Now, I know the innocent folly of that admiration—madness isn’t beautiful.
It’s terrifying.
The men capable of honing such insanity are arsonists with no aim in mind other than to burn. To watch the world burn. To them, pain is a tool.
It’s fuel.
It’s fire.
Donatello Vanici is depraved; no other word describes him. Instead of music—pain, agony, and hate form the notes of his own horrifying melody. His symphony is one of vengeance and terror, and only God knows how it ends.
And in this case? I’m the instrument being ruthlessly played.
My neck throbs with the imprint of his fingers, and I can’t stop myself from tracing each mark in the dark. Neither one hurts per se. They merely sting, but the intent behind them is more alarming than any physical pain.
Tears burn behind my eyes as a sudden thought bites deep. Seven years of hating him never left me prepared to feel anything else. I’ve replayed the moment of him leaving me behind over and over. His retreating back. His parting words.
But never—not once—could I see him doing anything more than that.
Until now. My legs smart from scraping against the ground, as my heart still pounds with residual fear. I’ve never felt that terror before, so potent I could taste it.
Still can—copper like blood.
I will never forget the look on his face. One devoid of any shred of recognition. No hate. No anger. In that moment, I knew in my soul he would do it.
Let me fall.
Watch me die.
He betrayed me once, but for some naïve, childish reason, I always explained the act away as selfish cruelty.
Not hate. As pitiful as it sounds…I never expected him to hate me.
Ignore him, a part of my brain hisses. Focus on where you are. Form a plan. If Mischa were here, his advice would be simple—run. Escape. Don’t give in to fear.
If only it were that easy.
Mischa, for all of his experience, couldn’t imagine a moment quite like this one. Shrouded in darkness, I have every reason to be terrified. The most prominent example?
I’m still in danger. My eyes burn as my lungs contract to expel the stench of the accelerant dripping from my hair. The acrid smell fills the confined space of the trunk and beside me, a tiny figure coughs, overwhelmed by it.
Her presence presents another horrifying reality I can’t acknowledge just yet.
So I put everything I have into the only task that matters—escape. Blindly, I extend my hands, feeling along the smooth interior of the compartment beneath me. It rumbles with the motion of the vehicle—the only clue I have as to the driver’s intent.
To be as reckless as possible.
He’s driving erratically, making it hard to get my bearings. Every jolt of the car, rams me against the narrow body beside mine. She whimpers, recoiling as much as she can while I try to create a mental map of the space.
It’s small. My fingers tremble so badly it’s hard to tell the softer material coating the inside of the trunk from the metal of the car’s frame. Clenching my jaw is the only way I can keep my teeth from chattering, not that it matters much in the end. I’m shaking all over. I could blame the chill seeping in from outside, or acknowledge the unease gnawing at my resolve.
I’m panicking.
No matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep returning to the man in the driver’s seat. Namely, his final threat to me, uttered in a voice gruff with malice. I’m going to break your wings, little bird...
And after that? His threat became even more specific.
That I would give him an heir to replace Vincenzo...
Something hard brushes my palm, snapping me back to the present. Cautiously, I curl my fingers around it. Something round and firm that gives slightly with a bit of pressure. An emergency release?
Any triumph I may feel, however, goes to war with common sense. I know better than to pull it now. We’re moving quickly. Too fast. Way too fast. My heart lurches up my throat as I try to picture where he’s heading in this state. Unfortunately, only one destination comes to mind—him speeding toward one of the cliffs overlooking the harbor—but I shut my eyes against it.
Focus! Instead of Donatello, I channel Mischa and the stoic mindset he drilled into me since childhood. Focus, Mouse!
Obeying the mental plea, I go still, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. With every breath, some of the fear gives way to logic.
If running is out of the question now, then the only course of action left is…
To fight. I curl my fingers into fists and wrack my brain for any available weapon. Apart from the girl beside me, the trunk seems to be empty. For the first time, I turn to her, straining my eyes through the darkness to make out what I can.
She’s young, and my heart clenches with terror at that realization. She is so young. Dark curls glimmer in the absence of light, the only detail I can make out. Her soft breaths scrape on the air, adding a chilling backdrop to the engine’s constant hum and the roar of rushing air rebounding off the vehicle’s exterior.
God, he’s driving even faster now. Suddenly, the car lurches, shaking violently as if the road switched from the smooth pavement of a main highway to a rougher texture. Stone? Gravel? Whatever the surface, it’s uneven. Hissing traction comes from the wheels, making me suspect that we’re traveling steeply up an incline.
That vision of the cliff returns, sharper in clarity.
Would he really do it? The answer terrifies me—I know nothing about this Donatello.
Nothing at all.
Fortunately, the only things a musician needs to play any piece, are their hands and an instrument.
All I need to kill Donatello is a weapon.
And this time, if I get the chance…
I won’t falter.
3
Evgeni
A man in my line of work abides by a simple code—if he wants to keep living, anyway. Loyalty should be his most prized asset. Only survival gets second priority. Leave the political games to politicians, and finally, never get too close.
To your employer. To anyone.
After a decade without dying yet, I’ve never questioned that creed once.
Until the moment I’m faced with an empty bedroom and a missing charge, that is. For a second, I consider a nice retirement somewhere far away from murderous employers and their sheltered daughters. The thought is a warning sign—I’ve failed the last bastion of my code already.
The missing daughter, in this instance, isn’t some nameless mark. I’ve watched her grow up from a stoic little girl into an accomplished woman who lacks the spoiled apathy of most with her kind of privilege.
I know firsthand how power can corrupt families, and how the sins of the father can easily infect a child. At least until now, Willow proved to be an exception to that rule. Shunning the violence and brutality of Mischa’s realm, she sought shelter in the mundane future of a quiet pianist.
I’d never admit as much out loud, but I always admired that drive in her. Some aren’t so lucky as to choose a differing path from the world they grew up in. While it comforts some to separate men in terms of good or bad, morality has nothing to do with it. In a sense, it’s only natural, no less tragic than a wolf pup learning the ways of a predator. Darkness begets darkness. Murderers beget murderers.
Monsters go on to sire even more brutal monsters…