by Lana Sky
“Sir?” Danil calls from the front of the suite. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I reply. I know that even if I were to run for the opposite stairwell and try to head her off, she’d be gone.
She’s smart. I can’t shake that assessment as I move to take Danil’s place. Smart, coy, and—I rub my hand across my wrist—dangerous.
Her words keep echoing in my brain. An air of mystery… The way she stressed that word clashed with her crisp accent. An excess of emphasis, almost as if she meant another word entirely.
Heir? It could fit. Technically, Ellen would be heir to Mischa’s fortune should he die, but the woman had scoffed at the suggestion of her being the target. Which would only leave…
Eli? He may be Mischa’s oldest child, but—while it’s not common knowledge—his father was another, as Briar so politely insinuated. Her brother, Robert Winthorp.
And given that as far as I know, the elder Winthorps are all dead, that would leave the boy as the sole heir of that particular fortune.
And a worthy target of someone looking to claim it.
“Sir?” Danil’s voice chases me as I exit the suite before he can.
“I’ll have someone sent to relieve you,” I call over my shoulder, taking the steps two at a time. “Send word to the manor. I’m taking a break.”
“No one can fault you for getting some sleep, finally,” the man says.
But sleep isn’t on my mind.
Briar Winthorp is, just as she intended.
18
Don
Rage is addictive, a harsher vice than the cheapest alcohol. Pervasive, it overwhelms the body like a poison—or, to be more specific, like venom. One injected by a viper with a malignant aim—to penetrate deep and contaminate anything it contacts.
Thoughts. Feelings. Emotions. All become corrupted by the fervor sowed by one little witch.
The only antidote?
Get drunk off of it, in my opinion. Keep doing the same damn thing sowing the pain until you overdose. Drown in it. Then brutally smother every ounce of surviving emotion until it’s finally gone. Snuffed out.
Only then can you find relief.
So by God, I drown out thoughts of her with dangerous fantasy. In the confines of my brain, I lose any sense of decency, envisioning every vile thing I could do to her. Ways I could hurt her. Slowly. Methodically. The sicker, the better.
But not sick enough. Even in my mind, she remains unfazed by the worst shit my brain comes up with. Through the darkest thoughts, her eyes glint with a taunt—You won’t hurt me.
You can’t touch me.
And she’s right. Hell, I gave her every chance to mount her own attack, get this hate out of her system. Rather than try, she stripped herself naked just to reinforce the hold she thinks she has over me.
And it worked.
When she stupidly offered up her body on a platter, I couldn’t touch her, and she capitalized on that moment to wield a very different kind of weapon. It struck true, just like she wanted. The shock lingers even now as that scene replays inside my skull, over and over. Her defiant posture. Those slight curves and flawless skin...
An artist couldn’t design a better body to both entice and repel. Because despite that beauty, every inch of her seems hell-bent on resisting me. Taunting me. Daring me to look away—but I couldn’t.
My brain hoards that moment jealously, pouring over every damn frame. Breasts small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, hips so narrow they might snap if I mount her. Those eyes… How enticing might they be if I take her up on her dare, damn my own hesitation? I try clinging to my anger, that intoxicating rage, but biology betrays me. My cock throbs with each slow instant replay, and I lose track of the rest. Everything but her…
“Are you alright?”
The voice comes from the doorway, jolting me awake. At first, I don’t recognize the room around me, trashed and covered in dust—my old study. I must have slept here, slumped over the desk, but the pale light ghosting through the windows is just enough to illuminate the aftermath of my last visit.
Oily splotches coat the desk’s surface, and one of the chairs has been toppled over. That’s not all. A pair of two distinct sets of footsteps mar the dusty floor, mine and a woman’s. If I breathe in deeply enough, I’m sure I can still smell her. Roses and hate.
“You look like hell,” Luciano adds, entering the room fully, dressed in a black shirt and slacks. “Don’t tell me you’re rethinking your fucking insane plan. I know I am.”
“No.” The only thoughts in my head center around a woman standing defiantly as black fabric pooled at her feet.
And Luciano’s face when he saw her.
I eye him critically, wondering if he’s stuck on the same memory. “You remember what I said about the girl?”
To his credit, he keeps his expression blank. “Off limits,” he recites. “Yours alone. Am I missing anything?”
Yeah. That I’ll cut your eyes out if you so much as look at her again…
Fuck. It’s not jealousy. I write off whatever ripples through my gut as pure irritation. I’m sure she allowed him to see her on purpose, like a child playing with matches, hoping to see a spark. Fortunately for her, I am not the Saleris.
Sex isn’t my preferred currency. For his sake, Luciano’s better not be either.
“As for my insane fucking plan,” I say, returning my attention to his original statement. “Did you make the arrangements I asked for?”
He nods, reluctantly if that. “I did. Though, I have to admit that I’m partially convinced you won’t go through with it. I heard that you had balls, even back in the old days. But this…”
I have to laugh, though there’s no humor in the sound. “Oh, I more than intend to go ‘through with it.’” I’m no longer looking in his direction. The view from this window overlooks a muddy expanse of earth. Over the years, the yard has become overrun with neglect, choked by weeds. Not the grandest of venues for a wedding.
“Antonio’s mansion, did you secure it?” I ask, picturing the gaudy property in the hills.
“Yes,” Luciano says. “Though honestly, famiglia accounts pay for the damn thing. Antonio never had shit in his own name.”
“Send your men to patrol the property. I want it ready to stay in.”
I look over to see him raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you as the decadent mansion type.”
“Clear it out,” I add. “Burn the shit inside if you want. The furniture doesn’t matter. I just need the space.”
“For what?”
My jaw aches before I realize why—a real smile shapes my mouth for the first time in days. “Just do it. And I want you to do something else for me. Fabio Botelli—” my smile falls flat. Fab—understandably—is beyond pissed. Only God knows what he’s already learned, but it’s time to face the music now and cut him in on the plan. I can’t hide from him forever. “Track him down and tell him where I am.”
“Is that smart?” Luciano replies. “Can you trust him?”
“Trust him, yes.” As for the smart part, not contacting Fab from the outset was the dumb move. He won’t like playing catch up, but there isn’t time to feel guilt.
Speaking of which…
“Where is the Salvatore girl?”
Luciano juts his chin. “You mean, Kisa?”
I wince hearing her name spoken out loud. In addition to Fabio, she’s another reality I’ll have to reckon with. “Yes… Kisa. You seem protective of her.”
He looks away, his jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, someone had to be.”
I fixate on his tone—cold. Hard. “I’m guessing Antonio wasn’t father of the year?”
Luciano scoffs. “I wouldn’t use the term ‘father,’ to describe him—” He stops short, his eyes narrowing. He said more than he meant to, a slip-up he covers expertly with a shrug. “She’s in one of the rooms upstairs, next to your…guest. I found clothing for both, by the way.”
A part of me reacts to t
hat statement with an unexpected sense of relief. Ignoring it, I refocus on the task ahead. “I’m going to need your help when I’m ready to head out,” I say. “Bring as many men as you can while leaving the house secure.”
“Can I ask where we’re headed?”
I thread my fingers together, mulling over the plan. Finally, I say, “The hospital.”
Enough games. It’s time to test the Saleris’ on their own turf, and come through for Vincenzo. Sure, it’s a risk, but the hospital is the one place Mischa wouldn’t mount an outright attack.
That’s the gamble, anyway.
“The hospital…” Luciano cocks his head, his expression carefully blank. “Do you think that’s smart?”
“The Saleris will let me pass,” I point out, though I’m not entirely convinced of that. Mateo and Gregori don’t exactly have a track record built on honesty and goodwill. I have to trust that my bluff put the fear of God into them.
For now.
“No one’s going to go against the mafiya,” Luciano points out. “Whether you have proof of your innocence or not.”
“You don’t know them like I do,” I counter. “Everyone has a price. Everyone.”
And everyone has a breaking point. Mine feels imminent—that indeterminate action from which there is no turning back. She’s pushing me there, that ghost from my past, mocking me with every breath.
We’re both bound for hell, it feels like.
In the meantime, I might as well enjoy the ride.
Fabio arrives within the hour, driving himself in a black car identical to the one I stole and subsequently totaled. I make a mental note to cover the damages, but guilt isn’t what churns my stomach as he parks paces from the house.
He’s alone.
I don’t know why I keep staring at the empty passenger’s seat. Maybe I expected to see Vin sitting there, sporting a Band-Aid but lucid. Alive.
What a naïve fucking hope. Fabio’s appearance unnerves me more than Vin’s absence, though. He looks ten times worse than he sounded on the phone. A wreck. I’ve never seen his hair so disheveled, his chin coated in auburn stubble. His suit jacket is rumpled, the white shirt beneath stained.
I have no doubt that his lapse in self-care is a testament to his concern for Vin. The second he climbs from his car, he meets my gaze.
“He’s alive,” he says in a rush before he seems to realize where we are. His eyes dart around the yard strewn with famiglia vans and Antonio’s red sports car. He’s not stupid. I’m sure he recognizes them. Nonetheless, he turns back to me without saying as much.
“Hello, Fab,” I croak.
He scoffs. “Vin’s alive, but I don’t know for how long I can say the same thing about you, you idiot!” As a credit to his resolve, he sounds only half as scolding as usual. “I almost didn’t want to come. I’m sure Mischa is watching me now—” he shoots a glance over his shoulder as if he’s afraid the mafiya will surge from the trees at any second. “You know it’s only a matter of time before he finds you here, of all places… But I knew you wouldn’t rest until I told you in person. He’s still critical, but alive, Don. Vincenzo’s still alive.”
I wait for the news to affect me like it should. Only a few minutes ago, I would have assumed with tears. Unending relief. Gratitude. As it stands, I only feel the chill of the morning air on the back of my neck. I only see the empty car behind Fab. I keep hearing that goddamn word—critical.
“It’s about damn time you told me where you were. Have you come to your senses, at last?” Fab demands, cocking his head to eye me critically. “It’s not ideal, but if you give me an hour, I can get you out of the city and on a plane. Maybe to Mexico? I hear it’s wonderful this time of year—”
“Not necessary,” I say, turning to pace this small corner of the driveway. It’s an overcast day, cold as shit. An icy wind cuts through the clearing, enhancing the grim fucking mood. What feels like a raindrop splashes on my forehead as the words I prepare to say ring truer than ever. “I’m done hiding.”
“D-Done?” Fab sounds stunned as he blinks his bloodshot eyes. This close, I can smell the cigarette smoke wafting from him—he’s fallen back on his old vice hard.
“You practically have scorch marks on your lips,” I scold. “I think you should kick the habit.”
Of all things, he laughs, but his eyes widen as if he’s as shocked by the reaction as I am. “You don’t get to crack jokes, you son of a bitch! After everything you’ve put me through. Like you look any better? You look….” His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me closer. “Sober.”
He makes it sound monumental. More shocking than singlehandedly turning the entire mafiya against me. He makes it sound like something to be proud of.
“I am,” I admit, though my mind sober isn’t anywhere near the calm, logistical state of someone like Fabio. My brain needs impairment—something to weigh it down. Without that handicap, too many dangerous ideas seem possible.
Like tormenting a woman with golden hair in every way imaginable.
I forcefully shake my head to clear it. “Where’s Vin now?”
“Vin...” His entire expression hollows out, becoming pained. “For now, he’s in a private clinic somewhere in the suburbs. He’s stable. I’ll spare you the gritty details.”
He doesn’t have to; I can read in between the lines. Vin is stable but requires access to adequate care if he hopes to have a shot. I’ve been down this road before…
But this time? I can actually do something about it.
“Can you move him?”
Fabio frowns. “He’s not up to go gallivanting to Mexico if that’s what you mean.”
“No. Can you move him to the hospital?”
Anger always looks so dignified on Fab. He doesn’t snarl like I do or glare. He only has to incline his head to get his point clearly across. “For what? So you can taunt Mischa and have Vin die in a shootout for real this time?”
“No,” I insist. Weighing my words, I try to pick the most tactful way of phrasing it. Something other than—Fuck Mischa. “So that he can be admitted and treated. I’ve already cleared it with the Saleris. Mercy hospital is in their territory. The mafiya can’t do shit without Gregori’s backing—”
“And Gregori Saleri is a deceitful fucking snake,” Fabio snarls so forcefully spit flies from his mouth. “There’s no way he would… You’re serious—” he runs his hand over his face, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fuck, Donatello. How the hell did you secure something like that? Or think you did, at least. What did you do?”
I take in his gaunt appearance and jump to the conclusion that perusing the local gossip hasn’t been at the top of his priorities. “You haven’t heard.” It makes sense—primarily explaining why he’s nowhere near as edgy as he should be. Or as angry.
He doesn’t know.
“Heard what?” He shoots me an incredulous look while smoothing his hand down the front of his suit as if hunting for something. A heartbeat later, he fishes a cigarette from his pocket along with a gold lighter. “You want to know what I do know? That I’m tired, Donatello. Every fucking waking moment that I’m not with Vin, I’m spending it on the phone trying to cover your ass with any neutral party I can. You know what that comes out to? Hunting down everyone that might be able to give you an alibi during the Stepanov attacks.”
Apparently, he hasn’t been completely out of the loop.
“So tell me, Don,” he demands, propping the butt of the cigarette in his mouth. “What don’t I know?”
“That I love Vincenzo more than anything, and that you might be a close second. You are my brother, Fabio, if not in name, then in every other way that matters. Do you trust me?” I hold my hand out.
With a heavy sigh, he takes it, shaking it firmly. “Of course I trust you, you dumb son of a bitch.”
“Good. Then trust that I’m doing what needs to be done,” I insist. “That’s all.”
“You always were so fucking sentimental.” He scans my face while fumbl
ing to light his cigarette. After taking a deep puff from it, he sighs, flicking the ash onto the pavement. “You scare me when you look like this, you know. It’s been years… But I still recognize it, that dangerous gleam in your eye. Just like I recognize that these are famiglia men—” he nods to two figures lingering on the porch, standing guard. “I doubt Antonio Salvatore would join forces with you—or that you would let him. So what have you done?”
His eyes plead with me to reassure him. Lie?
“I need you to trust me, Fab,” I say instead. “And I need you to have Vincenzo transferred to the hospital. I’ll meet you there. No one will dare touch him or you. I promise.”
He eyes the structure behind me with open revulsion. “I don’t like that you’re back here,” he admits. “This house of all places—”
“It’s safe,” I counter. “Mischa wouldn’t expect me to return.”
“Bah!” He exhales a cloud of smoke. “I’m worried about you, Donatello.”
“I don’t need you to be worried.” I try to grin, but I can’t raise my lips high enough. So I shrug. “I need you to trust me.”
“Fine.” He takes another deep drag from his vice. “I’m too tired to ask questions. I’ll just pray that you’ve made up with Mischa and all is well. You might be a crazy son of a bitch, but you’d never put Vin in danger. Never.” He waits as if expecting me to counter that fact.
When I don’t, he tosses his cigarette and grinds it into the dirt with his heel. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. In the meantime, I think I’ll do my own research. Though, something’s telling me that I don’t want to know half of what you’ve been up to.”
With one last wary glance my way, he climbs back into the car and drives off.
As I head back to the house, I spot one of the men standing guard nearby, Sanders. “Tail him,” I say, nodding toward Fab’s retreating car. “Make sure no one else is. Have his back. If you see so much as a hair out of place, you call me, understood?”
He nods, setting off. Inside, Luciano lingers in the front hallway. His guarded expression makes me wonder if he stood here, purposefully listening in. Or… If he crept upstairs and into a certain room. Would the woman inside strip so eagerly again?
