by Lana Sky
“That can’t be all,” Gregori spits.
I nod. “I want you to put out the word that Mischa is reckless, and you’re staying out of his fight. Let the mafiya stand on their own. You can see for yourself that his crusade was based on a lie—” I jerk my chin toward the girl.
The action should seem performative at best. There’s no way in hell we’ve convinced them. No way.
But Gregori’s eyes betray none of the doubt they should. Scowling, he strokes his chin. “So what? You fuck Mischa’s daughter and expect to fend off a war? I heard you were one of the few men who don’t think with your cock.”
When I snatch the woman’s hand this time, it isn’t for show. I crush her fingers. If she had a voice, she’d cry out.
“I’m going to marry her,” I declare. The conviction in my own voice shocks me, but there’s no point in playing coy now. “Let’s see how far her father is prepared to go. He can hunt me down, but she’ll be in the crossfire.”
My voice bellows throughout the room as if I suspect the mafiya is already lurking inside, listening to every word. I hope so. I hope Mischa has a bird’s eye view.
“And,” I add. “If Mischa is willing to own up to his mistake and aim for peace, I’ll be waiting.”
Gregori is the one smiling now, but it’s one of grim admiration. A wolf in grudging respect of another who took down a prey item everyone else was too afraid to.
“You twisted son of a bitch. You have balls, I’ll give you that.”
I force my lips into the shadow of a smile. “I’ll send your invitation in the mail.”
He sputters, and I have enough sense to read the room. Times up. I spin on my heel, heading back through the showroom, woman in tow. During our friendly conversation, the place has all but cleared out. It’s a bad sign. If I were a betting man, I’d suspect that if the mafiya isn’t already outside, lying in wait, they’re not far off.
Fuck.
“What about my granddaughter?” Gregori asks as we near the exit untouched. Apparently, that threat hit its target. “If you touch her, I swear to God I’ll gut you like a pig—”
“You can see her at my wedding,” I counter from over my shoulder. “Have a nice night. In the morning, I expect your men to stand down. I’ll send your regards to little Kisa.”
Only now do I realize how big a fucking gamble I took by coming here—and for nothing. That show alone shouldn’t have been enough.
Any second, I’ll feel a bullet in my back…
But I don’t. Not when we enter the lobby and not even as I push through the main doors, finding the street beyond deserted, but devoid of mafiya soldiers.
There’s always the chance for a sniper. Taking cover should be my primary concern—not vengeance. The longer I remain sober, the less my brain seems inclined toward logical thinking. Rage wins out.
Growling, I tug the girl closer, bringing my mouth near her ear. “Don’t you ever do something like that again. Ever.”
Fuck the game. She’s banned from playing. My mouth stings with the remnants of that little stunt, and I know damn well why she did it. The answer glints in her gaze even now.
I’m going to play, she seethes. You motherfucker, I’m going to play, and make you regret ever letting me touch a single piece. You can’t control me.
I shove her away, heading toward the car without bothering to see if she follows. She will. After all, she’s made herself a vital pawn. My willing little fiancée.
It’s one thing to taunt her with that future. Torment her with it.
It’s another thing entirely to have her turn the tables. The worst part? It could fucking work…
Mischa can’t hide behind the shield of being a vengeful father anymore. To anyone on the outside, he’ll appear to be merely an obstacle, lashing out at a man he doesn’t like over the affairs of his young daughter’s heart.
It’s the shit tragedies are made of. Giovanni Rossi himself couldn’t have come up with a better cover story.
And I hate the mere thought of playing along. Why?
It’s her doing. Her game.
The little bitch attempted her own fucking checkmate. To keep the ruse going, I need to play my part, though admittedly only in public.
In private, she’s still what I want her to be—an enemy. A captive. Mine. Bruises aren’t all makeup can hide…
“Where to now, sir?” Sanders prompts. I almost forgot the man’s been here all along. To his credit, he’s done his job—having my back and staying unnoticed. “I don’t like being out in the open.”
He’s right.
“We’ll be followed, so we can’t go back to West Helm,” I say, crossing the street to where the cars are.
But there’s a better option.
“I know where we’ll go. Have Luciano meet us there with the Salvatore girl—” Approaching footsteps consume my notice. Her. Good. I want her to hear this especially. Inclining my head, I look dead in her eyes as I say, “We’re going home.”
16
Willow
A reprise—the repetition of several notes—is a hallmark of most musical compositions, one I always admired. When properly placed, the effect is a perfect illustration of the entire piece coming full circle.
I just never realized how horrible a concept it can be to endure in real life. To repeat, re-live and experience the same dramatic series of notes all over again.
Different and distorted but the same.
It’s a vicious, twisted reprise to be here after seven years. Inside this house. In this small pink room that feels like a stranger’s. In some ways, it is. Safiya no longer belongs to me.
She’s become the creation of Donatello Vanici. Jealously, he hoards all memory of her. I can’t even recall a single one without feeling like I’m intruding on someone else’s life.
Someone else’s pain.
Her room feels equally foreign, and that’s exactly why he put me here. To hurt me. To force me to view the old, narrow mattress propped against the wall, and the bed frame coated in dust. To make me realize what he’s done.
He owns her, reducing that little girl to nothing more than a series of stacked boxes. They take up a single corner and aren’t labeled, but I know what’s in them before I even peer inside the topmost one.
Toys, dolls, clothing—all of it.
The sight hits like a punch to the chest, and I grapple for stability, bracing my hand against the wall. These things…
He kept them all, letting them fester in this old, abandoned house, collecting dust and cobwebs. Why? My eyes water as I view this place for what it really is—my grave. This is his shrine to a dead girl.
This entire house has become nothing more than his crypt. Around me, the structure rattles to life, forced to accommodate living beings again. The walls are as ineffective as tissue paper against the sounds betraying the presence of at least a dozen strangers, picking their way through the various rooms, including the one next to mine. Vincenzo’s old room…
“No!” A tiny voice seeps through the barrier between us, but I doubt I’m hallucinating. It sounded too soft to be from a memory. Not Vin. “I’m not sleepy,” they assert.
The little girl? She sounds louder, insistent on that one point. Amid this insane ordeal, she doesn’t want to sleep.
“Quiet,” a male shushes her, his tone gentle. “You gotta try, honey. Just close your eyes…”
The genuine note of kindness differentiates this baritone from Donatello. Which one of these men took it upon himself to care for her? The gray-eyed figure?
My heart breaks as I remember that I’m not the only one captive to the whims of Donatello Vanici. I can only imagine how she’s coping. Though how would any other little girl? I think of Aljona and Marnie and feel my throat thicken. I left them asleep in their nursery, but how did they react to wake up and find me gone? And their mother and brother?
Creeping in circles is the only way I can drown out the thoughts, letting my feet noisily prod the old floorboa
rds—but I’m not alone.
Another set of footsteps ring out to echo mine, sounding just beyond this room. They’re too heavy to be a child’s. Unsteady. Their familiar cadence instantly brings a suspect to mind.
Donatello.
He’s pacing as well. Each heavy footfall echoes off the walls, reverberating through the thin barrier between us. It’s as fitting a soundtrack as any to mark this moment—steady, relentless, violent noise. In a sense, another sort of reprise, recalling the twisted events that unfolded the last time we were here alone.
Fighting. Struggling. Almost burning alive…
I shudder, ghosting my fingers along my throat, feeling the bruises throb. Some sting more than the others, and I prod those spots the most. I want to feel that pain.
Maybe it can distract from my mouth. My lips still burn with the heat of his breath. They ache, though barely touched in reality.
Damn him. My eyes burn, spilling fresh hot tears—but I don’t know why. It’s harder to breathe this dusty air. Harder to think. Frustrated, I cross the room, hammering my feet against the floor to drown out his noise. Reaching the nearest window, I throw it open and lean out, gulping at the night air.
All the bracing cold does is highlight my searing cheeks, no doubt blushing red. Not because of shame. I did what he wanted me to do. What he all but threatened me to do. I played along.
And he pushed me away, scolding my actions as though I were a naughty child. Not because I refused to take part in his twisted charade…
Because I played too well. I kissed him—and in the process, I made Mischa look like a fool. Mischa… One of the few people who has ever truly cared for me.
My breaths come faster when I think of him. To distract from the guilt, I eye the moon above, partially obscured by gently swaying trees. I’d give anything to know that Mischa’s men were out there now, creeping closer to this embodiment of hell. Evgeni, his charming grin flattened into a frown—he’d lead the charge to rescue me.
I need to be rescued.
Ha, a part of me scoffs. Donatello needs to be rescued. From you…
I hate him. God, I hate him. Hate so potent I can taste it. Feel it. I dig my nails into my palms so hard I jump, but the biting sting isn’t nearly sharp enough to counter the remnants of him.
On my throat. My lips. God, my entire body hums with the aftereffects of Donatello Vanici in some way or another.
Damn him.
I bare my teeth, wishing with all of my soul that I could scream. He couldn’t ignore me then. If I could throw his own silly hypocrisy in his face, he’d hear me. If I had a knife, I’d lash at his skin and carve my new name across his chest…
Perhaps he’d acknowledge the truth.
If either of us has a right to torment the other, it’s me. I’m the one with the right to strip him naked and subject him to torture. The one with the right to shove a blade in his hand and taunt him with how far he’s willing to go.
I’m the one with the right to hate him.
Damn him!
I push away from the window, glaring at these pretty pink walls with even more disgust. Once, they made me feel so safe. So protected.
It horrifies me to remember that he even painted them himself.
And now? They make for the worst kind of prison. Bars would be preferable. Locked in a cage, I’d have an excuse for staying this long.
My heart pounds with renewed purpose as I scan the room in a different light. I should run now, taking the girl with me. Traversing the woods on foot should be a fate preferable to Donatello Vanici any day. The window is an option, but risky in the dark.
The easiest way out is right through the front door.
Let him try to stop me.
I take a step purposefully toward the hall. At that exact moment, a different set of footsteps advances in my direction. The ominous thud stops me cold. A coincidence? I tiptoe closer to the door, only to hear those same footsteps echo me in tandem.
Step.
Thump.
Step.
We’re in a silent game, my noisy shadow and I. By the time I reach the door, the tension is palpable. My racing heartbeat ticks the seconds down like a metronome.
Tick, tick, tick…
Feeding on the anxiety, my opponent waits until I brace my hand against the doorknob to finally speak. “Now, you want to hide, little hellcat? Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
I stiffen. Changed my mind. Like I ever had a choice.
“You weren’t afraid before,” he adds. Before—standing in a realm of strange men with him at my side. Performing the very damn act he wanted me to. Play, he said. And I did.
But it wasn’t good enough for him.
“You don’t get to hide now,” he warns. “So you’ve changed your mind? Come and face me.”
His taunt slithers through the barrier of the door and into my head, impossible to ignore. “You’ve stayed this long,” he points out softly. “But it’s good if you run now. I’ve scared you. At least let me see that fear for myself.”
The door flies open without an attempt on my end. Donatello stands behind it, still dressed in the pristine suit he wore to the club—but his expression? His eyes blaze, set in his skull like burning coals.
I shock myself by meeting those eyes without flinching. Outwardly, at least. For once, intimidation isn’t his aim. Narrowed, he drags his attention lower, fixating on my chest. I flinch. It’s like he sees through flesh and bone right down to the rapidly beating heart beneath.
“Do you want to know why I brought you here?” he asks.
I make my entire body rigid, depriving him of an answer.
“As proof,” he says simply. “You may look like Safiya. You may share her memories—but you are not her.”
Each word lands like the cruelest foundation of a sick joke. That perfect, innocent little girl he knew once upon a time. The one who loved him so damn much. The one whose innocence he shattered.
This, I realize, is his method of punishment for my actions at the club—using memories as his cudgel. Not only will he deny me my past identity. He still cherishes her.
“You can’t be.”
He’s in front of me before I can fully recover. Throat tight, all I can do is stare as he reaches out, cupping my chin against his palm. Without warning, his thumb shoots along my lower lip with a precision that stings.
“She wouldn’t kiss me,” he declares.
So that’s what this is really about. I kissed him, and he makes it sound so vile an act. As though I wanted to. As though I enjoyed the feeling…
I almost can’t process the sickening insinuation. My mind goes blank as I try. Thoughts shut down.
“Do you deny it?” His eyes trace my mouth as if the flesh alone contains the truth. No. “Don’t tell me that was your first kiss. Wasted on a silly little stunt.”
The reproach in his voice comes as a shock. I grit my teeth, glaring in a way that I hope conveys the obvious—no.
“Liar,” he scolds. His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing a fraction of an inch. I’ve angered him. “I was the first man to kiss you. Wasn’t I?”
The first man to kiss me. To see me naked. To taunt me with the nature of my sex and lord my ignorance over me. He’s the first, alright. The first to force his way inside me to test my purity.
But when utilized against him, my maturity is a step too far.
Poor Donatello. I’ve insulted his sense of decency.
“Did you think that was funny?” he demands. “A little game? Next time, I suggest you not flaunt yourself in front of goddamn sex traffickers. Did you hear me?”
He’s closer. Too close. Distractingly, his thumb returns, drifting up to my cheek. With a subtle bit of applied pressure, he manipulates me into facing him fully.
“You realize what you’ve done? Don’t ignore me,” he warns as my eyelids threaten to lower. “Don’t hide from it. You can’t. I should know. I’ve spent nearly a decade hiding.”
It
’s the first time he’s directly referenced the past without hate or pain in his voice. Just emptiness. Damn him. He doesn’t get to do this. Ask probing questions as if he’s entitled to any answers.
I wrench away from him to eye the wall. His laughter, however, chases me.
“You think I’ve gone insane,” he declares, once again worming his way into my skull unbidden. I can feel him in there, slinking through my thoughts as boldly as he pleases. His fingers seem determined to do the same to the rest of me. One captures my chin while the other strokes the hair from my face, leaving nothing to obscure my view of him.
A stern frown makes his point painfully obvious—my body is his tool to utilize. Not mine.
“Don’t you? You think I’ve lost my mind, but you haven’t stopped to consider the obvious, little hellcat? You’re just as insane as I am,” he says with a venom reserved for the nastiest of insults. “I can smell it on you. That anger. The rage. You feel it creeping through your soul no matter how hard you try to ignore it. That pretty life as a safe little musician never suited you, did it?”
Hooded, his eyes toy with my frame, hovering over the parts of me that make my cheeks flame more than when he had me strip for him.
Not my breasts or my hips, but my hands. He inspects them in that way only he has ever been capable of—this peeling, constricting ability to reduce anything before him to the barest bones.
“These hands…” He moves too quickly to counter, grabbing one of them. Deftly, he displays my palm, pressing his thumb against the center of it. His gaze cuts up to mine, ablaze with mocking. “These hands weren’t made for music.”
He manipulates my fingers as I watch, contorting them to press against his chest.
“I know how you really want to use these pretty hands, hellcat,” he gloats as I struggle in vain to pull away. I can feel the coiling muscle beneath my touch, dangerous and thick. His warmth. The surge of his heartbeat, hammering against me as effectively as any weapon.
