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

I choke on his silence, though it lasts barely a second before a smaller figure bounds in my direction.

“Will!” The force of his hug nearly takes me off my feet. His good arm wraps around my waist, and I’m reminded of just how tall he is now. “Where have you been? We’ve been asking and asking—”

“Willow!” Ellen extends her hands, her entire face alight with a smile.

I step forward, suppressing a shudder at her touch. She’s as fragile as porcelain, liable to break if I apply enough pressure. An IV snakes from her wrist, feeding clear liquid into her veins. Bandages encircle nearly the length of her right forearm, and the glaring bruises hammered beneath her eyes look ghoulish in the overcast daylight.

As if to distract from the physical reminders of her recovery, her faint smile widens. “You look so pale, darling.” She smooths her hand along my cheek.

“You look tired,” Eli chimes in.

I glance at him, wondering if Mischa has told either of them the truth.

No. I decide. Eli would be furious if he had.

“Easy,” Mischa says, placing a hand on Ellen’s shoulder as she tries to sit upright.

Ignoring him, she pulls me closer. “Look at you,” she croons, running her fingers through my hair. “You look exhausted, sweetheart. Both of you. Don’t tell me you were worrying yourselves sick over me—”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Mischa spins on his heel, lumbering toward the window. His long hair hangs down his shoulders, wild and unbrushed. From this angle, the shadows dwelling in the divots and lines of his sharp features are deeper than ever.

Ellen releases her own quiet sigh. “Did something happen? You’ve been acting odd all day. Are the girls okay? Ivan?”

“I can go home if you need help,” Eli suggests. “I can. The doctor says my good arm is—”

“Everything is fine,” Mischa insists in a softer tone. “Everything.” This time, his eyes find mine, conveying an unspoken warning.

And now I know for sure—he hasn’t told them. Not about Donatello. The engagement. None of it.

My hand falls from Ellen’s, and I step back, feeling dirty in this clean room. My breathing quickens, my throat even drier. That childish sentiment rings truer than ever—I don’t belong here.

“You need to rest,” Mischa insists, returning to his wife’s side. “Both of you. Once you’re well enough, we can bore you with every detail.”

When he eyes me again, I don’t see the judgment I expect to find. There isn’t room for anger. He looks so old. So worn. So tired.

Because of me.

Shame spreads through my body like fire, eating away what little doubt I might have left. I’ve been so damn selfish. First by leaving, and then again by playing Donatello’s game. What is the cost of peace when it comes with so many caveats attached?

And why protect Donatello Vanici when time after time he’s proven that he doesn’t give a damn about me—because that’s what I’ve been doing, whether I want to admit it or not.

By going along with his insane plan, I’ve been protecting him from himself.

And tormenting my own family in the process.

“We should go.” Mischa heads for the door. “I’ll be back later tonight.”

“With Ivan and the girls?” The hope in Ellen’s voice is so palpable I flinch, but another rare smile tugs on Mischa’s mouth.

“Of course. I’m sure they can’t wait to bombard you with all their complaints about my bedtime stories in comparison to yours.” His voice is too deep, his gaze distant as he turns away; I sense he’s holding something back. Ellen doesn’t miss it, either.

“Are you sure?” She grasps for a handful of the sheets, threatening to rise. “Is something wrong—”

“No,” Mischa replies, returning to her. With gentle pressure, he eases her back against the pillows.

“And Elena? I’d like to see her before she goes home.” Her lips part in a genuine smile. “I assume Willow will help you with her until I’m released. And Anna, of course—”

“I’ll have her brought over soon. Sleep,” Mischa insists. “Come, Willow.”

“It’s not fair,” Eli grouses, an uncharacteristic whine in his voice. “The baby gets to go home tomorrow. Why can’t Aunt Ellen and I go, too?”

I sympathize with the longing glance he casts toward the window. Days of bedrest must be torture when he’s used to spending his free time roaming the Stepanov property.

“You know the doctors suggested a few more nights of observation,” Mischa says. His gruff tone betrays that he isn’t necessarily happy with that prognosis. Still, concern for his family supersedes all. “The second you both are cleared, I’ll bring you home myself.”

“It’s because of my stupid arm—” Eli eyes his cast with disgust. “But it’s getting better. I swear. They just wanna poke and prod and—”

“Not now,” Mischa says, heading for the door. “Let me get Willow home, first.”

I flinch at the insinuation as I follow him into the hall. Perhaps Donatello wasn’t paranoid after all…

Defiant, soft steps pad in our wake. Eli. “Can I walk out to the car at least?”

“Not this time. Go back to your room,” Mischa commands in a sterner tone.

“Aww!” With an exaggerated sigh, Eli marches into a room across from Ellen’s. Fabio suspected correctly—they share the suite.

I wish I could stay longer. Stay hidden in this little sliver of their universe and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Shielded by these walls, Donatello Vanici is just a memory…

“Willow.” Mischa’s already nearing the exit, his back to me.

I swallow hard, increasing my pace to keep up. Every step feels weighed by enough shame I fear I’ll go through the floor as Mischa finally turns to face me.

My eyes burn with the tears I’ve kept at bay all this time. Finally, they threaten to fall as I look up to face him.

But he’s already lunging toward me. His heat slams into me with the force of a train, contrasting the relative gentleness with which his arms crush me to his chest. It’s an earnest embrace, so tight I