Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3), Lana Sky [summer reading list txt] 📗

I bristle at her haughty tone, but she’s not exaggerating. For hours, I’ve traced the backroads sprawling around the city, trying to come up with some semblance of a plan. The day is damn near over, but this is the best course of action I could decide on. Keeping her in Hell’s Gambit.

For now.

“This is it,” I say coldly.

“You live in a slum.” Her apparent disgust betrays her knowledge of the area. Though, in all fairness, the place looks the part, complete with public housing and streets strewn with garbage. “Why am I not surprised?” she adds, her lip curled in disdain. “I suppose being a hired hand doesn’t pay much.”

I don’t correct her. Bringing her out in public at all is a risk, but one I’d rather take by coming here—an apartment intermittently used by the mafiya—than my main base. She could still run either way, but if she’s truly afraid of this man, she’ll prove it.

“You must have a death wish,” she declares as I park. “I tell you, the man I’m running from is a monster. You parade me in public.”

I frown. One point proven, at least.

“Move,” I tell her, shoving open the door on my end. “If you’re really on the run, the last thing you should want is to be alone.”

I forge ahead without looking back—not that I have to. She’s noisy in her haste to keep pace, her heels clacking, breaths heavy. Her desperation has a musical quality.

I look over my shoulder, hoping I’m the only one privy to it. The unease I felt earlier grows more potent as we enter the building.

The apartment is on the top floor, but it’s a hell of an ascent. The elevator has been out of order for as long as I can remember, leaving a rickety staircase as the only way up. The woman pants, sweat dripping down her forehead by the time we reach the flat.

I fish the spare key from beneath a ratty welcome mat before the door. When I unlock it, the woman scoffs, unimpressed.

“Don’t take offense to this, soldier,” she says, eyeing the barren entryway and the worn couch serving as the sole piece of furniture. “You could really use a woman’s touch.”

“Like Safiya Mangenello’s?” I say, taking a shot in the dark.

If she recognizes the name, however, she’s damn good at hiding it.

“Is that a lover of yours?” Her tone is sweetly hostile as she inclines her head to inspect me. “Charming. Though, I think you need someone with a bit higher standards when it comes to cleanliness.”

“I’ll tell you what I need—” I whirl on her, grabbing her arm. She’s quick, reflexively kicking between my legs, but brute strength is the one thing she can’t easily counteract. I pin her to the wall and kick the door shut. Leveraging my weight, I apply pressure to her shoulder joint, just hard enough to make her wince. “I need answers.”

She fights to suck in enough air, her voice a hiss. “You won’t get them if I’m dead.”

“No, but I can think of a variety of ways I could take advantage of your last moments. If you’ve done the ‘research’ on me that you claim, then you should know what I mean.”

I feel her shudder.

“You certainly talk the talk,” she says, feigning confidence. “But trust me, if you ask nicely, you won’t need force.”

“Fine.” I let her go, stepping back. “I’m asking nicely. Speak.”

She faces me, pressing her back to the wall, her hand rubbing her shoulder. “He wants the Winthorp fortune,” she says finally. “But that’s merely a side note. His real aim is to turn this city into his stepping-stone. I don’t know his full intentions, but I can assure you they aren’t pleasant.”

She pauses deliberately, forcing me to ask.

“How so?”

Her smile is sly. “Use that imagination of yours. I’ll give you a hint—he needs allies and equity. Fast.”

“What’s his name?”

Her lips twitch. I suspect she hesitates before saying, “I know him as Jonathan Harmon, but it’s just an alias. He’s smart, shielding his true identity between several dummy accounts. You won’t be able to find his real name; I can promise you that.”

I feel my eyes narrow. “And he wants your son to claim the Winthorp fortune.”

She nods.

“But he’s a child. Three, you said. Which means even if he did miraculously come into the fortune, he wouldn’t be able to touch a dime.”

But presumably, his mother could.

“Now you’re thinking,” she taunts as if reading my mind. “I knew you had it in you.”

Though I doubt she realizes the full extent of what she’s revealed.

“If anyone has a motive to want the fortune,” I say, advancing toward her a step. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” she says dryly. “I want to take on Mischa Stepanov all by my lonesome and skip merrily into the distance with his gun pointed at my skull.”

“Not if he were dead,” I counter, crossing my arms. “You hate him.”

“I do. But if I really wanted to go along with the plan, would I be begging you for an audience and staying in some piece of shit motel?”

The frustration in her voice rings true—as much as I loathe to admit it. She strikes me as the kind who doesn’t spook easily. And yet, she’s quivering despite that poised mask.

Her nerves are contagious. I swear I see a shadow flicker beyond the room’s sole window. A bird? Or something more ominous?

Ripping my gaze back to the woman, I decide to stop beating around the bush. “What are you afraid of?”

She sucks in a breath, her eyes darting from me to the doorway and back. Sensing her motive, I move to block the exit.

“You want to know?” Her eyelids lower, disguising her intentions behind thick lashes. “I’m afraid that your Mischa has no idea as to the deck stacked against him. Frankly? I don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”

Audible once more, that truthful note in her voice is hard to deny. I step forward, intrigued despite myself.

“I’m listening.”

Her lips