by Lana Sky
Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue as I haul her from the room.
And I can’t resist the paranoid suspicion that she was ready for just this very scenario.
Ready for me.
Before I even go through the main gates, it’s apparent that security is at an all-time high. The typical detail looks to be at least doubled, with more men than usual milling alongside the road, eyeing me warily as I approach the house.
I drive straight to the front of the manor, sensing the urgency in the air. Mario wasn’t exaggerating. Something is wrong.
My body feels electrified by the charged atmosphere as I park just beyond the front steps. For the first time, I have to resist the urge to grab my gun, sporting it out in the open.
“Stay here,” I warn the woman huddling in the passenger’s seat. “Though hell, you’re stupid enough to run, try it—” I nod to the nearest agent standing guard near the entrance. “While I’m inside, I’ll give them permission to shoot if you step so much as a hair out of this van. Got it?”
“Of course.” She flashes a disarming smile, but I’m not the only one affected by the heightened mood. She seems paler than ever, her eyes glued to the manor house in a way that could be politely deemed as “disgusted.”
“In the meantime, I’ll run over my heartfelt entreat to the man who killed my brother and destroyed my family,” she adds absently.
Real hate tinges her voice, and for the first time, I mull over the sheer stupidity of bringing her here. I didn’t even think to blindfold her—a breach of protocol too glaring to interpret as of yet.
Instead, I leave the van and instantly feel all eyes fixate in my direction, but not in the typical greeting. They’re on edge, eyeing me warily as I start inside.
“What’s going on?” I ask one of the two men posted by the main entrance.
He shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “Mr. Stepanov is in his study—”
“Something happened at the hospital,” another man interjects. “You weren’t there.”
Alarm runs down my spine, and I’m already lunging forward. “Mrs. Stepanova? Is everything alright?”
Rather than answer, both men push open the door, ushering me inside.
The trip to the study feels longer than ever, populated nearly every step of the way by a guard standing at attention. Either they’re readying for something or…
They’ve just returned.
The answer is made clear the second I near the door to the study where Mischa stands, shrugging off his jacket.
“Where the hell were you?” His voice is chilling, bellowing throughout the room. I’ve never heard this tone directed my way before—a guttural baritone previously reserved only for Donatello Vanici.
“Sir. I had to step out. I informed the other men on duty…” One look at his face, and I sense the need to drop all protocol. If there were ever a time for honesty between us, this is it. “What happened?”
“Donatello Vanici strolled into the hospital where my wife is. Where my children are. That is what happened.” He slams a fist against his desk with a sound like a gunshot. “Do you have any idea the danger they were in? Do you?”
But more than that is angering him, evident in his tense posture, crackling with barely concealed aggression. I only know of one topic capable of stirring this kind of reaction. “Willow,” I say thickly. “She was there?”
“Yes.” Mischa cocks his head, his expression suddenly ice. That look alone tells me that this reunion with his daughter wasn’t a particularly happy one. “Do you want to know what that bastard claimed? Do you?” He hisses a chilling imitation of a laugh. “That he was going to marry her.”
“What?” I feel my brows shoot up. “That’s—”
“Sick,” Mischa says with a grudging nod. “That’s exactly why he thought of it.”
“But Willow…” I bite my tongue, trying to choose my words carefully. If Mischa is this angry, but Vanici isn’t dead, there can be only one explanation as to why.
“Did he threaten her?”
Mischa looks away, glaring through the window, and I have my answer.
“She stayed with him.” It feels strange to say out loud, but in my gut, I suspect it’s the truth even before I see Mischa’s jaw tighten in acknowledgment. He whirls back to face me, and I’m struck by just how angry he truly is.
Not all of it might be directed at Vanici, I suspect.
“She didn’t have a fucking choice, did she?” he counters. “Vanici threatened her. The bastard probably got a kick out of it.”
“Did she look injured?” I press, trying to wrap my brain around how such a meeting went down. I can’t imagine Mischa standing aside while Vanici pranced off with his daughter—and he wouldn’t. Unless something convinced him to, and I doubt Donatello Vanici would have that sway. Only one person could make Mischa show that kind of restraint. Willow. Which means…
“She…wanted to stay?”
“I know her,” Mischa insists. “She wouldn’t submit to that motherfucker without a reason. That son of a bitch!” He slams a fist against his desk, and the conviction in his voice would be enough to convince anyone else. But I remember the way they interacted in that recording, how Vanici seemed to worm his way inside her head. It was obvious from day one—the bastard has a hold over her.
“I should have been there,” I admit.
“Damn right you should have,” Mischa growls, turning the full brunt of his gaze to me. “I hope your diversion was worth it.”
A part of me reacts to that word choice. Diversion? Did he have me followed? Know where I’d been all along?
Or is his caginess feeding my own budding paranoia? Even so, one fact remains clearer than ever.
“I would have been there if I were on your detail,” I point out. “Like I should have been. In fact, if you told me the connection between Willow and Vanici from the start, we might not be having this conversation.”
“You don’t know Vanici,” Mischa warns, his eyes slits. “And I suggest you drop this topic. It’s done. I’ve already sent Mario to replace your post at the hospital—”
“So you continue to shove me aside,” I say, alarmed by just how much that angers me. Rage coils through my bloodstream, red hot and searing. “Vanici? Maybe I don’t know you. I thought Willow was your focus. Not some childish feud.” The words are out of my mouth, and it’s too late to take them back.
“What did you say?” Mischa steps from around the desk, his head cocked in a warning.
Any other day I’d adhere to my creed. Bite my tongue.
Today? I’m too damn tired.
“I said you brought this on yourself,” I say, holding my ground. “All because you were too damn stubborn to listen—” Within the space of a second, he’s within striking distance, and I don’t even see the punch coming.
My vision goes black as pain shoots through my jaw. Groaning, I blink to bring the room back into focus. Mischa’s back is to me as he paces, anger radiating from him like heat.
“Get out,” he growls. “You’re done.”
“So you won’t even talk to me about this? What is really going on between Willow and Vanici? They knew each other, didn’t they?” I taste blood. A lot of it. I have to spit at my feet just to keep speaking. “Mischa—”
“Don’t make me rethink my leniency, Evgeni,” he warns.
“I’m not doing anything but trying to reason with you.” I spit again, fighting to ignore the fire lancing through my jaw. “Just hear me out. I’m sorry I left, but I think I learned another lead—”
“Get the fuck out.” He isn’t even looking at me anymore, marching toward the desk. “Now. Before I change my mind on letting you leave peacefully.”
“Peacefully?” I scoff at the word, holding my ground even as he whirls around, ready to strike again. Anger simmers just beneath the limits of my control. I cling to every ounce of restraint I have, but when my lips part, I can’t contain the words that spill out. “You call what you’ve done
‘peace’? Vanici is no Saint, but if you would have listened to me from the outset—”
“You’d have me roll over like a fucking whipped dog,” Mischa counters coldly. “Because that’s what you are, isn’t it? I knew you were gun-shy when I hired you, but there comes a point when ‘peace’ can’t be fucking wished for. I won’t sit by and let my daughter be taken from me.”
“Because that’s what I did? Sat by?” I don’t even recognize the sound of my voice. I hear it as if I’m miles away, and for a second, I don’t even see Mischa. I see blood. Lifeless faces staring up at me. I see death…
“Don’t judge me,” Mischa cautions in a voice so harsh it snaps me back. I blink and see him clearly again, his eyes like coals. “Don’t you fucking dare. I’m no ‘saint’ either, but I never massacred women and children under the guise of following orders. These should be simple for you—get the hell out.”
I say nothing, eyeing the man I’ve followed faithfully for over six years.
He’s barely recognizable, but deep down, a part of me acknowledges the subtle changes. His coldness. The vicious tension lacing his posture. His rage.
Fear will do that to a man. Consume him until it’s all he can see. I know that firsthand. It’s why I’ve come to trust my simple creed before the Stepanovs, and it’s the only thing I have left to rely on now.
Loyalty first. Survival second. Never get too close.
Still stroking my jaw, I head for the door, passing the man standing guard. My surroundings blur as I navigate the house, exiting what feels like an eternity later. Out front, my van still waits untouched.
“Don’t tell me he’s not home,” Briar snipes as I open the door, climbing into the driver’s seat. Her sly smile is comically easy to see through now. Fake. A thin veneer against her fear.
She’s terrified. Hell, she reeks of it.
But I don’t feel a damn thing. Just a persistent, pulsating sensation near my hip. Without thinking, I swipe my hand there, striking something hard. My phone?
“Evgeni?” Briar prods, her voice trembling slightly. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes are on the hand I slip into my pocket, but I don’t answer, withdrawing my cell phone. I narrow my eyes at the notification flashing on the home screen—an email from an unfamiliar address. Belatedly, I remember Mario’s parting words. He found something.
In the end, it isn’t much—a single name that nonetheless triggers a wave of haunting recognition.
Safiya Mangenello.
I heard it before… When? I wrack my brain until the answer hits me—straight from Donatello Vanici’s mouth. The name he called Willow.
“Where are you going?” Briar demands, her fear even more apparent. Her eyes are saucers, her lips pursed, her hand reaching for the door on her end.
Stowing the phone, I put the car into drive before she can get it open, slamming on the gas. As I peel down the driveway, I don’t look back at the manor once.
Mario was right. Even a name is enough to set me on the right path. If Mischa won’t listen to reason, then I’ll follow another avenue if I have to. Anything to protect Willow.
At least I have two potential veins of information to tap—Briar Winthorp and Safiya Mangenello.
One of them holds the answers. Only this time?
I refuse to be restrained by any sort of creed.
21
Willow
Returning to Havienna feels like leaving the real world for a shadow realm. One in which up is down and down is…
Pain.
As the sun makes one final stand against the evening cloud cover, the sunlight bathes the walls of the old house like firelight, and apprehension rips through my body, dissolving every ounce of resolve. I was wrong. Shadow realm might have been too kind a term—it’s hell, a reality made perfectly clear the closer we come to it.
The devil himself sits beside me, itching to reclaim his domain.
He doesn’t speak as he parks in the driveway, flanked by two vans. Without so much as a word to me, he exits the car, leaving me to follow as the men we went with fall into step behind us.
Inside the house, I shiver, hating the painfully familiar feeling that shoots through me as I cross the foyer. The past battles with the present, and I’m nearly overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions. All I can do is grit my teeth and dart my gaze without settling over anything for long.
I still notice when Donatello barrels past the stairs, heading in the direction of his study. Preferring to extend the distance between us, I scramble up the stairs, aimlessly wandering the hall, unwilling to enter that pink room just yet.
I stop short just beyond it, startled to find someone watching me from the doorway to Vin’s old room. Not a ghost, though she’s pale enough. My heart breaks at the sight of those wide eyes staring blankly. Someone found clothes for her at least, but I recognize them with a chilling jolt of déjà vu.
They were mine. Hers. Safiya’s.
The little pink shirt has faded slightly with time, but it and a pair of jeans fit the girl perfectly.
I approach her slowly, all thoughts of Donatello forgotten. The same person who procured the clothing is presumably responsible for arranging the room as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. They made up Vin’s old bed, and the small collection of toys scattered around also seem familiar.
The girl watches me warily, her thin arms crossed over her chest. Raising a dark eyebrow, she inclines her head. “I want to go home.”
The pleading note in her voice breaks me. I wind up staggering toward the bed, sitting on the end of it, feeling more helpless than I did even before Mischa. It’s not her fear that rips through me like a lance. It’s her hope. Like I might help her achieve her only goal. To go home.
When in reality? I’m no better than the madman holding her captive. Unlike her, I always had a choice whether or not to be here.
I don’t know what it is about my posture that draws her closer. Silently, she sits on the floor nearby and picks up a ratty doll with a sigh. “Luca said you can’t talk,” she says in a near whisper.
Luca? I picture the man always near Donatello with the watchful gray eyes. Luciano. Has he been taking care of her?
She doesn’t say. When I nod to confirm her insinuation, she returns to her doll, absently twisting its stringy hair around her finger. Something in her dejected expression chills me to the bone. There’s a familiarity in her posture. Like this isn’t the first time she’s had to submit to a horrific situation and distract herself with play.
I think of my sisters, Marnie and Aljona, even little Ivan. They wouldn’t be half as calm as she is. Where did Donatello find her? I wrack my brain and recall a name he’s said before. Antonio. Antonio Salvatore.
Was he a different monster than Donatello? I can’t ask her. But as I watch her fiddle with the doll, I recall another memory—this time not one of Safiya’s.
I had already shed that identity by the time I came under the care of someone other than Donatello Vanici. A gruff man with long, wild blond hair and flashing dark eyes. Early on, he proved himself different from the man I’d been sold to. He gruffly procured clothing for me and taught me how to braid my hair. He teased me with his rare smile and snuck me sweets.
In that short amount of time, he set himself apart from any other father I knew.
Without thinking, I reach for the girl, tentatively stroking one of her black curls. It’s soft, the color a beautiful raven hue. She stiffens, her eyes cutting cautiously to mine. When I run my fingers through her hair, she doesn’t withdraw.
So I stroke until she lets me inch nearer. Then, once I gauge that she won’t withdraw, I braid her curls as slowly and methodically as Mischa once did for me.
It’s pitch dark when I startle awake, sensing a smaller body curled alongside mine. It takes me a second to realize where I am—still in Vin’s old room. A sliver of moonlight drifting through the window illuminates the little girl, asleep near the head of the bed, her hai
r in a neat braid.
Whatever woke me hasn’t disturbed her, at least. She lies still, her chest rising easily.
I can’t say the same. My heart stutters, my breathing heavy. Anxiety eats at my fraying nerves, but I don’t know why. Then I hear it—a faint noise resonating through the walls in addition to the typical creaking of the house. It’s deeper, unsettling in pitch. Guttural. Howling.
An animal?
Cautiously, I rise to my feet, feeling my way to the door. When I open it, the hall is deserted but silent. I wait, straining my ears. Could the noise have been a trick of the wind? Just as I start to retreat into the room again, I hear it. Definitely a low cry, coming from the end of the hall.
Curiosity drives me forward. Or recognition…
The closer I come, the less that sound resembles random noise until I can clearly identify it. Human. A man. One crying out in utter agony.
Before I know it, I’m standing near a partially closed door, sensing the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Every cell in my body throbs, warning me to back away. Better yet, take the girl and run for good.
I push on the doorknob instead, peering into a room I vaguely remember from another life. I rarely came in here, even back then. It was a mysterious realm where adults retreated at night and children were banished from.
It smells like him. Like pain and sweat, and other intangible scents collectively deemed masculine. Loud, his breaths rasp on the air, unsteady and disjointed, undercut by the creak of the mattress. He’s moving, but I doubt he’s awake, merely tossing and turning. Writhing.
“God,” he rasps, shocking me into stopping cold. A frantic heartbeat later, I realize he’s still asleep, shouting only at nothing. Just phantoms. “Fuck… No. No!”
I freeze, paralyzed by the same feeling I felt in the hospital. Helplessness, like a bystander forced to watch a tragedy unfold, unable to do a damn thing to help.
If I heard him, I’m sure the others in this house have as well. Preserving his modesty could explain whatever impulse drives me to close the door without leaving.
