The room is a small office devoid of windows. A desk cluttered with paperwork dominates the center of the space, illuminated only by the light from the hall. At a glance, there are no exits other than the door.
Warily, I step inside, sensing the girl on my heels. Mischa’s advice echoes clearly through my skull—Lay low. Devise a plan. Keep your head.
But my head is spinning, filled with mistrustful thoughts. Of Mischa himself. Of him.
I still see his expression, mocking me. Taunting me.
Those eyes. That voice.
I’m going to break your wings, little bird…
The thud of the door slamming snaps me back to the present. I hear a lock engage, and the light vanishes, robbing me of the chance to gain a better idea of the layout. In the resulting silence, all I can hear are the soft, smothered whimpers of the girl.
Painful recognition hits like a lance, and I try to resist the memories triggered. Cowering in the presence of Nicolai, knowing that Donatello had left me there. Abandoned me.
My sole consolation is that I’m not bound this time. I can walk. Move.
And I can fully plot my escape.
6
Don
Giovanni thrived on power. I’ve never met anyone more calculating. You gotta be born with a head for business like that, though he did his best to teach me how to think as he did. Coldly and methodically.
Whether that meant retaliating against a rival by slaughtering their prized thoroughbred, or by showering allies in lavish gifts, each method relied on one detail to succeed—optics. Why get your hands bloody when you could put on a show and get the same point across?
The office he kept here is a case in point testimony to his preferred style. The layout is designed specifically so that whoever steps foot through the door would see themselves first, sweating and nervous, reflected in a huge ass mirror hanging on the wall. To cap off the experience, their next sight would always be the old boss himself, seated behind his desk like a king on a throne.
Talk about fucking optics. From that position, he could survey his prey while they grappled with having their own fear thrown back in their face. You couldn’t buy a better setup than that.
The mirror is still here all these years later. It’s antique, I think, about as old as this entire damn building. Dust coats the surface, blurring the glass, as I approach.
For a second, in my place, I see Giovanni. A man should do nothing that he can’t face himself in the mirror afterward, the old boss used to boast.
Suffice to say, it didn’t temper his cruelty any. In his heyday, he was known to sign a death warrant in the morning, kill a man in the evening, greet his children with a smile and check his teeth without flinching, all before this same mirror.
Every now and again, he’d call a man into his office and quiz them on who they thought they saw in their reflection. Do you see what I see, Donatello? he once asked me. I see a leader. A man who can lead these sons of bitches to greatness if he wants to…
I look on the surface of the glass now, and I see a shadow of that younger man, covered in blood. My hands shake as I swipe a finger through the grime, bringing the image into clearer focus. It’s funny… Giovanni always looked the same to me, no matter what brutal deed he’d just committed. The man I see now, though?
He’s a monster.
“So let’s see it,” a voice prompts from behind me. Luciano, absent his gun. He swaggers through the doorway, but I don’t doubt for a second that he’s still a threat. The fact that he hasn’t shot me is due entirely to what Giovanni praised above all—power.
I don’t have much left—but I have enough.
“What’s this leverage, besides the kidnapped woman?” he demands. “I’m going to pretend you never said her name, by the way. Though, fuck. We’re dead anyway. What’s pissing off the entire mafiya but the cherry on top?”
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and deposit the item I took from Antonio on the desk. As I do so, a mirrored version of myself copies the motion. Our eyes meet, but it’s like staring at a ghost. Nothing at all is going on behind those dark irises. He’s a creature moving solely on impulse, no better than a snake.
“A phone?” Luciano remarks, advancing with an eyebrow raised. His tone draws me back to the present, putting everything into perspective.
Revenge aside, I need a plan. Willow Stepanova is a fitting bit of leverage—but only if I can clear my name first. Doing so relies on finding proof that Antonio ordered the hit. Even if that means trudging through the bastard’s cell phone.
Sighing, I take the leather seat behind the desk, leaning my head back.
Fuck, it’s been a long damn time since I’ve sat here. This room was the most spacious of them all, with a view of the lumberyard. Surprisingly, Antonio kept much of the original furniture, down to this desk. I swear, Giovanni’s coffee stains still mar the old wood. Mine too. As I run my fingers over them, I spot a name plaque encased in gold. I spin it to reveal the initials A.S. engraved on the front.
Guilt could be the name of the emotion lancing through my skull. Either that or I’m sobering up. Either way, I don’t think it’s really sunk in until now. Antonio Salvatore, the dumb bastard who couldn’t find his ass with a map, was in charge of the famiglia. I left him in charge.
Giovanni would rise from the grave if he knew, just to kill me himself.
“Do you hear me, Donatello?” Luciano snarls.
“Huh?” With a wave of my hand, I knock the plaque from the desk and into the wastebasket on the floor beside it. Only then can I look up.
“Your ace in the hole,” Luciano continues, nodding toward the device placed before me. “Your secret weapon to get us back on the map is a cell phone?”
“Antonio Salvatore’s phone,” I correct.
Lowering my gaze, I spot the topmost drawer, and I pull it open. Fucking predictable. A few loose cigars roll across the compartment, and I grab one along with the gold lighter resting nearby.
“It’s password-protected,” I add before popping the end of the cigar into my mouth, lighting it with a flick of my thumb. It’s the good shit, and I drag on the damn thing so hard I nearly suck it down. When I finally exhale, Luciano’s watching me, waiting.
“Might have the number of whoever he contacted to target the Stepanovs on it,” I say. “Can you find a man to crack it?”
He blinks as if torn between bitching some more or getting down to business. Finally, he shrugs and steps forward, his frown still skeptical. “Antonio wasn’t exactly Fort Knox. He tended to use the same password for everything. Let me see…”
He grabs the phone, and it turns on, revealing it’s still on its last few bars of battery. After he taps a few keys on the screen, it unlocks with a musical chime. Scoffing, he turns it my way, revealing what the bastard had on the home screen—his own fucking picture.
“I thought so. The passcode was his birthday,” Luciano says in disgust. “But I don’t see how it helps. Trust me, if Tony had something he could use to get back in anyone’s good graces, he would have used it—”
“Can it be tracked?” I ask. If Mischa’s already put the pieces together about Antonio’s death, it’s only a matter of time before he settles on a prime suspect.