by Lana Sky
Unsurprisingly, it’s answered after only one ring. “Botelli.”
I suck in a breath at the sound of that voice. He sounds so fucking old. Not only that, but I can tell he’s been chain-smoking from the hoarseness. I feel like I’m channeling Vin as I say, “You need a drink, Fab.”
“Don?” He curses, and a wave of commotion comes from the other end as if he just knocked something over. “Fuck! Mary Mother of God. Where are you? Do you know how fucking worried I’ve been? What the hell were you thinking, sending some punk ass to inform me I’m off your accounts. You owe me more than that—”
“I know. I know,” I snap. Still, I can’t escape the shame I feel like a bitch slap. I’ve never heard him this fucking frantic. “Just, please… Tell me how Vin is.”
“Vin… He’s still alive,” he says hoarsely. “But I won’t lie to you, Donatello. He needs more care than I can provide him. He needs you.”
“More care?” My head is spinning. “I thought you had a doctor.”
“I do,” he says. “But he needs a safe facility to operate in, and a skilled staff—more people than I can easily blackmail. Mischa and his allies are on red alert. I know they’re tracking me. Hell, I’m surprised they haven’t dragged me before him by now, thinking I know your whereabouts.”
“Fuck! Have they tried an attack?” I ask, already rising to my feet. What the hell could I do from here? I don’t know. But there has to be something. Anything.
“Not yet,” he says cautiously. “But he’s commandeered the best hospital in the city for his own family. My doctor can keep him alive, but it will be hard to get Vin the care he needs otherwise.”
“The hospital…” There’s only one nearby worth going to. Mercy, I think, is the name. If Mischa has it on lockdown, there’s no way in hell they’d admit a Vanici. Not to mention it’s in the heart of Saleri territory. Even as the cons mount up, I know there isn’t another option. “I’ll find a way to get him there.”
“Fine,” Fabio says absently. “But you know what he requires the most? An uncle who isn’t riling up the mafiya, doing God knows what else… Don—” His tone shifts as if he suddenly realized something. “This isn’t your number. Where are you calling from—”
“If I can get you a better facility. Would it change anything?”
I know deep down it won’t. I’m torturing myself, playing with hope. Fuck, it’s all I can do.
“Don… I… It might,” he admits. “But where are you? If the worst does come to pass, he needs you here.”
“You’ll be hearing from me as to when you can move him,” I say, barely able to keep up with the plan forming in my head. If I can convince Mischa to allow Vin into the hospital, fuck anything else. I’ll beg the man on my knees if I have to.
But I don’t. Not if I can leverage a worthwhile bargaining chip.
“Wait for my call, Fab. Until then, you lay low. Put an extra security detail on yourself. I mean it. I’ll be in touch when I can.” I don’t realize I’m setting the phone down until I hear Fab’s voice, distorted from the other end of it. “Don, wait!”
I hang up and wind up hunched over the desk, my face in my hands. The terms of the game have changed again.
If I can save Vin’s life…
I’ll do whatever it takes.
Even if it means making a deal with the devil himself.
Eyeing the door, I call out, “Luciano?”
He reenters the room not even a second later, giving credibility to the idea he might have been listening in this whole fucking time.
Ignoring the suspicion, I ask, “Is the old apartment still available?”
He nods. “Tony didn’t use it much, though.”
Because unlike Giovanni, Antonio didn’t give a shit about the energy and forethought it takes to truly run the famiglia. Giovanni warned me before I even took over, the toll such a mantle could take on a man.
“This fucking apartment? Get used to it. You’ll see these sheets more than any other property you own. They’ll start to feel more familiar than your own wife’s body does at night.”
And he was right. The title as the leader—and the responsibility that came with it—took me from Olivia well before she died.
“Don? Where are you going?” Luciano demands as I stand, circling the desk with my back to my reflection.
I shrug. “I need to shower.”
He laughs, watching me with an incredulous expression. “You’re on the verge of war with the mafiya who, by the way, outnumber us three to one. You’ve murdered Antonio, who, while a dick, still controlled more men than you have on your own. All of that and you just decide to—”
“Shower? Yes.” I rake my hand through my hair and grimace as my fingers come away slick. “See if you can find me some clothes.”
“Should I order you some coffee while I’m at it? Some donuts for the boys? We might as well be well refreshed, right? Can I get you anything else this fine evening?”
I nod. “I want that fixer. Now. If not tonight, then by tomorrow.”
He sighs, stroking his chin. “The man’s hard to get a hold of—”
“Is that too difficult for you?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll send a message through Tony’s phone. That might lure him here, if he thinks his payment might be in question. What is another fucking piss poor decision to cap off my life? But first, I need to know your plan. Ransom the girl to Mischa? He’d send an army on your head before you could finish naming your price. Besides, what’s to stop me from killing you now and trying that idiotic plan myself?”
He has a point. Though Giovanni liked his mirror for more than one reason. From this position, you had a clear view of the man standing before you. Namely when they’re shuffling nervously from foot to foot despite the bravado in their voice.
“You don’t have the balls,” I point out. “Besides, I have a better idea than that. Do you want me to say the customary words? Fine,” I tell him. “Trust me. But before you go off, I need you to do one last thing.”
He hesitates for seconds before finally answering. “What?”
“Make sure no one else so much as looks at the girl. She’s mine.” My voice breaks over that fucking word. I’m disgusted to hear it out loud—and not for the first time either.
She’s mine in the only sense that matters. My stolen toy to barter with. Mine to break.
A shower can wait. I should see her first.
“Should I be alarmed by your plans for her?” Luciano wonders, his eyes on my face.
I’m startled by the chuckle that escapes my throat. It almost sounds genuinely amused. When I picture my “plans” for the woman secured somewhere within this very building…
They’re anything but humorous.
“Not if you don’t want to end up like Antonio,” I tell Luciano.
His laugh sounds more strained this time. “Just don’t make a mess. You hurt her; you deal with her. I told Antonio the same damn thing with his little flings. We aren’t the Saleris.”
“You can sleep free of nightmares,” I assure him. “Put the word out to the rest of your men—only I can touch her. See her. Smell her. Breathe the same air. No one else. No one else so much as enters the room she’s in. Are we understood?”
“Very,” he says tersely. “They’ve been fed for now. As for your woman…she’s beautiful,” he adds on his way out of the office. “But I’ve learned that the beautiful ones bring the most trouble.”
He doesn’t even know half of the trouble this woman could bring.
On the other hand, if I could trade her life for Vin’s, I’d crawl on my knees to do so—nothing else should matter. A smart man would keep her hidden and bide his time to make a deal.
There’s no point in seeing her face to face. Watching her squirm. Wanting to know why the hell she came back at all.
Only a fool would confront her now.
But the truth as it’s kept, I’ve done worse. Once, years ago…I had to convince myself to do
the unthinkable. Feed myself lies. Wallow in the horrific aftermath with the hopes that one day I might atone for it.
There is no prayer for atonement now.
No expectation of forgiveness.
After these long, cold years, I’ve made peace with who I am.
Whatever her reason for coming back, this woman should face that man.
If only to learn once and for all, never to challenge him again.
7
Evgeni
Mercs aren’t known for being picky when it comes to employment—that being said, few would work for Mischa Stepanov willingly. Ignoring our little spat from this morning, I can see why some might hesitate.
The pay is decent enough. While fearsome, I’ve had employers with a far worse reputation. Even the mafiya’s dubious line of business would give few pause. Regardless, any guard worth his salt would avoid the Stepanovs for one reason, and one reason only.
Self-preservation.
A good job should be as uncomplicated as possible. Most are. No amount of money is worth more than that. You study the target. You study your employer even more. You get the money and come out on top always.
Mischa Stepanov, however, guards his secrets as closely as his family. In a word? The man is the definition of complicated.
In six years, I’ve never understood him, nor his past fully. Even the murky origins of his seemingly happy family are shrouded in secrecy—like the paternity of his firstborn son, and that of Willow, his adopted daughter. Logic dictates that those details shouldn’t matter as long as I can do my job and do it well.
And they haven’t.
Until now.
I suppose I can only blame myself for staying, though, to be fair, the job has been relatively boring prior to a week ago.
Donatello Vanici has brought an avalanche of drama upon the normally quiet household.
The aftermath of his attack on the Stepanovs has repercussions reaching far beyond the manor’s limits. With Willow’s disappearance thrown into the mix, our already strained resources have been pushed to their breaking point. Assigning me here could be interpreted as Mischa aiming to get me out of his hair, my expertise aside—but I’m not so petty as to ignore the bigger picture.
Protecting his wife is just as big a priority to him. The fact that he would station me here is a sign of trust, especially considering the job itself is no easy task. A squat four-story complex on the city’s outskirts, Mercy hospital is a challenge within itself to secure—including the private wing and dedicated team of staff commandeered by the Stepanovs.
Nearly an hour from the manor, the location isn’t ideal—in the heart of Saleri territory—and there is always a possibility that anyone with money and power can buy a guard or doctor to their side. All it takes is one faulty piece to topple a house of cards.
With that in mind, I take my time circling the building’s perimeter as the evening progresses, scanning the outside for any potential areas of breach. This armored van is one of four, each patrolling a different section of the parking lot. It’s mind-numbing work in comparison to the frantic search taking place for Willow. I don’t doubt they’ll find her; it’s only a matter of when.
And how much of her will be left when they finally do…
The thought gnaws at my focus, distracting me from the monotonous task at hand. While uneventful, it’s important given the week’s recent events. The last thing the Stepanovs need is another attack to go unnoticed.
Blinking, I force my attention through the passenger window of the patrol van, inspecting the horizon. A light rain drenches the landscape, rendering the outer complex virtually deserted—though even a torrential storm wouldn’t stop anyone determined enough to mount an attack.
“All clear, sir,” the man in the driver’s seat says. Mario, one of my best, hand-recruited after joining the manor’s retinue. He was a damn good informant in a previous life, capable of finding dirt on anyone with only a name to go off and little else.
Given Donatello Vanici’s pervasive reputation, I suspect finding information on him would be child’s play. If I had the time, I’d delve into the mystery myself. As it stands, there’s only so much I can do on my own.
“Ev?” Mario prompts. “Did you want to go around again before heading in?”
I wrestle with indecision for only a heartbeat. His primary focus should be Mrs. Stepanova—nothing else. Still, no one can garner better intel.
Willow’s life is well worth the risk.
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I incline my head, prompting him to switch off the headset affixed to his ear, linking our position with the other six guards spread throughout the perimeter.
“Sir?” he asks, his expression unreadable in the dark.
Sighing, I cut right to the point. “I need you to do something for me, but we keep this between us. Understood?”
He nods. “I hear you.”
“Here—” I reach into my pocket, retrieving a handful of rolled bills that I place in his hand. “I want everything you can get me on Donatello Vanici and the famiglia. Skip the basics. I know the surface level information, but there has to be more.”
“Such as…?”
I exhale in a rush. Fuck it. “I want to know if he ordered the hit on the Stepanovs, or if someone else did.”
“Shit.” Mario whistles through his teeth, cagily eyeing the money. “Ev, if you’re asking what I think you are, though I have to ask… Why go through me?”
“Mr. Stepanov has enough to worry about,” I say, opening the door to the van. A cool wind throws the rain in my face like a bracing slap. In the end, the shock only helps solidify my decision. “I’ll take the risk if anything comes of it. Think of it as nothing more than classic intel.”
He nods, but I can tell from his raised eyebrow alone that he doesn’t buy the explanation. “Anything else? The more specific, the better.”
I grit my teeth, again weighing the risks. Willow’s face appears in my mind, quashing any remaining doubt. Mischa may have barred me from the search party, but there are other ways I can assist. After all, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
“I especially want to know if Vanici ever had any dealings with a young girl,” I say.
He grunts in surprise but hides it well. As long as we’ve both been in the business, nothing should shock us when it comes to the proclivities of men with power.
“How young we talking?”
“Any age. Any type of relationship. Give me whatever you can. I’ll pay the price.”
In more ways than one, if Mischa takes offense to my little quest for intel—a barrier I’ll deal with later.
“On it,” Mario says, nodding. “Otherwise, the birdcage is secure. The dove is resting. No update from the doctors as of yet. Kristoph is on watch. Nothing else to report from my end.”
“Good,” I reply, switching to a normal tone. “What about from base?”
He shakes his head with a sigh. “I’ve heard nothing from the Wolf—” our codename for Mischa. “But if anything major goes down, I’ll phone you from here.”
“Right.” I step out, drawing my hood low, though I’m sure Mario caught my expression anyway. I can’t shake the irritation that I’ve been shoved to the sidelines for a reason. Mischa’s private security is composed of some of the best men I know—many of them hand-picked by my recommendations. Even so, I’d go so far as to say that none of them care for Willow more than me. Why? It’s an entirely selfish reason—I’m the only one with a personal investment in her future.
Once she’s safe and sound, living out her sheltered life as a pianist, mine will finally mean something. What’s the word for it? Redemption.
I refuse to stand by as another innocent life is destroyed. Not this time.
“You okay, Ev?”
I blink to find Mario staring at me. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Well, take care, then.” He rolls his window up, and I watch him drive off, presumably to r
epeat the same route until I return.
Alone, I enter the building through a locked stairwell that leads directly to Mrs. Stepanova’s wing. A key card gives me access, one of a few assigned to this wing. Even the hospital’s regular staff can’t enter these halls unaccompanied.
It’s a strict level of security well warranted by the number of mafiya enemies who might be looking to make their mark. Suspects who come to mind include Vanici and the famiglia or their associates.
All outfits not necessarily helmed by a woman.
The second I enter the hallway, my nostrils twitch, catching a whiff of floral fragrance. Alarm shoots down my spine, setting every nerve on alert as I inhale again. This smell…
It violates the hospital’s strict ban on perfume, for one. Not only that, but this fragrance is rich, definitely expensive, reminding me of the high class escorts an old client of mine used to cycle in and out of his home regularly.
The telltale scent of a viper.
Warily, I palm my weapon as I ascend the stairs. A pair of double doors open onto a narrow hall, accessible by only the medical staff assigned to Mrs. Stepanova and her security detail. As expected, only one man stands positioned near the entrance, his stance alert.
“Did you let anyone past?” I ask as I approach.
He shoots me an odd look, alarmed by my tone. “No one. I mean… Just a doctor.”
“A doctor? I thought the last update was earlier this morning,” I say. “Which one?”
He eyes his clipboard. “Uh… Rachel Main.”
The OBGYN assigned to Mrs. Stepanova’s case. A woman in her forties who usually visits in the morning. Never have I heard of her making an evening visit.
And I definitely don’t recall her wearing perfume.
“You didn’t call to confirm the visit with anyone?” I ask as the man sputters. “Has there been a change in Mrs. Stepanova’s condition?”
“No... But—”
“Describe this doctor.”
He squints before licking his lips thoughtfully. “Blond. Mid-thirties, I think. Attractive.”
