Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3) - Lana Sky (top romance novels .TXT) 📗

I recoil as if he slapped me. I wish he had. It would be easier to fathom than his request—try to understand poor, poor Donatello—the man who destroyed my life and left me for dead.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Fabio insists. Maybe he didn’t. The sudden hoarseness of his voice reminds me of one of my professors during a lecture on musical complexity. Ignore the background, he warned us. Focus only on the notes. See beyond the superficial noise to the pain beneath. That kind of emotion can’t be studied, only felt…

But there is a marked difference between music and madness.

“It’s like he doesn’t even remember. In his right mind, he’d never—” For several seconds, he seems lost, until a doctor brushes past him and he startles. Shaking his head, he continues walking. “It’s like he blocked it out or something. But at other times, he’s back there, reliving it over and over… No man could suffer what he’s been through without losing some sanity, but to go back to that goddamn house. Those letters. If he really has forgotten, he can’t read them. He can’t—” He breaks off, and I get the sense that he said more than he meant to. Clearing his throat, he gestures toward something up ahead. “Anyway, here we are.”

I follow the line of his gaze to a door presumably leading to another ward. A stoic man in black fatigues stands guard beside it, his face vaguely familiar. A Stepanov soldier?

Disappointment stings. I have no right to wish for anything, but I almost pray Evgeni is inside as part of Mischa’s personal retinue. He’d be angry with me, but at least I’d have someone familiar to guard against the guilt. Not that I deserve a lifeline.

The thought of facing Ellen and Mischa—let alone Ellen’s reaction to what I’ve done—is a harrowing possibility I didn’t have the sense to dread until now. My throat goes dry, my stomach in knots.

“I know your mother is awake,” Fabio explains, smoothing his hand down his suit jacket as the guard spots us. “I think your brother may even be in the same wing—though, I didn’t exactly call ahead for obvious reasons. Allow me.” Motioning for me to stay back, he approaches the man alone.

As I watch him, what little resolve I felt vanishes. I almost consider retreating somewhere—anywhere—to give myself more time to think. Come up with some way of explaining what I’ve done.

The guard, however, seems unmoved by Fabio’s words. It’s only when he points to me that the man stiffens with recognition. Heeding my cue, I step forward, but by the time I reach them, I only catch the tail end of what the guard says.

“Yes…yes sir—” He’s speaking into a headset affixed to his ear. Nodding, he opens the door and steps aside. “This way, Ms. Stepanova. Your father is expecting you.”

I swallow hard. Donatello’s mocking remarks run through my mind with every step I take—though he might have been right to worry. Mischa is the last person aiming to uphold this twisted bargain. I doubt Fabio alone is any match for the Stepanov retinue. There is nothing to prevent me from running now if I wanted to.

In fact, it’s probably the one way to fix the mess I’ve made. Go home. Return to that safe bed of roses and never dare to leave again.

As if reading my mind, Fabio looks at me and winks. “Let’s hope for the best, yes?”

Rather than respond, I turn my attention to our surroundings. My initial suspicion was correct regarding this being a private wing. Few medical staff populate the spacious hall. Only a few rooms appear to be in use—the occupants of one are in the middle of a conversation, their voices barely audible. A woman’s gentle hum rises above the others, as lilting as a bell chime. “You look so serious…”

Ellen. For a second, the sterile surroundings fall away, and the day of the attack unfolds like a never-ending nightmare. I keep seeing her face, pale from blood loss, her body limp…

“You should get some rest.” The deeper voice responding to her yanks me back to the present, and I wince as fresh guilt rips through me. Mischa. Do I even have it in me to face him again?

Before I can decide, yet another figure pitches in. “We’ve gotten a lot of rest already,” a boy declares. My heart clenches at that familiar tone, still as cheerful as ever. “When can we go home? I’m so sick of the gross pudding they serve here. It tastes like barf.”

“I’ll let you take the lead,” Fabio says softly, placing his hand on my shoulder. He inclines his chin in the direction of the voices. “Take all the time you need.”

Even from here, I can tell that the room is slightly larger than Vincenzo’s, with a wide window displaying the city’s waterfront. The jagged mass of skyscrapers forms an unexpectedly beautiful backdrop against the white walls.

“So stern,” Ellen says as I round the doorway. She’s sitting upright, her lips in a strained half smile—but her skin is still so pale only her hair gives her any definition against the white sheets. That, and the shadow cast by Mischa, dutifully standing over her.

Perched on the end of her bed, dressed in bright blue pajamas, sits a smaller figure, his attention consumed by the book lying open on his lap. His hair hangs wildly and unkempt, but his blue eyes sparkle with their usual mischief.

So much relief hits me at once as tears well in my eyes, threatening to fall.

But then I notice the bruise marring Eli’s lip, and the beige cast covering his right arm. The injury is severe enough that he manipulates the pages as he reads with his left hand.

“I hope you were this way with the girls while I’ve been gone,” Ellen taunts Mischa without noticing me. “They won’t dare disobey you then.”

“Is that so?” A wrinkle alongside his mouth softens the otherwise