by Lana Sky
“Don?” Luciano waves his hand before my face.
“Get ready,” I tell him, putting everything out of my mind but this—getting Vin to safety. “I want to be at the hospital within an hour.”
“You’re really going to go through with this?”
I don’t bother to soften my tone. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”
He opens his mouth as if he means to say something else, but winds up nodding instead. “Okay then. Want me to retrieve your guest?”
I choose to overlook what could be eagerness in his voice. “No. Get ready to head out. I’ll meet you near the car.”
He retreats deeper into the house, shouting for the others as he goes. Belatedly, he calls back to me, “Someone will stay behind with Kisa.”
“Good.” I turn my attention to the staircase, but despite the urgency in the air, I take my time mounting it. In contrast to Antonio’s, this house was always small. Modest. Just five rooms in comparison. Hers is near the end, beside Vin’s.
A thousand different admonishments run through my mind the closer I come to it, warning me to turn back. Have Luciano drag her downstairs instead. Hell, I can smell her through the fucking door. Roses and sweat.
The aroma conjures an image of her in my brain before I can quash it. She’s standing tall, I bet, waiting to face me. Her hair will be down, and Luciano probably found a dress for her. Tight, with a neckline that might display her throat. I can almost hear the thump of her heartbeat surging with every step closer I come.
I finally grip the doorknob, hesitating for a fraction of a second. Maybe she followed through on our little game and took the knife, preparing to use it this time? Of all things, a smile tugs on my mouth as I push the door open.
God, I hope so.
As predicted, she’s standing near the bed, one hand tucked behind her back, the other at her side. If she’s holding the weapon, I lose track of the ability to care.
“What the hell…”
Luciano gave her clothing, alright. A deep blue dress that fits her surprisingly well, far more modest than the black ensemble. The primal part of my brain drinks her in, noting how the color sets off her hair and those eyes…
But a different emotion from lust overrides the appreciation—shock. I grapple for the edge of the doorway, gripping it tight. That’s no random outfit—I’ve seen it worn a million times, just on a different woman.
It was Olivia’s.
“Take it off!” I barely recognize the voice ripping from my throat. “Now. Take it off!”
At the back of my mind, I know she didn’t pick it—still, that doesn’t matter. I start forward, intending to rip it from her, my damn self. “I said…take…it…off—”
She doesn’t move, but I go still regardless. Those lips are slightly parted, her chin held high, and those eyes… They stare straight ahead, boring into mine like goddamn lasers, tempered by nothing. Not fear. Not hate.
She’s daring me to break my own fucking rule. Touch her.
Luciano may not know the history of that dress, but she does. Wearing it is just the opening salvo in our latest battle of wills. Fuck me, she’s already scored.
One round won.
“You…” I clench both hands into fists just to keep from reaching for her. Instead, I turn and enter the hall, descending the steps two at a time.
Before I know it, I’m in Antonio’s red car, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white against the dark leather. Without thinking, I put the engine into drive, ready to pull away. Forget her. Forget the plan. Forget everything.
The door opens before I can hit the gas, and I don’t have to look to identify the culprit. She climbs in, settling quietly beside me, her scent a fucking vice around my throat.
I could tell her to get out, but that’s what she wants.
To be acknowledged. To be seen. To take precedence in my mind, if only for a second…
So I deny her.
I just drive.
Luciano was right—it takes balls.
Not to come here—that could be explained by insanity. Or perhaps stupidity. No, as I walk through the main lobby, head held high, even I can admit that it takes balls to figuratively sport Willow Stepanova on my arm.
Like it’s real. Like she’s here of her own free will, and there’s no threat of war hanging over our heads. It takes balls to go into battle with her and resist the urge to look over my shoulder every five goddamn minutes. Not for Mischa.
For the knife, I’m sure she still has.
To her credit, she doesn’t bolt the second we’re in public. She doesn’t stab me either, but I’m not cocky enough to believe fear is what keeps her in line. No, her pride remains her strongest armor.
The only hint of unease is the slight quiver in her throat. Though, I can admit that her emotion could be caused by a myriad of other reasons. As far as she knows, her mother and brother are still under care in this facility, along with the latest Stepanov newborn. Should I feel some semblance of sympathy at that?
I’m too sober to care, entirely fixated on the layout of the building.
Surprisingly, Mischa isn’t waiting in the lobby. It’s spacious with plenty of room to maneuver in the event of combat, but apart from wandering nurses and the average visitor, it’s relatively empty. We approach the receptionist without incident, but I’m more on edge than ever.
“Welcome to Mercy.” The woman seated at the polished desk flashes a grin. “How can I help you?”
“I’m waiting for a transfer. Vincenzo Vanici.”
She swallows hard, clearing her throat, and turns to a computer monitor. After a second of scanning the screen, she nods. “Yes, all of the arrangements have been made. You can head up to the fourth floor.”
God bless Fabio. I have no doubt that this is all due to him. The real question is whether I can uphold my part of the bargain by protecting them both.
“I’ll keep watch from here,” Luciano says, Ash behind him. They’re dressed so as not to arouse suspicion, any weapons discreetly hidden.
Assuming Sanders is still shadowing Fabio, that leaves just one man to cover me on the way upstairs. I’ll be outnumbered when Mischa shows up—and it’s only a matter of when, given that his wife and children are in this building. Luciano could be positioning himself to cut and run.
The second I see his face, the paranoia dies. The bastard’s more alert than I am, darting his gaze suspiciously toward every potential entrance and exit.
“Alright. We’ll head up now.” Inclining my head toward the girl, I start for the elevator. “Let’s go.”
“I should go first,” the remaining famiglia soldier says, surging ahead to claim the empty elevator. “To make sure it’s clear.”
I let him take the lead, waiting in the lobby with the girl for the elevator to return. When it does, she enters without resistance. Her silence feels heavier than usual. I look over, and she’s facing forward, her shoulders squared. Is it the ruse that has her so wary?
Or the sliver of space separating us…
As the doors slide shut, the authority I have over her sinks in. By pure physicality alone, I could overpower her. Even if it’s the dumbest fucking thing to do in this moment, I want to. Test her. Taunt her. Watch her squirm.
Regain the upper hand in this game.
“I warned you.” I’m surprised how guttural my voice comes out sounding. Furious.
Does that startle her?
Yes. She keeps her face turned from me, but the elevator’s polished door serves as a mirror. I can clearly see those eyes, glinting with stubborn pride. That pursed little mouth tightening, her defiant posture wavering.
“Did you hear me, hellcat? I mean…wife.” I grab her wrist before I can even process the motion, dragging her closer. “There are lines you don’t want to cross with me.”
Like stripping naked just to get a rise. Letting another man see her. Flaunting herself—not because she craves the attention, either. She’s too fuckin
g naïve to realize the enormity of the fire she’s playing with.
That’s it. No other reason could explain her boldness… Like wanting me to see her. She wouldn’t even know what to do with me if I did lose control.
To prove it, I shove her back, pressing her small body into a corner. It’s too easy. Just for a second, I let my brain off its leash, relishing her reaction—a shudder. A swallow. A wary glance at my hands.
I flex them, unconcerned by the threat the gesture might convey—the complete opposite of my “you’re here willingly” spiel to her. This is a lesson she needs to learn. Power, and who between the two of us truly has it.
I do.
Aware of that, her teeth clip together, the only audible sound she makes as those eyes dart fearfully up to mine, her fingers flying to my chest to push me off.
“Do you think I won’t do it? Touch you?” To prove the opposite, I reach out, ghosting the top of her shoulder. “Do you think that just because you’re in on this game, I won’t force you to play your role if I have to?”
Her eyelids flutter, her cheeks pink.
Satisfied, I start to pull back. “I thought so—”
Her fingers find mine before I’ve gone a full step. Boldly, they curl around the width of my hand—but her nails graze the flesh deliberately. Hard.
A grunt revs in my throat as everything leaves my skull, but this—she’s testing me—purposefully testing me. I try to wrench my hand back. She bears down harder. Tighter.
A question rips from my throat, “Do you really want to fight me?”
I jerk my head around just to see her response—more defiance. She squares her chin without an ounce of fear.
It’s the worst thing she could do.
My next reaction is born purely out of instinct. I snatch at her throat with my free hand, leveraging my weight against hers. A million warnings race through my skull, but it’s already too late. Her chest slams against mine as she tries to push past me, but she’s no match. I wrestle her body into submission with barely any effort.
But she fights me every step of the way. Kicking. Writhing. Struggling. Fuck. Every point of contact feeds the dangerous tension building in my abdomen. My slacks tighten uncomfortably. Too fast.
“Stop!” I snap, pulling back as far as I can while keeping her restrained.
She relents, breathing so heavy the cadence plays like a fucking song. Helpless, I flex my hand, sensing tender bone and delicate muscle beneath. I could choke her again. Strangle her finally and send her body to Mischa.
But the second those eyes meet mine, all other thoughts go blank. Her scent dominates, her heat so intoxicating I groan. My mouth is against her jaw, I realize, able to sense the tension coiled beneath that silken skin. I could kiss her now. Claim those pink lips for my own and show her how a kiss should be. With teeth. Pressure.
Hard enough to hurt. Bleed…
Another woman would let me have that moment. Seize it. Anyone other than this stubborn little princess so determined to not be relegated as a mere pawn in this game of power. No, she wants control by any means. Again, I can almost feel her grappling for it, figuratively wrestling for the upper hand.
My attention is the match in this equation, ripe for the taking.
Already, she’s inclining her head, putting her mouth beyond reach, daring me to close the gap. Daring me to chase her scent. Daring me to ignore my own goddamn boundaries.
Those eyes meet mine fearlessly with an intensity I shouldn’t find. She should be cowering, not confident, her pink lips glistening, so fucking tempting. Restraining myself is an exercise in self-control unlike any I’ve ever experienced—no other vice holds quite the allure she does. Not alcohol. Not heroin.
Just when I think I can withstand her, she flits her tongue across her lower lip. My brain goes blank in the aftermath. The next thing I know, is fire. That wetness is on my tongue, her heat like a match. I lurch forward, nearly crushing her against the wall just to seek out more. Take it.
But when a quivering tongue prods my mouth for entry, it hits me that I was never in control of this game…
Suddenly, the elevator doors part, and I barely have the sense of mind to let her go, staggering to put distance between us. It’s like surfacing from underwater to snap back to reality. Focus. I’m in the hospital again, and the famiglia agent is standing at the mouth of the elevator, his expression blank.
“Sir.” He nods respectfully. “They’re here.”
Here. His tone isn’t quite grim enough to be referring to the mafiya. For the first time in days, the full extent of everything that’s transpired hits me all over again. All of it. Vin…
My chest fucking aches at the thought of seeing him finally.
Ignoring the woman nearby, I start walking while hunting for what little positives I can find. This ward is secluded, for one, semi-private. Even the staff seems discreet, unsurprised by our arrival. Trust Fab to cover all the bases.
He stands near the last room, somehow seeming more exhausted than he did over an hour ago. A few paces back, I notice Sanders posted against the wall. Spotting me, he nods before returning his attention to the rest of the hall.
“Took you long enough,” Fabio says with a sigh. “Now… You should brace yourself, Don,” he warns as I approach. He already has another cigarette in hand, but a sharp glance from a passing nurse makes him shove it back into his pocket. “Most of…the stuff is just as a precaution. Once he has the surgery, they can stabilize him—”
I stop listening, entering the room without giving myself the chance to falter. This is it. Days of thinking the worst only to culminate in this moment…
My first thought is that the room is nice. Fab came through again, getting him one with a view of the city. It’s large with calming white walls and a bed positioned in the center.
But the figure lying there, with tubes sticking out of him, isn’t my boy. Not my Vin.
He can’t be.
This figure is a ghost. A shell, so pale I can see through his skin to the blue veins beneath. A machine breathes for him in a slow, ghastly rhythm. His eyes are closed, his mouth absent that beautiful smile.
And all the lies I’ve fed myself fall flat.
Mischa Stepanov isn’t the only one to blame for this.
I am.
This is my fucking fault.
19
Willow
I never knew it was possible to actually taste the pulse surging in your throat. Mine carries the distinct flavor of copper, blood; I’ve bitten my lip, but I can’t move. My entire body goes rigid, electrified as though I’ve just stuck my finger in an outlet—or witnessed the unthinkable…
Donatello Vanici facing a reality he can’t sneer down or brutalize.
This moment humanizes him like nothing else, highlighting the gauntness of his once handsome features. Robbed of all bravado, he’s a ghost, thriving on the darkness the shadows provide, clinging to life like a zombie animated by only one stimulus.
Pain.
At the sight of Vincenzo, he staggers, threatening to collapse. His hand shoots out, gripping the back of a nearby chair, but the weight of his body nearly topples it. Like an old man, he hunches over, helpless…
My legs twitch, lurching into motion without permission. I’m already reaching for his shoulder before I can process the cons of the action. Plenty.
His heat scorches me through the cotton of his jacket. Instinctively, I try to draw my hand back—but his clamps down on my wrist before I can. I stiffen, expecting him to shove me off, but he tugs me closer, using my body to steady his. God, he’s heavy. Firm.
But his weight feels different when he isn’t leveraging it like a weapon. He clings to me with an amount of care that shocks me. Gentle. When I finally see his face, I realize why—he’s distant, miles away, too far gone to give a damn about me. I’ve never seen any man so lost. Vacant. For an instant, those piercing dark irises serve as a mirror, reflecting my own expression back—and it’s terrifying t
o see myself as he does...
Devoid of hate in exchange for concern.
For him.
He blinks, seeming to realize where he is. Shrugging me off, he keeps moving, eventually sinking to his knees beside the bed. The sound he makes next… I’ll never forget it—a wordless howl that floods the room.
No matter my feelings toward him, even I’m not immune. My heart aches, but for the wrong reasons. Is this how he mourned for his precious Safiya, after he left me—her? It’s sick to think this way. Selfish. And yet…the thoughts keep coming.
Did he cry out like this? Sink to the floor as if every ounce of strength left him, driven out by sorrow? Did he crouch over those things in that pink room and sob openly?
Tears blur my vision, and I lose track of the comparisons. All I can do is watch the scene unfolding, as disconnected as an outsider. For as long as I can, I prolong my own reckoning with the figure in the bed.
Until I have no choice.
When I finally look at Vincenzo, I choke on another wave of conflicting emotion. It’s strange how he looks the same, even after all this time. Even with his head wrapped in bandages, his skin so pale it’s see-through in places.
“He hasn’t regained consciousness yet,” a man declares from the doorway.
Only slightly taller than me with a head of auburn hair, he’s dressed in a tailored suit, his posture conveying authority. Another shocking wave of recognition hits me. Once, I called him by another name. Uncle Fabio.
He stares past me without an ounce of recognition, speaking to Donatello. “The doctor assures me that there is brain activity. He requires surgery to relieve some pressure on his brain, but if all goes well, his status will improve—”
“Whatever it takes.” In the blink of an eye, Donatello is on his feet. He’s cold and composed once more, but his hand still grips Vincenzo’s, his thumb stroking the pale skin. “Whatever the cost. I don’t care. You have them do it.”
