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

part, but another flicker of movement beyond the window draws my notice. There. A warehouse lurks across the street, but my gaze hones in on a broken window in time to catch a flash of shadow. That is no bird.

“Shit!”

Relying on pure instinct, I move, shoving the woman aside. She cries out a split-second before glass shatters.

I land on my knees, tasting blood as my ears ring. She’s in my grasp, her body curled beside mine. One look at her eyes, and I know she didn’t plan this. Formlessly, her lips part, but she doesn’t scream.

“Run!”

Another buzzing sound cuts the air, this time easily identified. A gunshot.

This bullet shatters what remains of the window, ripping plaster from the wall behind me.

One attacker, I deduce, aiming from the west, most likely from a high vantage point.

“Stay low to the ground,” I demand, grabbing the woman by the arm.

Pivoting, I kick open the door and drag her with me, staying out of range.

Another shot whips past, shattering the edge of the door as I slam it shut.

A lone window illuminates this section of the hall. A glance from it reveals the next building over and the empty street below. There are no windows, at least. A sniper can’t cover this angle.

We were followed here. If I were managing a hit on one lone woman, I’d send two men. One shooter, and a backup to cover the bases in case of an escape.

“They’ll be watching the exits,” I say, approaching the window. It’s a single pane, opened easily by lifting from the bottom. Below, a rusty fire escape provides a bridge between the height and the street.

The woman balks.

“We need to jump,” I say, pulling her closer.

She shakes her head, gripping the sill with trembling fingers. “Are you insane?”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s the only way out.”

And I suspect we have seconds to move before the shooter takes aim from a different angle.

There isn’t time for permission. I grab her waist and shove her forward.

“Go!”

She grapples for the wall, trying to steady her descent, but her foot loses traction too soon, and she plummets onto the base of the fire escape with a sound loud enough to alert the entire damn city.

Her pained groan stirs a semblance of guilt as I follow, landing in a crouch beside her. Already, she’s lurching to her knees, grasping at my shoulder as I head for the ladder leading to the street.

She moves cautiously, and I consider it a miracle when we make it to the street level without drawing an audience.

Yet.

Footsteps advance in our direction, and I grab her wrist, heading for a nearby alley. Hand on my holster, I scan the street, hunting for movement.

This is a sloppy hit, I decide as we reach the other end of the block without crossing anyone suspicious. Sloppy and reckless.

If her attacker didn’t want her dead, he wanted to prove a point.

Perhaps her cryptic speech wasn’t entirely for show.

This man is dangerous.

Taking a chance, I haul her toward the van and shove her onto the back seat.

“Stay down,” I warn.

Then I drive, unsure of where the hell to even go next.

5

Willow

I can’t put into words what it felt like to be accepted by Mischa Stepanov and his family. If someone held a gun to my head, the closest comparison I could make is coming inside to a warm fire after ages spent lost in a blizzard. Finally, I had shelter again. Everything Donatello Vanici ripped from my life, Mischa offered me tenfold. Safety. Security. Love.

How have I repaid his generosity?

With tragedy and pain.

In hindsight, it’s not that much of a shocking outcome. The events of the past few days have only proved what I’ve known in my soul—as much as I love the Stepanovs, I never truly belonged. I was a weed, plucked from a wayward field to grow amongst a cultivated bed of roses. They’ve shielded me within their beautiful, protected world, but no amount of love can change what I am—a suffocating, creeping outsider.

In a twisted way, I should thank Donatello Vanici for helping me to realize that. Never again can I simply exist as Willow, or even Safiya.

I am a piece on a chessboard, a prize to be won.

“I’m worried about him.”

The cautious tone snaps me back to the present. I blink, struggling to recognize my surroundings. White walls and polished floors abound. That’s right, we’re at the hospital, navigating a clinical floor. Or at least Fabio is while I trail in his wake. I increase my pace to draw even with him, not that he seems to notice.

“He has his issues, yes,” he continues obliviously. His tone leaves no doubt as to who he’s referring to. “I’ve never seen him like this. Never… I’m sure you see it, too?”

I just stare. His attempt at conversation is a drastic role reversal from Donatello’s insistence on maintaining the captor and captive dynamic, but I sense he’s speaking to himself more than me. Concern contorts his expression, his gaze turned inward.

“It’s that goddamn house,” he says under his breath, heading for an upcoming corridor. “Trust me, it wasn’t my idea for him to bring you there. I’m sorry. Those letters…”

He meets my gaze, lowering his voice. “Do you still have them?”

I weigh the option of lying, feeling selfishly protective of that dusty silver box for reasons I can’t explain. In the end, I nod.

“Thank god,” Fabio exclaims, pressing a hand to his chest. “I don’t think he’s read them—and he shouldn’t. Never. Do you understand? Please give them to me.”

My confusion must show on my face because he looks over his shoulder warily before leaning in even closer to me. “Please. Some memories… Some memories are better left buried. Those letters are just old trash, better off discarded. I need you to give them to me—please. And keep them away from Donatello. Can you do that? I know it’s offensive of me to even ask you this, but please… Try to understand