a detriment in this instance. Due to the privacy of Ellen’s ward, there’s no one else in view to ask for directions.
When I finally find a wing that looks vaguely familiar, I can’t ignore the ominous feeling building in my gut. Something isn’t right. It’s too quiet here, with the partial lighting casting shadows that make the hallway feel as spacious as a crypt.
Every step I take echoes, magnifying the undeniable feeling of being alone.
He left you again, a part of me hisses. Not because he believes you’ll be any help. He knows your useless. Perhaps he’ll hope this building explodes as well. You’ll finally be out of his hair for good…
No! I bite back the thoughts and focus. Finding my family is my sole concern, though I can’t escape the feeling that the quiet interior doesn’t resemble a target under siege. There are no men with guns like the figures who guarded the marina. No screams or gunshots.
Maybe Donatello had it wrong?
Either way, I have no choice but to find my way alone. Up ahead, the corridor forks into two, but I don’t know which way to go. Left? Right?
Unsure, I bounce on the balls of my feet. Then I hear it—a masculine voice coming from the left-hand direction.
“…everything secured,” he says, though I don’t hear anyone respond. He could be speaking into a phone. Or a headset, I realize as I round the corner and spy a familiar figure dressed in black.
Mischa’s guard. He’s alone, still at his post near the door, but his voice is strained. Gruff. I doubt he would speak to Mischa like this. “The fuck are the others? They can’t expect me to move them by myself—” He breaks off, his eyes widening as he sees me. In the blink of an eye, his demeanor changes, his posture straightening, voice deepening. “Ms. Willow? What are you doing here?”
Unease wars with relief. Again, I can’t ignore the suspicion that he wasn’t speaking to another guard so informally. At the same time, I can admit that extended time in the orbit of Donatello Vanici has heightened my paranoia.
Either way, I approach him.
“Are you alone?” He eyes the hallway behind me, and I note the way his hand goes to his hip. Where his weapon is holstered? Again, new alarm bells go off. Another side effect of Donatello’s influence?
When I draw near enough, the man plunges that same hand into his pocket. I stiffen, but instead of a weapon, he withdraws a set of keys, fumbling for the door. “Ah… Allow me. Your father isn’t here. The rest of the men are… They’re on break.” His words are disjointed, as if he’s speaking purely out of habit.
Jostling near the lock, his hand shakes, and it takes him two tries to successfully open the door. As he does, he shoots another glance over his shoulder.
“Is…ah, Mr. Vanici with you? Or your father?” Something in his tone raises the hair on the back of my neck.
I ignore it, racing down the hall into Ellen’s room. She’s still there, lying in bed, Eli beside her.
“Will!” He flashes a grin, lurching to his feet. A book falls from his lap to the floor, not that he seems to notice. “Did you hear that boom? It was so loud! We tried to call Papa, but—”
“We didn’t know you were coming, darling,” Ellen says, but her expression is constrained. She’s worried. Does she suspect something’s wrong as well?
“Why is your face like that?” Eli demands.
My face…
A nearby mirror provides more insight. My hair is disheveled, my eyes bloodshot. Donatello’s jacket dwarfs my body, a glaring reminder of the urgency at hand.
Turning to Eli, I raise my hands. Where are the other guards? Evgeni? I sign.
He shrugs. “There were three guards overnight. But only one came to replace them.”
“We were supposed to leave today,” Ellen says, her eyes alert as they cut to the doorway. “No one has explained to me why we haven’t. I’ve asked for my phone—”
“But the guard said the lines are down,” Eli says over her. “This one won’t work—” he points to the landline beside Ellen’s bed. “Papa hasn’t been here yet, either.”
A rare note of unease colors his tone.
We need to move, I sign to him. Can’t explain.
“Move?” His eyebrows wrinkle.
“What’s wrong?” Ellen demands. She’s regained enough of her strength to haul herself upright, bracing her hands against the mattress for support. “Willow?”
“She says we need to move,” Eli explains, racing to her side. “Something’s wrong.”
Ellen meets my gaze and nods, rising to her feet. “Unhook the IV from the wall, darling,” she tells Eli. Gripping the pole, she uses it for support to enter the hall.
I lead the way to the door, but when I push it open, it doesn’t budge. Locked. I pound on the glass, but the guard doesn’t move. I see his eyes flicker in my direction before cutting away. He’s ignoring me.
And the building dread becomes an avalanche of terror.
“Excuse me,” Ellen calls, her voice conveying the full authority she commands as a Stepanova. “Open the door.”
The man doesn’t move. Not even when she raps on the glass with what little strength she has. Slumped against the IV pole, she’s no match for his insubordination.
“What’s wrong with him?” Eli demands.
I think I know, though I don’t try to convey it. He must be working for the men who caused this diversion.
And Donatello knew, of course, a part of me snarls. Once again, he’s led you like a lamb to the slaughter.
No. I shake my head, quashing the guilt. There isn’t time to dwell. I need to think.
They can’t expect me to move them by myself, he said. Does that mean he’s working alone?
Why?
And who is “they”?
“Hey! Where are you going?” Eli demands as the man moves without warning, venturing from the door.
Through the pane of glass, I catch a glimpse of him with his hand at his ear. He’s on his headset.
But Donatello said the cell towers were down, interfering with his ability to use a cell phone.
This guard must be speaking via a local connection. Which means whoever he’s communicating with must be somewhere on the hospital grounds. Waiting to attack?
Or is their plan more nefarious? What I overheard him say before keeps echoing in my head. Move them. Eli and Ellen? But where…
“He’s coming back,” Ellen say
s.
Sure, enough the guard is returning, approaching the door directly. As he wrenches it open, something in his expression makes me step back.
“There’s been a breach at the manor. I need you to come with me,” he says, reaching for Eli. “The other men are on their way for Mrs. Stepanova and you, Ms. Willow.”
No. I step in front of Eli. Objectively, I’m not even sure why. It’s a pulse, surging through my blood as strong as my heartbeat. Or maybe it’s a voice whispering through my skull in a baritone suspiciously resembling Donatello’s. Don’t let him go.
“Please…” The man sighs, glancing over his shoulder. He looks impatient, like he’s waiting for something. Expecting something.
“We should all move together,” Ellen declares, her eyes narrowing. “What kind of breach happened? Let me speak to my husband—”
“There isn’t time.” The man grabs for Eli only to grunt in shock, clutching his hand to his chest. Blood drips from it, stemming from a jagged cut sliced into his forearm.
The strange thing is that I don’t even remember grabbing the knife. Sure enough, it’s in my hand, trembling with how tightly I’m gripping it.
I’m flashed back to the last time I brandished this very dagger against another person. With Donatello beside me, his voice rasping against my ear. “He deserves to be punished,” he told me then. “You know that as well as I do. So where should we start?”
“Willow!” Horror wracks Ellen’s voice, but the guard has my attention.
“Fuck.” He slides his hand into his pocket again. This time, he withdraws a gun, aiming it at her.
“Please get back into the room Mrs. Stepanova,” he commands. “The boy will come with me, and more men will come to escort you to safety. There isn’t time for argument.”
He’s lying.
