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

by Lana Sky

  Marry a woman too young to even decide her own future. Her entire life has been guided by the strength and power of the Stepanov name. Who the hell am I to fuck with that, even out of spite?

  The answer seems to lurk in the scarlet liquid the nurse takes from my arm.

  I’m not blood to her. In the grand scheme, I was only ever a stranger who did the unthinkable and left her to die.

  Once it’s over, now feels as good a time as any to approach Mischa directly without Fabio’s intervention.

  He’s in the hall, waiting in silence. If he even still wants the damn blood draw, he hasn’t said a word either way. As I approach, he eyes me warily, one of his guards close by.

  All I do is meet his gaze, hiding nothing. “You want this sham to end?” I ask, knowing that I’m far enough from the exam room that neither she nor Fabio can hear me. “Make me a deal. You can take her tomorrow, but you keep your word.”

  His upper lip twitches, his eyes narrowing. I can see him cycle through the pros and cons of believing me or not. Finally, he crosses his arms, shooting a glance across the room where his daughter sits beside a nurse.

  His voice is so gruff I nearly miss his reply. “Name your price.”

  27

  Willow

  There is beauty in madness. In insanity, even. The human mind has an almost whimsical way of spinning reality into whatever narrative it desires.

  Hate becomes interest if you want it to be hard enough. Interest can be lust. Lust can…

  Seem so real. Feel so real.

  Until you realize that, in a sense, it was all a daydream, conjured by a naïve mind. In the end, I was no better than Olivia in her letters, pining for a man who never existed.

  The real Donatello never gave a damn about me. I was only ever a tool he could use to his own benefit. Any connection I thought I felt on the yacht, or that night in the hotel meets the hard wall of his disinterest—and then it shatters into a million pieces.

  Weeks later and he can barely even look at me.

  The letters are a festering wedge between us. I haven’t been able to bring myself to read them. Though I should. I should fearlessly stalk any hint of the truth—Donatello’s feelings be damned.

  I should look for any further justification to hate him more than I already do. He had no right to feel betrayed over some silly old letters. No right to look at me like I was the monster for wanting to read them.

  No right to ignore me all over again.

  His hate is poison—I physically feel the effects, weighing me down, turning every waking moment into an exhaustive effort. Sleeping is the only thing that holds interest.

  At least then, I don’t have to fight so hard. Try so hard.

  I can imagine him in any way I want and trust that, at least until I wake up, that man will follow a predictable pattern. Only in dreams can I ever understand him.

  The days devolve into a monotonous loop split between Havienna and the hospital. Ironically, despite the uneventful hours trickling by, I sense something building in the background, swelling to the forefront of everyone’s consciousness.

  Fabio seems to feel it. Mischa. Vin. Even Donatello.

  Something is happening—though no one seems to know exactly what.

  I can taste the tension prickling in the air, like lightning crackling before a storm.

  And yet, the world seems at a standstill.

  Until the second everything comes crashing like a dam breaking. It happens one morning, too quickly to even track. As soon as I wake up and spy the figure standing over me, I know in the pit of my soul that everything is about to change.

  If he looked angry, I could understand that. Hateful, even. Vengeful—the way he appeared after he nearly let me fall off a cliff to my death.

  Instead, his expression is eerily blank. I can’t read him.

  “Willow…” Even his voice lacks its characteristic cadence, so…cold. “The engagement is off,” he says next. “You can go.”

  I hear each word resonate in slow, excruciating detail, but my brain can’t match the meaning with his expression. There’s no smile. No gloating taunt. Just a blank, lifeless mask that sends a punch of déjà vu through me—I’ve seen it before.

  “Your father already sent a car to take you home.”

  Home. I blink, knowing that he’s not referring to these decrepit, dusty-coated walls, but Stepanov manor. Away from here. From him.

  You can go…

  I have to hear those words replay in my mind a million times before they finally settle. All the while, he looks at me as if waiting for something. A reaction. For me to scream. Jump. Attack.

  Deep down, I think I always knew it was coming.

  I saw the way he watched me with Vincenzo. Always watching, every time we traded smiles or interacted.

  Lurking just beyond the bed, Donatello would stare, agonized. I’d ignored the expression at first, trying to rationalize it as concern for his nephew, nothing more.

  But I think I’ve always known the truth.

  The same way I never belonged in Mischa’s world, I never belonged in his, either.

  I was always a thorn in his side. A burden he never wanted.

  Whatever happened at the hotel was a brief lapse in judgment—but just that. Brief.

  He never wanted me. Not then. Not now.

  Seeing me with Vincenzo must make that sink in for him, clearer than ever. I think that’s why he might have sold me in the first place, in the aftermath of Olivia’s death and my father’s betrayal.

  I was of no use to him anymore. Just a reminder of his pain.

  A burden.

  By the time I fully process what he’s said, he’s already gone. Alone, I crawl from the bed and dress blindly without even examining exactly what I’m putting on. There’s nothing of mine to take anyway—everything in this room has been borrowed or stolen.

  Still, I can’t resist grabbing a silver box and the contents I’d painstakingly returned to it. With it hidden in my fist, I move on autopilot, descending the steps to find a car already waiting for me.

  My heart swells as I see the driver. Evgeni, but the only greeting I can muster is the shadow of a smile.

  He wasn’t bluffing this time—he truly wants me gone.

  Racing from Havienna in the direction of Stepanov manor, everything that happened since I left could have been some vivid, horrifying nightmare. An endless dream.

  When the house is just a speck in the distance, it feels as good a time as any to finally read the letters, fishing them from the silver box.

  By reading them, I can finally put my curiosity to rest and leave the mystery of Donatello Vanici behind for good.

  With every page I consume, more of the world falls away. The past words of Olivia and Donatello entrance and consume. Soon, I’m stuck in the past, my heart racing, throat so dry it’s painful to swallow.

  I don’t love you, Olivia wrote on one of the final notes. I don’t. I don’t know what this is. But when I’m with you, at least I’m not invisible for once. You see me. Maybe that means something.

  Maybe it means nothing.

  It’s wrong, either way. I know this is wrong.

  But Donatello’s name isn’t written across the top of the crumbled note. It’s shorter, and I read it a million times before my brain finally makes sense of it.

  Gino.

  28

  Don

  I’m ready for Fabio when he arrives, waiting on the porch as he drives up. The knowledge that at least one person will revel in my supposed change of heart is a surprisingly pathetic crutch, but I lean on it anyway.

  Fabio will reaffirm what I know in my gut. Letting her go was the right thing.

  “Where is Willow?” Fabio calls out the second he parks in the driveway.

  There’s no point in drawing it out. “She’s gone,” I say as he exits his car. “I sent her back to Mischa this morning. In exchange, he’ll provide Vincenzo with security and a trust from the Stepanov estate.”
/>
  I should sound happier. That outcome is all I wanted from the very start.

  “You can help tidy up the details, but it’s done,” I add.

  “Donatello.” Fabio’s voice is stern enough that I lose track of the relief I should feel. Fuck, he should look happy, at least. Not…

  Terrified.

  “What?”

  He observes me for so damn long. I’m almost convinced he’s frozen in place by the time he finally inclines his head toward the house. “We should discuss this inside.”

  “Discuss what? Don’t tell me you plan to advocate for this fucking marriage after all?” I laugh at the thought. “I did what you wanted. I chose peace—”

  “The bloodwork came back,” he says, but he sounds too stiff. Cold. He fishes a folded document from his pocket, clenching it carelessly in a fist. “I have to even wonder if you planned this. Maybe you did. Maybe you’re really sick enough.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He extends the page to me. Printed on it is a brief list of medical terms. The blood test results.

  As expected, there’s no familial relation. Though I doubt that revelation is responsible for Fabio’s disgusted glance.

  “Mischa hasn’t seen it yet, I’ll have you know,” he says tiredly. “This time, you can face him alone. I’m done trying to clean up your messes. Frankly, I… I can’t even look at you.”

  “What am I supposed to be reading?” I demand.

  Then I realize that one line is highlighted. HCG: abnormal. That term…

  “I peed on a stick,” Liv told me, her eyes sparkling. “It was positive, but the doctor still did a blood test to check my HCG levels. They’re elevated, Don…’

  “Don’t be stupid, Donatello,” Fabio snaps, pulling me back to the present. “It’s early, but a blood test would detect something. I’m sure even you knew that.”

  He waits.

  Then he sighs.

  “Willow is pregnant. Congratulations.”

  ~ The Mice and Men Series continues in Mended Crown ~

  Afterword

  You have finished book one of Donatello and Willow’s story. Do you want to see where it all began? Check out the War of Roses Trilogy!

  XV: Fifteen: War of Roses Trilogy Book One

  Kidnapped, Ellen must do whatever it takes to survive her cruel mafia captor, Mischa. Will he break her— or will she outsmart him?

  WHEN HATE BECOMES OBSESSION…

  Mistaken for her beautiful half-sister, Ellen Winthorp is taken captive by a madman who declares that she will be his "fifteen": the fifteenth victim of a vicious mafia blood feud. Armed with only her instincts, Ellen must resist her captor for as long as she can—which is easier said than done the more she's exposed to the complex man beneath the beast.

  Because Mischa Stepanov isn’t a mindless monster—he’s a wolf, and she’s the unwitting doe caught in his midst.

  Unraveling the torment of his past may be her only hope of salvation...

  Or the secrets uncovered may destroy them both.

  Chapter 1 of XV: War of Roses Trilogy Book 1

  Noise…

  Chaos…

  Briar…

  The first thing I’m aware of is that I’m blindfolded—a fact that could be a blessing in disguise as my thoughts blur and jumble together. Only one coherent question escapes the fray: Where am I?

  No answer comes to me immediately. My straining ears can make out only a few words muttered nearby in unfamiliar voices. Deep, masculine voices.

  Various smells irritate my nostrils as well: sweat, body odor, male. All male. God, where am I?

  I try flexing my shoulders only to wince. My hands are impossible to move, tied behind my back with something rough. Rope?

  Oh, God.

  Familiar terror gnaws at my belly as moisture gathers in my armpits and sweeps across my palms. At least, now, I have an inkling of my fate. I’m trapped in another one of his games. My nostrils flare with renewed purpose: seeking out his scent.

  He must have hired lackeys this time; foreign body odor drowns out the stench of his cologne. I can’t smell him.

  But you can survive this. I fall back on the mantra that has gotten me through every day for sixteen years. You can survive, Ellen. Focus, Ellen. Breathe, Ellen.

  Ten hours—that’s how long I endured last time. My resolve had nearly splintered by the end. I’d almost given in. Almost.

  But even psychological wounds eventually heal and leave tougher scar tissue behind. I can last another ten hours with Robert. My brain makes that distinction as the barrage of scents dissipates, revealing one that overpowers the rest: a man’s. I taste the nuances in his stench rather than smell them—he’s that potent, composed of a multitude of different things.

  Cigar smoke.

  Vodka.

  One scent in particular makes my heart stop. Salty and sweet, it’s almost as familiar as the flowery perfume wafting from my skin now. Blood?

  Robert never smokes. He doesn’t drink. Whenever he hurts me, he always washes his hands before and after. It is our routine, and he is nothing if not predictable.

  No. This is someone new. Someone taller, whose shadow completely blots out what little detail plays across my blindfold. His footsteps are steady. Heavy.

  “This her?”

  I sense the outline of his fingers before the callused edge of one grazes my forehead.

  “You made sure?”

  His voice is deep. Almost too deep to be intelligible: a series of grated, rumbling notes. There’s an accent tucked among them—something thick. Eastern European? Briar had a maid from there once. Sonja.

  Sonja liked to read Jane Eyre. She liked scribbling love notes to Robert Sr.’s men before fucking them in the broom closet late at night when she thought no one was looking. Sonja liked a lot of things before Robert took a liking to her.

  But another figure from my memory possessed this accent as well. Even though his words were hissed in a whisper, I still remember. Breathe!

  “Bring her.”

  Those two words snap me back to the present. Unfamiliar hands grab my shoulders, cinching the soft silk of my blouse. Briar’s blouse. She dressed me in it lovingly, remarking on how the color complemented my eyes. Our eyes, the same shade of light blue.

  “Move!”

  A tug on my shoulders hauls me upright and unseen hands shove me forward. Every sound echoes. Four footsteps, including mine. The biggest man takes the lead, I suspect, his gait rhythmic against creaking floorboards.

  In contrast, the men holding me dig their nails into my skin and scurry toward an unknown destination. A rusty squeal seconds later conjures the image of an old door opening, and the footsteps trail off.

  “Move!”

  Something rams into my side and I stagger for balance until my cheek strikes a hard surface. It’s warm. Human.

  “Get her on the bed.”

  Those harsh hands return to my shoulders to fulfill the command.

  “Sit her on the edge…like that. Cut her hands free.”

  A metallic hiss sends a shiver down my spine—then pain! Fire courses through my fingertips as circulation returns to them. I long to flex each one, but I know better. Instead, I keep them close, settling them onto my lap.

  These men kept my skirt on, at least. Her skirt. The hem comes down past my knees, and I’ve never been so grateful for four inches of satin. It will buy me more time.

  Ten hours. I’ve already lasted ten minutes. You can do this, the courageous part of my soul whispers. But then that voice dies in the wake of two more words uttered in that guttural cadence.

  “Leave us.”

  The two smaller men scatter in the direction we entered—but it’s all wrong. No. No. I don’t smell Robert, and he’d never leave me alone with another man. Not his lackey. Not even his own father.

  Most alarming of all, this man certainly is no Winthorp. His voice isn’t familiar and this house doesn’t smell like any property on the
familial grounds.

  They took me from the motorcade…

  Fire sears through my skull as memories return in snatches. The clearest one is of her face. Briar. So beautiful, dominated by that pure, sweet smile. “I want you there,” she insisted. “We’re sisters, after all.”

  Sisters. I cherished how that word sounded in her soft cadence, tucking that moment inside myself like one of the trinkets hidden in my secret cache. Love was more precious than a button or rock I’d stolen away. Those four words meant everything. I want you there.

  But the memory of that moment serves as a weak antidote to the terror paralyzing me now. More bits and pieces come back.

  I was in the car—the beautiful limousine for once, instead of one of the servant vans that took up the rear. For part of the way, I was even sitting beside her while she braided my hair. “We look alike now,” she wistfully remarked, beaming at our reflections in the polished windows.

  We look alike. The phrase haunts me. As if I could ever look like Briar, with her lighter ringlets and her creamy skin. The only feature we truly share is our eyes. Our mother’s eyes. Large, round, and blue. In every other respect, she takes after her father, with a beautiful aristocratic nose and a graceful neck. Every Winthorp possesses the same subtle characteristics—markings of the blood, they like to claim. Good blood. Blue blood.

  I take after my father, whoever he is.

  Briar loves to tout our tentative resemblance anyway—especially to her benefit. I am the one the maid saw sneaking out back two summers ago. I am the one who scurried out of the room of that visiting businessman one winter.

  And now…

  We look alike.

  “Take off the blindfold.” That voice…

  I swallow hard, uneasy. Robert has found a new monster to play with. Someone who shares his flair for the dramatic. But where is he? My tormentor always relishes this part of the game. How he enjoys savoring my fear as I try to piece together where I am. Admittedly, it wasn’t this hard before; he never strays too far from the property.