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

The words must strike a chord. She stops laughing. “You wanted to know why I would come begging to Mischa? I have nowhere left to go.”

Vulnerability on her is disarming. Her voice loses its characteristic purr, her eyes an icier blue than ever. I’m not completely fooled. Manipulation is her one last trick, and I sense she’s an expert at utilizing it.

I try to focus only on the logistics. The man didn’t want her dead. He wanted her shaken.

“You said he needed your son,” I point out.

“But not me.” She presses herself against the door, averting her gaze. “In case that wasn’t already obvious. I know too much. I’m too dangerous to leave alive.”

“What do you know?”

Her eyes flicker, flashing a shade of blue I’ve come to correlate with her lies.

“Tell me the truth or here—” I reach past her and wrench on the door handle. As it opens, her eyes widen. “Get out and take your chances.”

“Not much of a knight in shining armor, are you?” she spits. Then, very deliberately, she grabs the handle and pulls the door shut. “It’s complex,” she warns, crossing her arms, her head cocked to appraise me. The blood dripping down her cheek melds with her dress. Given her lack of visible pain, the garish liquid might as well be part of her outfit. “Your brute-like brain might not be able to handle it.”

Now I’m the one laughing. Though going off her startled grimace, maybe I growled.

“Try me. You said he needed equity.”

“Let’s just say that his business ventures require a lot of discretion and a close proximity to the port.”

Going off the disgust in her tone, I take a wild guess.

“Trafficking? Of drugs? Sex?”

She shrugs. “I’m not exactly sure. He took pains to hide most of his plots from me, but I have my methods. He’s planning something big. Something dealing with the harbor, but I don’t know when or what.”

It’s more than she meant to say. She bites her lip as if irritated by the admission.

This time, I doubt she’s lying.

“You sure love to play with hypotheticals—”

“You know what isn’t a hypothetical? Getting a bullet in my brain! I’ve told you what I know.”

“So where do the Stepanovs come in?”

She sighs, leaning back against the seat. “He wants the boy,” she says. “My sister’s.”

“Eli,” I clarify. “The last Winthorp heir. Without him, your son would be next in line to inherit, if his bloodline was proven, that is.”

She smirks. “I can see your suspicions forming, Mr. Soldier. Let’s hope that you won’t need to see a bullet whiz past his head next to believe me.”

“Let’s suppose I do believe you. You decided to come to Mischa with scattered bits of information and a bunch of ‘what ifs’? No. You’re smarter than that.”

She looks away rather than meet my gaze, and I have my answer.

“He wouldn’t want you dead unless you knew something important. I suggest you tell me.”

“I don’t know what he’s planning exactly. But—” she raises a finger as I scoff in annoyance. “I think I know something. He’s been working with local associates to gain a foothold in the city’s infrastructure.”

“Who?”

She shrugs. “Something, something, Saleri. And a sneaky bastard named Antonio Salvatore.”

I sit forward, my interest piqued. Son of a bitch.

“Gregori Saleri?” I clarify.

She nods, but I’m not surprised.

A Saleri, and Antonio Salvatore. Two men with influence in the city who might have a reason to want Mischa Stepanov gone.

“I think I have your interest now, soldier,” the woman says quietly. “Now, if you don’t mind, get me the hell out of here.”

Her eyes are on the rear window where a black car appears in the distance.

“Fuck.”

I whip around, and sure enough, it’s gaining ground, and I’d rather not take a chance of it being another visitor.

“Hold on,” I tell her.

“Where are we going?”

I try not to give away what I’m thinking. Honestly? I don’t fucking know.

“I saw the way you sneered at my motel,” she remarks with a watery laugh. “You didn’t stop to ask yourself why?”

She doesn’t need to explain. A shitty motel with even the barest level of security would be safer against an attack than anywhere else.

Except…

“I suggest a hotel,” she says. “A very nice one in the heart of the city. On your dime, of course.”

I put the van back into drive, irritated more by the fact that she’s right.

Meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror, I say, “And I suggest you keep talking.”

7

Willow

Kisa’s “cut” turns out to be more severe than Fabio’s skepticism warranted. When we finally reunite, she has ten stitches to show for her ordeal, as well as her entire left arm in bandages. As for the cause of her injury, neither Donatello, nor—the man with him—Luciano, give an adequate explanation other than “it happened.” Fabio raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t argue. Always more practical than emotional, he vows to get the girl new clothes instead.

Her little pink shirt and jeans are ruined, stained red. As we exit through the main lobby, the scarlet hue blazes, and she looks more morbid ghost than girl. Falling into step beside her, I can’t resist straining my neck for any hint of Mischa or his men as we navigate the darkened parking garage.

I’m not the only one on edge.

“I should take Kisa,” Luciano suggests, placing his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “If there’s any trouble, I can cover you from afar—”

“They’ll both come with me,” Donatello declares, circling around to a black car. “You take up the rear,” he tells Luciano. “I’ll lead.”

“I’ll ride with you Don,” Fab cuts in. “I’ll arrange to have my car brought back.”

Donatello nods to Fab, but doesn’t even look at me, though he grabs Kisa’s good arm to steady her as she climbs into the back seat.

I’m more surprised by the action than I should be—along with the fact that he brought her to the hospital at