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

Unmoved, Donatello’s grip bites deeper. “What did he say?”

As if I could forget. Those four words circle my brain in a mocking loop. Safy…am I dead?

The tears I kept at bay around Mischa descend at full force, blurring my vision. Deep down, I think I always knew Donatello lied about the truth of what happened to his precious Safy. I just never thought I’d have to face it. Face him.

His betrayal was one thing, but this…

His rejection is a living creature clawing through my chest, ripping open the wounds I’d hoped were healed. I’m left bleeding without a mark to show for it, once again forced to grapple with the depths of how little Donatello Vanici cared about me.

When he lets me go, I inspect the ragged planes of his face, trying to imagine how I could ever see warmth in them or seek solace in that deceitful grin. He wasn’t happy with just destroying Safiya. Only a heartless monster could sell a little girl—but it takes true evil to lie.

He told anyone who might care that I was dead. He told Vincenzo I was dead.

I want him to gloat over that fact now. I want him to laugh. Chuckle. Spit.

As my vision blurs, I glare at him, daring him to do so. Isn’t this what he wanted?

He won. He hurt me.

He swallows hard instead, his lips parting wordlessly. The shock lasts only for a second before the hardness returns, steeling his gaze. “What did he say—”

“Donatello!” Fabio appears by his side, strategically drawing him away from me. “What are you doing here?”

For a second, I doubt he even knows where “here” is. Helpless, his eyes fixate on Vincenzo’s door. He takes a step toward it only to stop when Fabio grabs his arm.

“Donatello, what are you doing here? Jesus, Christ are you okay?”

Only now do I notice the absence of his suit jacket, and the red liquid staining the hem of his shirt.

“The girl…” He jerks his chin toward the ward’s entrance, but it’s empty. “She cut herself. I brought her in to get it treated.”

“The hospital for a papercut?” Fabio asks, an eyebrow raised. When Donatello says nothing, he places a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Vincenzo—”

“He’ll be fine,” Fabio says, flashing an unexpected grin. “Better than fine, actually. The doctors have been astounded by his progress. The lead surgeon assures me that he’s improving better than he could have ever hoped for. Let them work and let him rest—” His eyes cut in my direction, conveying more alarm than his voice reveals. “I’ll bring you back myself as soon as he’s stabilized.”

For a second, I swear Donatello will shrug him off and barge into the room regardless. Abruptly, he turns on his heel instead and starts down the opposite hallway.

“You’ve been making a lot of guarantees lately, Fab,” he calls back. “Let’s hope you can come through on them all.”

To his credit, Fabio laughs. “I haven’t failed you yet, have I? One day you’ll learn that, of all people, I always have your best interest in mind. Why? Because as long as you’re around, your fearsome reputation intact, I have nothing to fear from anyone. I lose you, I lose my bulletproof shield, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Donatello grunts in a way that betrays he isn’t sure if the boast was entirely in jest or not. I suspect it’s more of the latter. Fabio is every bit as invested in Donatello’s well-being as he is in his own. So much so that he helped him spin a lie for everyone, from himself to Vincenzo, to live under.

So much so that he’s terrified by whatever the past might reveal.

If I give him Olivia’s letters, I might lose the chance to discover the truth for myself. Safiya might have been susceptible to his manipulation, and recently I’ve been inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt—but no more.

He stood by as Donatello threw me away, and he helped him maintain the lie that I was dead.

As far as my own well-being goes, I know one thing for sure—I can’t trust either of them.

6

Evgeni

The outskirts of the city seem like the safest bet. Already early evening, the district is decently populated, with enough traffic to deter any shooter worth his pay.

Though I get the sense that whoever I’m dealing with is no skittish amateur. A few potential witnesses wouldn’t be enough to dissuade them if they really wanted their target dead.

I eye the woman in the rearview mirror. So far, she has far more pros in her column to support her story than cons.

“Someone tried to kill you,” I say once we’re far beyond the building.

She laughs from the back seat, her hair tussled, smile manic. “You seem surprised, soldier. Aren’t you used to danger?”

“No,” I admit. A fact I don’t regret one damn bit. “Certainly not from someone this sloppy. They didn’t care who the hell saw.”

Which means one of two things—the would-be killer is a goddamn rookie. Or…

“Still don’t believe me?” she taunts, still cackling. Another glance at her betrays her bravado for what it is. She’s in shock. “Perhaps if I caught that bullet between my teeth, you’d grow bored of accusing me of lying—”

“Enough.”

I pull onto the side of the road.

“What the hell are you doing?” Real fear rattles her voice as I turn to face her directly.

“Damn.” This angle reveals what I couldn’t see from the front—blood painting a steady trail down her forehead. I lurch toward her and grab her chin, tilting it for a better look. It’s a cut, alarmingly deep. “Were you hit?”

She attempts to shrug me off. “You sound so concerned.”

A few more seconds of inspection, and I have my answer anyway. She must have struck her head sometime during our retreat. A glance at her pupils reveals no worrying dilation, but I wouldn’t put a concussion out of the realm of possibility.

“I suggest you trade in that motel