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

And I’m left alone to pore over Donatello Vanici’s secrets in peace.

Even as I reenter the pink room, doubt has me second-guessing everything. It’s selfish to lie to a man about his own sister. Selfish to read the words of a dead woman.

Reading them in this house feels wrong. I wish I could sneak onto the porch, but gauging Donatello’s reaction this morning, leaving would only give him an excuse to rage. I consider locking the door, but I wind up crouching on the edge of the bed without doing so.

Let him rage. The sting of the lie he told Vincenzo aches badly enough to blind me to any caution. He’s controlled the narrative for so damn long…

It’s about time I glean some knowledge of my own.

As quietly as possible, I open the box, hunching over the contents. In the harsh glow of the ceiling light, the letters look pristine, as if stolen from Donatello’s desk this morning.

Some of my favorite moments were spent curled at his feet, watching him work through my lashes. Nothing in the world could compare to his face when he forgot to maintain that hard, stern frown. His lips would droop, and some of the intensity would leave his gaze. Not much, but just enough. I could see into his head, then, or so I thought. See every concern and woe to trouble his mind…

But as I scan the first letter, I realize that it’s a good thing my child-self couldn’t actually do so.

I woke up with the taste of you on my lips, and I finally knew what peace was. He wrote. I stiffen as the page slips from my grasp, landing face-up on the floor. All I can do is stare at it.

I didn’t need the confirmation, but now I know for sure how hollow his sexual taunts to me really were. None of them packed the same punch as the ones he penned years ago.

I need you, Liv. Every day like fucking air to breathe, I need you. Don’t forget that. I know it hasn’t been easy. I love you more for sticking it out. I love you.

If I didn’t know his handwriting so well, I’d assume I found someone else’s stash of love letters. Not Donatello Vanici’s.

Heart racing, I set the first letter aside and grab another. This one isn’t quite so intimate, and the handwriting is different from his. Lighter.

Don. I miss you. I miss you.

I never knew Olivia well, but I can sense the pain she must have writing this. Missing a man whose smile could light up a room. Someone so caught up in his work at times it could seem like he was in another world.

I never feel better than when I’m inside you, he replied in his next letter. When your body is the only thing tethering me to this fucking planet, your moans in my ear. I live for that, Liv. All I want is to give you what you deserve. I’ll make it up to you for all the nights you’ve been alone…

The next page is in my hands before I realize it. Soon, I lose track of how many I devour.

It’s an addictive feeling as much as it is repulsive. For once, I’m truly inside the head of Donatello Vanici. The man he used to be, anyway. Someone so driven he’d do whatever it took to succeed—and yet so blinded by ambition he didn’t notice the changes taking place in his own wife, evident on the pages.

I had been far too young to grasp her emotions, then. With this newer perspective, so many old memories have greater context—the wistful way she used to stare from the window during the long days Donatello was gone. I missed him too, but I couldn’t imagine the sheer depth of her loneliness. Her aching, desperate loneliness.

You stay with me for one night every ten, and it’s heaven, baby. And it is hell to wake up knowing you’re going to leave me again. I love you so much. I’ll never doubt that you believe you’re doing this for us—but sometimes I just need you. I need you to be with me.

It’s strange how you can feel so connected to someone merely by the words they leave behind. The connection between Olivia and Donatello is as palpable as the paper in my grasp.

Their love should seem as inspiring as it did when I was younger. Beautiful. But I feel an ominous sensation gnawing through my gut the more I read. Because of Donatello’s innuendo? Or the fact that Olivia’s missives become shorter the deeper into the stack I go…

So I fucked up, Donatello wrote one day, a blunt admission when compared to the previous romantic exchanges. It’s the echo of the monster he would eventually reveal himself to be—always enraged. We’re in the same damn house, and you can’t talk to me? Talk to me. Write me a fucking letter if you have to. Talk to me.

Sometimes it feels like this is the only way we actually understand each other, Olivia replied. I miss you.

When I reach for the next folded note, I realize that it’s one of the final few remaining. Donatello’s writing is stark across the page as if he pored over every letter, pressing against the paper until it tore in places.

You can’t even look at me, he wrote. Even when I’m inside you, you’re miles away. I know I did this. You have the right to be pissed. But I need you to talk to me, Olivia. Tell me what I can do to fix us. I love you too much to let you slip away.

Was their marriage in more trouble than I realized? Olivia’s response isn’t on the next page—but the slashed handwriting conveys the author’s anger even before I read his words. You don’t want me. You don’t seem to want this baby. What the fuck do you want, Liv?

I read those lines