Life, for all its pretentious bullshit, is just a game, sonny, he said. You can be a coward and cringe from battle. Or you declare fucking checkmate. At all costs, you go for the checkmate. You pound your fist on the damn game board if you have to. Don’t you ever give up. The second you do, someone’s already beaten you. It’s game over.
To him, everything was just a round in an unending game with every player fighting his way to the top.
Thanks to Mischa Stepanov, my time playing is nearing its end. Giving up now would be forfeiting everything to him, the ultimate checkmate.
Though, what else could I do?
As if Giovanni himself sent me a reminder from the grave, I sense something around my right hand and hold it up to the light. It takes several blinks before I can focus on it—delicate strands of golden hair looped around my fingers. I bring them beneath my nose, inhaling the scent I swear they still carry.
Roses and hatred.
I can clearly picture the source—a head of golden hair, framing a face crowned by watchful dark eyes. Wrapped around my fingers, their presence alludes to the violence that resulted in them being there. Fighting her off. Shoving her aside. Putting her in the trunk…
I catch myself eyeing the direction of it in the rearview mirror. When I lower my hand, a new emotion takes hold, and I gladly let it. Rage. Along with it comes a new perspective. Mischa may have won the last round, but as Giovanni used to say at the famiglia’s lowest moments, the war is far from over. Especially when I have in my possession one of my enemy’s very own pawns.
Willow Stepanova herself could be the perfect tool to ensure that no one wins in the end.
And there are a million ways I could wreak my vengeance through her. Brutal, sick fucking shit I would have never thought myself capable of doing, even at my darkest. My fingers twitch against the steering wheel as the possibilities cross my mind.
I could rip her apart limb from limb.
Tear that beautiful body to pieces.
Torture her. Torment her. Then send the aftermath to her father, wrapped with a bow.
The truly sick part? My hand is already inching into my pocket, closing over the handle of a dagger I don’t remember carrying. It’s hers, small enough to fit her grasp with the word Mouse etched into the hilt. I run my thumb over the metal’s edge, surprised by how sharp it really is.
Sharp enough to slit a throat.
Slowly, I reach for the door handle next, but my fingers shake too badly to grip it. Out of guilt? That’s right. I made a vow once. Hell, I swore it over Olivia’s grave. To redeem the Vanici name. To never return to my old ways. To set a good example for Vincenzo and leave a legacy they both could be proud of.
I’ve failed two of those vows, but I can still fulfill one final pledge. I can make the Vanici name worth speaking again—even if feared.
Mischa Stepanov will pay for what he’s done.
Wrestling my hands into submission, I finally push the door open and yank the lever alongside my seat that unlocks the trunk. Slowly, I climb to my feet, bracing one hand against the car while the other returns the knife to my pocket.
It’s slick as shit out, with nothing but gravel and mud underfoot. Even now, a spitting rain speckles my skin, coating everything in a slippery, silvery layer of frost. On top of that, my balance is shit. As I try to take a step, the world rocks beneath me, and I vaguely remember drinking from a bottle stolen right from Antonio Salvatore’s minibar.
This whole thing could be some booze-induced hallucination. Still, I start forward.
As I round the back end of the car, a faint rustle draws my notice, and I freeze mid-step in grim anticipation. Will she jump out to meet me? Try to fight? My knuckles twitch, until both of my hands form fists so tight my own nails cut into my palms.
I wait, but the top of the trunk doesn’t budge.
The booze still in my system might be to blame for the feeling that comes over me next. Weightlessness. I stagger forward, but it’s like I’m watching a stranger curl his fingers beneath the rim of the lid, wrenching it up in one go.
Thick cloud cover obscures the sun, leaving only a faint bit of light to see by. Even so, I have no trouble making her out, curled on her side at one end of the compartment, the Salvatore girl on the other. Golden hair fans out around her, shrouding the pale limbs bared by a thin yellow dress. If I had to imagine how she’d appear, I’d assume afraid, trembling fearfully in anticipation of what I’d do next.
One look at her shatters that fantasy. Her dark eyes meet mine head-on, fiery in the grayish daylight. In them, I see a challenge portrayed so brazenly it might as well be branded across her forehead—What will you do, Donatello?
The answer is as elusive to me as it is to her. Her knife is still in my pocket, but all I seem capable of doing is staring. Remembering.
Her…
More obscure images from last night flash across my mind. Us, together in my old study, her body struggling against my grasp. A groan revs in my throat as I recall why—I’d been ready to set the entire house on fire, myself along with it.
Only one force had been able to stop me.
Her.
I remember her wrestling the matches from me, and my broken psyche adorned her with a million different embellishments then—that of a vengeful angel clothed in gold, condemning me to live another day out of spite.
In broad daylight, there is no hiding from reality.
She isn’t flawless like a soldier of divine mercy would be. No. She’s battered and pale, her yellow dress askew, her eyes as bloodshot as mine are. Liquid slicks her hair to her skull, reeking suspiciously of accelerant. That’s not all. A necklace of dark bruises encircles her fucking neck. Irrational anger flares at the sight of them, and I’m already wracking my brain for the identity of who could have possibly hurt her.
Only a monster…
Not even a heartbeat later, I catch sight of my wrist, and I realize that I don’t have to look far for the culprit—me. I did this to her.
My hands shake, outstretched before me, bruised and bloodied. In contrast, she looks so small.
And so dangerous.
“Is this what you wanted?” I direct the question toward her, still inspecting my fingers. An assortment of cuts and bruises mar each digit, but not enough to cause the amount of rust-colored liquid encrusted beneath each fingernail. There’s no shying from what the substance really is. Blood.
Mine.
Antonio Salvatore’s.
And Vincenzo’s.
“Why?” The shout echoes throughout the narrow clearing this part of the road runs through, bellowed and broken.
But how does she react?
When I finally look at her again, she’s just staring.
And staring, and staring…
There’s no answer reflected in those dark irises. No hate. No fucking emotion.
Not even when I lunge for her, grasping at whatever I catch. Warm flesh trembles beneath my palm as I find myself tearing back through the trees, dragging her with me.
“You wanted to punish me, is that it?” I say in between pants. “Well, now we can both find our retribution.”
Giovanni was right. Why give up when you can ruin the game? And what better way to circumvent Mischa’s inevitable win than to aim straight for his heart?
I’ll do more than pound the damn game board. I’ll break it.
The woman resists, digging her bare heels into the earth with every step—not that there’s much she can do. I’m heading for the edge of a sheer drop, overlooking a section of gray water churning beneath. A fall from here would be deadly. If the height alone doesn’t do the trick, then the rocks down below should.