by Lana Sky
Instead, I drop all pretense, facing him with my arms outstretched and nothing held back. Whatever he sees makes him grimace, though it doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to guess what impression I’ve made—that of a crazy motherfucker covered in blood.
He’d be better off opening fire—but he hasn’t, and as the seconds tick past, he never gives the call to attack. Even his men don’t seem to understand why, trading questioning looks between them.
It’s easy to conclude that on this battlefield, Luciano is the only one worth confronting, so I turn my full attention to him.
“You haven’t shot me yet,” I finally point out, but there could be a multitude of reasons why, none of which being a desire to reconnect with an old ally. One real possibility is that he has Mischa already lying in wait inside? Admittedly, I didn’t think this far ahead in terms of returning to my old outfit. Coming here at all could be neatly summarized as a suicidal death wish.
As I observe the mouth of the gun, I’m forced to admit that could very well be the reason. Why? I don’t feel a shred of fear.
I don’t feel a damn thing.
Luciano’s expression reveals nothing either way. Without a word, he eyes my hands, and a muscle in his jaw twitches, but I doubt it’s the blood alone that has him so wary. Sure enough, his eyes flicker toward the trunk, giving me a clue as to what might be behind his restraint.
Surprisingly, it might be as simple as basic human decency.
His next words leave no doubt. “Where is Kisa?”
Kisa Salvatore. The child I took from her home still dressed in her nightgown after strangling her father before her eyes.
From the man’s tone alone, I can tell exactly what he thinks happened to her—I, the Butcher, Il Mostro himself, killed her.
Rather than answer him out loud, I circle around to the car.
“Why are you here, Donatello?” Luciano snarls as I run my fingers along the side of the driver’s seat, finding the lever for the back. “Come to finish us off the way you did Antonio? Did you hurt Kisa too? Answer me! Don’t think I won’t fucking put a bullet in your skull—”
“Kisa,” her name tastes like blood. I spit and realize that the flavor isn’t all in my head—I must have bitten my lip sometime during the trip here. The warm moisture I feel dribbling down my chin must be the reason why Luciano backs up a step as I shoot him a glance over my shoulder. “Is she why you haven’t attacked me yet?”
He keeps his face blank. “Did you kill her? I wouldn’t put it past you—”
“If you believed I was a threat, you wouldn’t have let me through the gates,” I point out. “And if you really gave a damn about Antonio, I don’t think you’d be interested in chatting to his murderer.”
His eyes narrow a fraction—I hit a target, though I’m not sure which one. Maybe the fact that he obviously wasn’t as loyal to Antonio as he wants me to think.
But he does care about the girl—and if he truly thought I’d hurt her, he probably wouldn’t be so friendly.
“You let me go,” I add, raising an eyebrow. “Why? Did you think the famiglia needed a change in management?”
“Fuck off.” He spits on the ground, his gaze unreadable. “Maybe we didn’t think you’d be so fucking dumb as to come here alone. It’s five against one, Don. All I have to do is say the word.”
“Then say it,” I snap to no response.
The silence alone proves my hunch was correct—so much for staging a trap. Despite the show of force, Luciano isn’t willing to risk an outright firefight. He’s concerned for the Salvatore girl, or maybe that’s his excuse. Objectively, he doesn’t have much to mount an attack with, assembling barely enough members to form a welcoming committee.
“I’ll tell you why you haven’t shot me,” I declare, thinking out loud. “You can’t take the risk. Sure, I killed Antonio, but he wasn’t in the running for boss of the year, I’m assuming. The mafiya isn’t known for being the most welcoming of outfits. Mischa would consume the famiglia rather than align with it. Which means that you aren’t in a position to be picky when it comes to allies.”
How tragic. As stoic as he tries to be, Luciano’s narrowed gaze proves I’m right. I’m not the only one who’s been diminished in the shadow of the mafiya. Without Antonio’s leadership, the best the famiglia can look forward to is being picked off by a rival faction or making a power play of their own. To do that, they need leverage—something I might have. Either way, another potential ally, even a murderer covered in blood, is better than nothing.
“You need me,” I say, to sum it up nicely. I don’t know why, but I can’t silence a laugh at that realization. It rings out hollow, echoing on the morning chill only to trail off as I approach the trunk and hook my fingers beneath the lid. I lift it slowly, hissing through my teeth as light falls over the two small bodies curled within the compartment, one blond, the other dark-haired.
They’re lying side-by-side, the girl whimpering while the blond…
I tense, expecting her to lunge at me, nails drawn, like she had during our first meeting. Instead, she grabs the child’s hand, a simple motion that conveys more than any words ever could. She has enough space to jump from the trunk and run if she wanted to. I’ve seen her in action; she’s more than capable of making a decent attempt at escape on her own.
Instead, she’s focused on protecting the weaker entity.
From me.
I blink as if struck, and it takes a second to dull the guilt slicing through my chest—a long, fucking second. In the end, I banish it with a sharp shake of my head. Then I reach for the smaller girl, grabbing her opposite wrist. She whimpers fearfully, her bottom lip trembling.
As the blond stiffens, I catch myself snapping, “Let go.”
Her eyes flit up to mine, and I can practically see the battle taking place beneath her skin. Muscle straining against restraint. Logic warring with instinct. Her lips pull back from her teeth in a feral expression I doubt she’s even aware of. She wants to fight.
I know the feeling.
A second ticks by. Then another before she finally lets go.
I tug the girl out without resistance, easily pulling her into the men’s line of sight.
“Kisa Salvatore, safe and sound,” I snarl, releasing her.
Some of the tension leaves Luciano’s jaw, an observation I note for later. Meeting his gaze, I ask, “Are you going to invite us inside?”
Luciano stiffens, an eyebrow raised. “I thought you were an upstanding businessman,” he sneers, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Better than all of us. You stepped down for a reason, correct? Only to return like a prodigal son. And what? We’re just supposed to fall into fucking line?”
He has a good point.
Without answering, I turn on my heel, rubbing at the stubble on my chin as I try to decide the truth for myself. The booze is wearing off, making my thoughts clearer. Why am I here? Why now?
Amid the swirling chaos and pain in my brain, one coherent thought tumbles out. Revenge. Retribution. Petty rage. Whatever the fuck it’s called, I feel it in the pit of my very soul. I think I always have, but I won’t run from it like I have for the past seven years.
God, I want to indulge in it.
I need to.
This, I realize, is the only thing keeping me going—payback.
Taking a glance around the yard, I home in on the rotting, dried-out husks of lumber stacked haphazardly across the place. The more I look, the more painfully obvious the state of disrepair becomes.
If I hadn’t already killed Antonio, I’d strangle the bastard a second time. Only an idiot would shoot himself in the foot by neglecting the main financial arm of his operation. To be fair, I’m the bigger dumbass who left him in charge.
Irritation aside, at least he did leave one useful thing behind, something that might help turn the tables on Mischa. I slip my hand into my pocket, finding the small device I managed to salvage from my successor. In it, hopefully, lies the key to
finding out who he ordered to put a hit out on the Stepanovs.
And if not?
I haven’t thought that far ahead.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Luciano snaps. “It’s a beautiful fucking day to waste my goddamn time. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that—”
“Tell me something,” I say, directing my voice toward the men behind him. “What has the famiglia become under Antonio Salvatore? Don’t tell me that four fucking men is all you could muster to guard the very heart of the operation.” I don’t even have to look at their faces to know I hit the truth on its head.
I only have to inhale. Shame has a certain stench to it, more potent than lighter fluid and blood.
“You’ve lost your standing,” I say, raising my voice. “Your position in the world, forced to kowtow to someone like Mischa Stepanov for a seat at the table. All while Antonio pillaged the coffers and spent your money on his fancy-ass mansion. Pathetic.”
“Antonio wasn’t the only one pining for a seat at Mischa’s table,” Luciano points out coldly. “We’ve all heard the rumors about how you’ve chased his protection.”
I put my back to him, facing the side of the car, and my own reflection once again. He’s right—and as I stare into a pair of soulless dark eyes, I realize what a foolish act that had been. To grovel at the foot of a monster and demand mercy.
In this world? There is only violence and power, and it takes both to survive.
The proof of the first is written across my skin in various streaks of blood.
As for power? A symbol of my own appears before me, much like the angel I’d compared her to earlier. She must have climbed from the trunk, clinging to the side of the car for balance. It’s the only clue of instability she gives. Otherwise, with her head held high, blond hair streaming down her shoulders, she seems untouchable.
Murmurs of alarm go up from our audience at the sight of her, though. Bravery aside, she looks even worse now than she had before. A divine being marred by bruises and still reeking of lighter fluid.
“What the fuck?” Luciano snarls from behind me. “You couldn’t stop at shoving one girl into your trunk? Maybe you should go talk to the Saleris if trafficking is your thing.”
“And Antonio wasn’t into it?” I counter from over my shoulder. “Don’t tell me he drew the line there.”
“Antonio was a dumbass,” Luciano says. I turn to find him descending the steps, gun still drawn. “He thought he could take on the mafiya himself, but what makes you any better? From what I heard, you forfeited everything you have to Mischa without so much as a fucking whimper. Are we supposed to see you as some kind of savior now?”
“No,” I rasp, eyeing my battered hands. The blood on them speaks for itself. “I’m no one’s savior.”
“So, I repeat the question—why are you here?”
“Because I want to be,” I say, letting my hands fall to my side. “We used to own this city—us. Mischa sits at the head of the table now, but in my opinion? He shouldn’t even have a fucking seat.”
“So what do you suggest?” Luciano counters, cocking his head skeptically. “We break into the man’s house and slaughter him in front of his children like you did Tony?”
I don’t even wince at the suggestion.
“No.” Sarcasm aside, that would be too easy. Nowhere near punishment enough for what he’s done. Mischa deserves so much more than that.
He should know the pain of reaching rock bottom with nothing to show for it. Not only that, but I want him to know that pain on a first name basis—Donatello Vanici.
“I don’t want to kill Mischa.” As the words leave my mouth, my gaze comes to rest over the slight figure before me, and I can’t resist a gnawing suspicion as to what she’s thinking. Does knowing that comfort her?
Her dark eyes watch me without a shred of emotion, and I turn away, ignoring her altogether.
“So, what do you want?” Luciano demands, sounding closer. I turn to find him behind me, but his gun is pointed at the ground. For now.
“What do I want?” I echo, tilting my head to eye the gray, colorless sky above. It’s only been a few hours, but the loss of Vin has already changed everything so damn much. The grief is like putting on glasses that rob the world of its beauty. Its laughter. Its joy.
Without it, the world reverts back to the game board Giovanni always taught me to see it as—territory ripe for exploitation.
“Antonio spoke of having allies,” I say, scoffing at the notion. One look at his supposed headquarters, and I doubt he’s cultivated much. However… “He would be an idiot to try and frame me without thinking he had an insurance policy. Either that, or he was being used as a puppet by someone with a greater interest. Though, with his track record, I don’t think he had many friends to pick from.”
Luciano’s frown proves it.
“Just the Saleris and the local MC,” he admits. “Seeing as how you killed Antonio, I think only one of those options is in play for you.”
Or neither. Another plan unfurls in my head. One so twisted, so wrong… I cringe in the face of it. Then I remember Vin and all the things playing on the right side of the law got me—nothing.
“I’ll let them come to me,” I finally say. “I have a feeling they might anyway once word gets out.”
“That doesn’t sound arrogant at all,” Luciano says with another scoff, but considering he doesn’t storm off, I already have his attention. “What are you even talking about? ‘Word’ about what?”
“That I have Mischa Stepanov’s daughter as leverage against the mafiya.”
I wait, and predictably Luciano swears. “Are you insane—”
“Not to mention that I still own the city’s port,” I say over him. “I’m willing to divvy up my share to anyone ready to collaborate.”
“You own it? I thought—”
“If you plan to kill me, you might as well do it now,” I suggest. “But if you boys are tired of playing games and want to win, then we have work to do.”
Silence lasts for barely a heartbeat before Luciano sighs. “With Antonio dead, it’s not like we have much of a fucking choice. So what is your plan?”
I inhale and exhale slowly before returning my attention to my only real leverage. If I wanted to find her cowering, she denies that fantasy.
She fucking smashes it into pieces, facing me boldly. I hate that her beauty draws my notice, even now. Not in a sexual way, either. The emotion swirling in my gut at the sight of her standing in defiance could be grim admiration. Respect, even.
Grown men have shown less resolve—but that doesn’t mean I won’t treat her the same way I’d treat anyone else who dared to challenge me.
But she’s not just anyone, a voice in my skull taunts.
I blink, cutting off any memories that threaten to replay. Shake my head. Blink again. The longer I stare at her, the more unfamiliar she seems.
Just a snake with the face of a ghost.
Someone to crush.
Someone to kill if it comes to that.
She’s nothing more than a pawn.
“Use one of your men to get a hold of Fabio Botelli. Now. Tell him to cancel any transfer of any assets to Mischa Stepanov. And inform him that he is no longer on my accounts,” I say.
“And then?”
“Then… I have information from Antonio that might come in handy.” I can’t resist running my hand along my pocket merely to feel the shape of the cell phone there. Hopefully, the son of a bitch was as stupid as he was greedy, and the device holds proof that he was the one behind the attack on the Stepanovs.
“Information?”
Looking up, I meet Luciano’s questioning stare with a shrug. “If it proves what I think it does, then we go to Mischa directly.”
If only to ask him one question—how much is his daughter’s life worth?
It takes a surprising amount of effort to turn off the small bit of my soul that might shy away from this line of thought. What might one woman go
for on the black market these days? Add to that listing her hair, and those eyes…
I’d go so far as to assume she’d fetch a nice price, even without the caveat of being Mischa’s daughter.
Though you could always kill her now, a part of me warns.
My fingers twitch as I size her up. It would be so easy to grab her.
But I don’t.
Instead, I face Luciano and head for the front of the building. “Bring them inside.”
“And put them where?” the man snaps. “I know you haven’t been here in a while, but we don’t exactly keep a dungeon on this property.”
I stop for a second, running through the various rooms I remember. “The office,” I say finally. “Put them in my old office. The one with no windows.”
And, more importantly, no obvious escape.
5
Willow
You can hate someone so much you create a reflection of them to fixate on. A phantom that takes on a life of its own, dwelling in your head. It mimics the source of the rage, sometimes so perfectly that you confuse the two—until you start to believe that you can predict the actual person. Their every action. Their every move.
You learn them inside out, convinced they’ll never be able to hurt you again.
The fantasy merely lulls you into a false sense of security, though. Because the moment you finally meet the real being again in person... Only then do you realize just how unprepared you really are.
Donatello in the flesh is a different animal than who I’ve spent seven years picturing him as. He ambles toward the nearest building, dressed in a rumpled, bloodstained suit, unsteady on his feet. One good push seems liable to knock him down for good, and yet it’s unquestionable the hold he has on those around him who quickly fall into line.
And it’s laughable just how wrong my memories have portrayed him—confident, like a cartoon villain, evil, and callous. Someone easily shamed by his past, an opponent I could undoubtedly defeat.
