Queen of Thorns: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 2)

by Lana Sky

  Until the day he supposedly kidnapped Willow Stepanova out of the blue.

  I didn’t buy it then, and I don’t buy Mischa’s caginess now. There’s more to this.

  “Tell me what happened between you,” I say, as close as I’ve ever come to an outright demand of him.

  “A war?” Mischa questions as if I never spoke. “No. I want safety.” He eyes his left hand, where a gold ring adorns the third finger. “I want my wife to live. I want my son to have use of his arm again. I want…” His voice breaks, and all I can do is stare. Emotions don’t factor into my skillset. Not pain. Not love. Not agony.

  I can’t face them the way I could an attacker or a logistical problem.

  The man sways, overwhelmed by all three at once.

  Finally, he regains control, his eyes blazing. “I want my baby girl to have been born without having to fight for her life. I don’t want a war, Evgeni. I want blood.”

  “Blood can have a higher cost than you expect,” I warn through gritted teeth. “I heard your feud with the Winthorps had a particularly tragic aftermath.”

  “This is different,” Mischa growls. “The Winthorps don’t have my daughter, do they? Vanici’s gone underground. Only God knows what he’s done to her…”

  For a second, I can glimpse beneath the rage to the real emotion driving him. Fear. For Willow. For his wife and son.

  I’d probably feel sympathy if I had anything in my life worth comparing those relationships to. Luckily, I don’t. I am what I’m paid to be—a soldier with no emotional investment, able to stay objective.

  “My men are in the process of tracking him down,” I say. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

  “You underestimate him,” Mischa snarls. “I can assure you that he’s not sitting around pining for peace, either.”

  “So what will you have me do?”

  “Go back to the hospital,” he says, returning to his desk. “I heard you rearranged the detail on Ellen. Why?”

  I swallow hard before answering. It’s a switch I hoped would go unnoticed, but one that would hopefully prevent another surprise visitor, Briar Winthorp or otherwise.

  “I believe Kristoph will be of better use here on the property. Danil has a better bedside manner.”

  Mischa’s eyes cut to slits. “But you will take the lead,” he insists. “I want you there now. Eli can come home tomorrow. He’s safer there until Vanici is found.”

  It’s a strain on our detail, but I have enough sense not to say as much now. “How are the children doing?”

  A rare softness seeps into Mischa’s expression. “As well as can be expected. They miss their mother, and brother, and their sister.”

  “I should check on Eli while I’m there,” I suggest. “Maybe knowing his progress can help lift their spirits a little?”

  “I want you there overnight,” Mischa says, his head cocked. One look at his face, and I know that this is the real topic of our conversation. He’s just waited until now to broach it. “Peter will head my personal detail from now on.”

  Peter. The rookie, untrained and undisciplined—yet eager to please. He won’t ask questions.

  “Can I ask why?” I can’t disguise my irritation. Disagreements or not, Mischa has never intervened in my staffing before. Not once during all of my employment.

  This is personal. I’m sure of that even before he strokes his jaw with a knowing nod.

  “I don’t want your judgment,” he says simply. “You are a good man, Evgeni. But in this world, good men can rarely stomach the actions necessary. And given your history...”

  He stops himself from saying more, but he doesn’t have to.

  So that is what this really is about. Trust in the context of “my past.” That’s his excuse anyway—because he doesn’t trust me.

  Not anymore.

  “Don’t coddle me,” I snap. My tone slips, harsher than it should be. For a heartbeat, respect isn’t a factor. An insult is still an insult, even if coming from an employer. “So you know my background. You’ve known it for years. That’s never interfered with my duties before.”

  “And I know where you hesitate,” he counters, raising his voice to match the volume of mine. “Donatello Vanici will not play by your rules.”

  My rules.

  My creed. A low blow considering I’ve all but broken them for this family already.

  “If we were playing by my rules, you wouldn’t have gone after Vanici first,” I point out. “You would have been honest with me from the start. If I were playing by my ‘rules,’ Mischa, I wouldn’t still be here.”

  I’ve gone too far. Despite knowing that, the closest thing to an apology I seem able to muster is clearing my throat.

  Mischa’s lower jaw twitches, the only warning that I’ve hit my target. “Is that how you really feel?”

  I nod. Even so, quitting isn’t even on my mind. “Sir…” I force some semblance of normalcy back into my tone. “This is about Vanici, not me. I still think we should figure out his motives. Why would he—”

  “You should go,” Mischa says over me. Anger ripples through his voice but controlled enough that he doesn’t shout. “If Ellen wakes up, I want her to be near a familiar face.”

  I can’t escape the thought. Familiar like her sister’s?

  I should mention her now. First, an attack on Ellen and her son. Now a Winthorp returning out of the blue. She could have heard of the attack and come out of genuine concern.

  But I don’t buy it. Last I heard, the woman left the country. Returning in less than seventy-two hours seems a stretch. Unless she was already nearby.

  “Evgeni?” Mischa demands.

  “I’m on my way out,” I say. “Good evening, sir. I’ll return to the hospital. I wouldn’t want my past to affect my judgment.”

  He says nothing as I storm into the hall.

  He knows better.

  Some lines you don’t cross.

  And some events aren’t worth dredging up, even to prove a point.

  12

  Don

  It’s a big, bad world, sonny boy, Giovanni told me once. You’re going to do shit that you wouldn’t have dreamed of just a day ago. Horrible shit. But if it makes you feel better… Somewhere out there, another man is doing something ten times worse.

  As per usual, the son of a bitch was right.

  And he was wrong. There can’t be anything much worse than goading someone else into doing the unthinkable. Forcing them to watch you do it. Looking into their eyes, seeing only your blood-soaked-self staring back…

  And loving every minute of it.

  Is that what Giovanni felt? The old man was fucking crazy, but this feels beyond insanity. Twisted. The more I scour those old memories of those days, though, the more obvious it becomes that he never forced me to do a damn thing. I was a willing soldier every step of the way. An enthusiastic one. We were drawn to each other, some might say, speaking the same language of ambitious, selfish men.

  Vin never spoke that language—but I should have made him learn it. Pressured him to hold a knife to a man’s throat and make him cut. Deep down, I know it would have been pointless.

  When he was a kid, barely taller than my knee, he used to wake up every night screaming, convinced a monster was hiding in his closet. I’d never find anything there, but it was real to him. So real, he’d sob until his entire body shook, and it damn near broke my heart. One night I went into his room with a gun, intending to convince him I’d scare the “monster” off for good. The show of force was meant to comfort him more than anything.

  But good old Vin… He cried even harder at the sight of the weapon and begged me not to hunt his monster down. As tormented as he was, he didn’t want vengeance. Shoot me instead, Uncle Don, he demanded, his eyes welling with tears. It’s not the monster’s fault that he’s scary.

  God, he was such a wholesome kid. Never, not once, did I ever see the darkness in him that I always felt lurking inside myself. Even Mischa had his own unique br
and of insanity, different from my own. No one’s quite meshed with my sick fucking mind, except perhaps Giovanni, and now…

  Her. It could have been a trick of the light, that spark in her eye. That gleam. But fuck, I felt something stir in my soul like I never have. Curiosity. Maybe a little irritation, too. Of all people, a little blond spoke my language, if only for a fucking second…

  And it was music to my ears. Unlike Vin, she didn’t want me to shield her monster. Oh no, she wanted me to gut it right at her fucking feet. Those eyes told me how, even if she wasn’t aware of it. The way they narrowed as I cut. Widened when the man’s screams finally fell silent.

  Fuck, she told me exactly how she wanted it done. And it was wrong. Disgusting. Sick.

  Because all I wanted to do in that moment was make her keep talking to me…

  Cold air hits like a slap, and I blink to find myself stumbling from a side exit, dripping liquid too frigid to be blood. I look up and realize why—it’s raining out. The sky above is a lighter gray than it’d been earlier. Hours must have passed, though it feels like an eternity.

  Behind me, I hear a door open with a rusty squeal, followed by footsteps hurrying in my direction. “Don?” someone shouts. Luciano? “Where the fuck are you going?”

  That’s a damn good question. The knife is still in my hand, but I let it fall into the mud as I keep walking without bothering to look back. Soon I’ll confront Mischa with what I learned. Make him pay.

  At the moment? The only thing that seems to matter is moving. I spot a building up ahead and stagger toward it, with no aim in mind.

  In my wake, those trailing steps continue—softer, too soft to belong to a man—but I don’t look back.

  Giovanni—and I after him—kept an apartment in this outbuilding. We probably slept there more than in our own homes. Days off weren’t a factor with the livelihood of the entire famiglia at stake, such is the life of a leader. They don’t tell any ambitious cuck gunning for the top position the truth—much of it is spent on a hard ass mattress alone.

  For that reason, the old man kept the furniture simple. Utilitarian. Years into my tenure, I realized why. The shitty bed and bland furnishings made the few moments we spent away in our own homes with our respective families all the sweeter.

  Sweet enough to tide us over as we went back and fought ten times harder. We were men who valued the business above all else.

  So, predictably, Antonio Salvatore gutted the place. I know that even before I mount the outdoor steps leading to the entrance and find the door unlocked.

  The fucker had the plain white paint replaced with ornate black wallpaper like something out of a sleazy hotel suite. The floors are polished wood, and the sturdy old leather furniture has been replaced with black suede and fur-covered bullshit.

  The motherfucker installed a minibar at least, in the same spot where Giovanni would spend hours contemplating the various deals he had with the Colombian cartels. Things were dicey in those days—you got in bed with the wrong associates and could easily wake up with your cock missing, and a blackmail notice shoved down your throat.

  Antonio seemed to enjoy having things shoved into his orifices even while at the office. The bedroom is too much of a shitshow to even dissect at the moment. Sex toys lay out in the open near the massive bed, and the dresser across from it is covered in an array of condoms and women’s makeup.

  Disgusted, I cross over to the closet and find a decent black suit hanging amongst a random assortment of clothing. Judging from the ludicrous level of tailoring, most were Antonio’s, but the few dresses—all different sizes—reinforce that he didn’t adhere to the “leaders sleep alone” creed.

  His renovations of the bathroom were at least more practical, replacing the simple shower with a full bath and a walk-in stall.

  I peel my clothing off and stand beneath the spray, letting the water pelt me from above, as hot as I can stand it. In here, there’s no one to pretend for. No kingdom to guard, no lies to maintain.

  No innocent blond to butcher a man in front of.

  I wince at the reminder. If I dissect the emotion swirling in my gut, it could be guilt. Or concern that I’m too tired to feel in full. Logic is telling me to go back. She could have run off for all I fucking know. Good riddance. Let her scurry back to Mischa, having learned one final lesson.

  A caged bird should stay in her cage or wind up devoured.

  Or…that same bird becomes a predator herself.

  Groaning, I brace my hands against the smooth black tile and watch the water pouring off me circle the drain. This shower is as gaudy as the rest of the apartment, too sleek and modern to match the grim seriousness of Giovanni’s old hideout. I bet Antonio took glee in erasing any trace of our old boss. In addition to the silver fixtures, he had the base of the stall made of white marble, making it the perfect backdrop to spotlight the rust-colored liquid washing off my skin. So much red.

  Too much…

  The hue triggers a million twisted images that dance through my skull. I see Vincenzo, my boy, bleeding from his head. Then Antonio, greedily gasping for his last breath. Paulie Vanetti, sliced to pieces.

  Last of all, I see her, the beautiful little blond, watching me work without a drop of crimson on her. My chest swells with so much rage it’s painful. Her blood deserves to paint this shower floor, not Vin’s.

  And it’s not her connection to Mischa that makes her worthy of death. Violence is just the way of this brutal world we live in. I could have accepted her deliberately turning against me. Wanting me dead. Wanting me to suffer.

  Knowing her role.

  Her real sin?

  Rather than let me die in peace, she returned to gloat over the broken pieces. Back to watch me burn…though, when it came down to it, she couldn’t even let me strike the match.

  So what was her motive?

  More images flood my skull to feed the rage boiling beneath my skin. I see her face. Her tiny hands wrenching at mine. Her desperation to keep me from striking a single match, even before I attempted to set her alight as well.

  That final look on her face is what does it, though. Enrages me to the point that I plant my fist against the wall of the stall and howl in irritation. That look causes the most pain. The most hate.

  Because in that moment…all I saw in those eyes was pity. Concern. As though she didn’t want me to die. Not out of sweet, innocent mercy, either.

  This life? It’s worse than any hell. Only someone especially cruel would force me to live it, and then watch me suffer.

  Ironically, if she were here now, she’d get her wish. The water itself feels hot enough to burn me alive more thoroughly than any fire. I hiss through my teeth, surrendering to the assault for what feels like an eternity. When I finally shut the water off, I’m still whole, though. Not ashes.

  What a damn shame.

  But in the absence of the spray, I finally smell the scent flooding the room, and my body goes rigid with the threat of an entirely different punishment. That smell... I inhale it again, recognizing it instantly. Roses and lighter fluid. No. I shake my head, unwilling to trust my own senses. I’ve gone crazy…

  But I haven’t. Her presence infects the air like poison, impossible to ignore. She’s here, having followed me across the complex, presumably alone.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I demand, wrenching my gaze toward the source of the stench. Even expecting her, the sight of that lithe figure watching from the doorway knocks the air from my lungs. I blink, expecting her to vanish, a figment of my imagination.

  She doesn’t.

  Her face is partially obscured by the steam coating the glass barrier between us—but nothing could ever disguise those eyes. They bore into me as I use my hand to clear a section of the door.

  She is here, but I suspect she saw more than she bargained for. Pink spots dot her cheeks, and a quick swallow distorts her throat. For all her bravery, she’s still just a woman. A young woman, one I know for a fact, has never expe
rienced a man.

  Has she even seen one like this before?

  The distraction is too tempting, and my tired brain latches onto it greedily. I grip the handle, testing the give of the metal. Slowly, I apply pressure and push the door aside, watching her expression all the while.

  “Did you come to wash the blood from your hands, principessa?” My taunt falls flat—her hands are pale, utterly clean. Though while that damn stare remains constant, her body…

  That body betrays her.

  Trembling fingers grip the front of her dress. The bulk of it disguises most of her shape, but what little of it I can see—shapely, pale legs—make me exhale through my teeth.

  Shoving the door open wider, I watch her nails dig into the fabric of her dress as if it’s armor against me. And it is in her mind—as long as she’s wearing it, she’s untouchable. Funny, considering she’s robbed me of my stability, following me even here.

  Why should I allow her the same mercy?

  “Take it off,” I command.

  She flinches, her tongue flitting across her lips. Triumphant, I advance, letting the water drip from me freely, slicking the floor with every step. The closer I come, the smaller she seems. The stranger, the less recognizable—and a wave of relief almost knocks me to the ground.

  I can dominate this woman. She won’t control me.

  “The dress,” I snap, coming within arm’s reach of her. Those eyes are a mirror, and I see myself reflected in them. Every dark, twisted, cruel bit—and it’s a relief in a sense. This is the Donatello I know.

  A monster.

  That reflection becomes even clearer as I finger the fabric of the delicate neckline. A quick swallow contorts her throat, and the reaction lights the fuse leading to a part of me I’m desperate to unlock.

  Enough wallowing. Enough regret.

  I want to feel…

  Anything else.

  So I keep tugging. Those sharp swallows come even faster, her small chest heaving beneath the cotton. Intoxicated, I feed off every frantic breath, growing bolder with each subsequent pull.