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

direct result of Fabio’s quiet influence. Someone had to help him into the best schools by providing the stability and references I couldn’t.

He said it himself; whoever is behind the scheme with the harbor is smart. Too smart. Fabio could have grown bored of having to clean up my messes…

The doubt doesn’t even have a chance to resonate before I flick it aside. Even in anger, I can admit that if Fabio is anything, it’s loyal. I also know that he’s right—he’s never steered me wrong yet. Though, no one could fault me for wanting to grab the damn wheel for a change.

“Since you seem to be so accommodating, I would like to make a request of my own during this meeting.”

“Donatello…” When he faces me, I note the strain around his mouth. He’s fighting to keep from frowning.

“It’s only fair, isn’t it?”

“Fine. What request would that be?”

I incline my head, mulling over the options. Mischa aims to humiliate me, and his daughter to dominate. What arbitrary demand could prove to them both that I am no one’s whipping boy?

“I’ll voice it at the meeting,” I decide. I even flash a smile to broadcast my good intentions.

Unconvinced, Fabio sucks his teeth. “Donatello—”

“I’ll play by your rules,” I say, heading toward the end of the hall. As I pass him, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my cool—but on my terms.”

He sighs, but his reaction isn’t the one I’m watching for. There. A flit of emotion appears in the dark eyes of the woman nearby. Was it fear? Satisfaction? Smug anticipation of what might happen next?

Either way, I’ll take pleasure in once again having her on her knees before me—figuratively this time.

That mood spurs me upstairs and into the master bedroom. I strip my shirt and throw it on the bed, reaching for the new suit Fabio left. Only then do I see it.

A strip of folded paper placed over the pillow, left for me to find.

11

Willow

I’ve found that writing a letter to a madman is a lot like playing the piano. You require the right rhythm, and the confidence to execute the piece the way it’s meant to be performed—or in this case, lay down a challenge of my own.

Did he read it? I catch myself observing him as we file into the car. He’s fully dressed, his hair slicked back. The clean suit and grooming set him apart from the ruthless figure who cornered me in his study. Instantly I’m on edge, my belly tensing.

I look from the back seat window instead, but my reflection is a mocking specter, obscuring a view of the trees beyond. Fabio chose my outfit with his in mind, I think. Wearing this cream-colored frock, my hair loose, I appear innocent in comparison.

The perfect willing fiancée in a sham engagement.

In a way, our outfits are a chilling callback to when we first met, the day I discovered what a predator smells like. Thick cologne obscures his scent now, but hints of it buzz within my lungs, threatening to shatter what little resolve I have left.

What the hell are we doing? From the outside looking in, we could be on our way to some lavish party.

Not a parlay.

Even the chirping of nearby birds and the yellow sunlight create a harsh contrast to the overall heavy mood. It’s all wrong. A moment like this requires a fitting soundtrack—one even the best composer in the world would have trouble devising. An unorthodox piece, bending the rules of music. Something with a slow tempo, followed by a series of off-key piano notes. Their glaring noise would herald the unnerving presence of one figure dominating the scene.

Donatello.

He is the catalyst upon which the entire impromptu symphony hinges. His breath alone plays a lethal cadence, infecting the mood of whatever domain he chooses to claim. Whether it be the house, or the car, or the small, quaint café we arrive at, driven by Fabio.

I can’t help wondering if he knows just what “condition” Donatello will announce. Something devious, I’m sure. Malicious. Cruel.

As I watch the tight line of my captor’s jaw from this angle, another, more terrifying, idea comes to mind. That his aim extends beyond getting revenge on Mischa. I’m his target. Whatever stunt he’ll pull today will be done with one goal in mind—reinforce the boundaries between us as he desires them.

Captor and prey.

“Here we are,” Fabio says as the van comes to a stop. He exits first and races to open the door on my end before Donatello can move—by design, I suspect. With a deft twist of his body, he keeps himself between us, guiding me to the curb.

The position provides him enough cover to whisper near my ear without Donatello seeing him. “Those letters. Have you found them, yet?”

I look away in the hopes of disguising the truth. I found them, alright. Curiosity is a desperate itch that grows stronger the more I try to imagine just what those notes might contain. Oddly enough, Donatello doesn’t seem inclined to read them.

Fabio, on the other hand, sighs when I shake my head. “Damn. Please. We must recover them—”

“Are you giving my fiancée words of encouragement?” Donatello remarks coldly. He inspects my face with a piercing gaze. Whatever he sees makes his brows furrow.

“Let’s head in, shall we?” Fabio says with a nervous laugh.

The building across the street is our supposed destination, but not one I would picture for a meeting of this nature. It’s too cheerful, sporting a bright red awning that shields the glass front where white lettering spells out the establishment’s name: Donna’s Café.

“A strange choice,” Donatello remarks. Something in his tone draws my attention, different from his usual rasp. Pain? His frown, however, reveals nothing.

“I know the owner,” Fabio admits. “It’s a nice place, serves a vanilla biscotti, and it’s semipublic with a clear view of the city park—” He nods to an emerald plot of land across the street. “The perfect