“Tell me the truth,” I demand. God, I don’t even recognize the sound of my voice. This cold, lifeless man. He’s a phantom I thought I’d left in the past.
“I won’t lie,” Fabio warns. “He’s in a coma. His condition is serious. There is no real prognosis.”
“Where is he?” I start to stand, but Fabio sighs.
“Someplace safe with a doctor I know. One of the best in the world. But…” He grimaces before he says, “I think it’s best if you don’t visit him for now. Not with Mischa—”
“Why the fuck not?” I snarl, gritting my teeth.
He blinks. “Because Mischa Stepanov put a hit out on you.” I have to give it to him. Somehow, he manages to sound gentle—like it’s not the exact opposite of everything I’ve done my goddamn best to ensure.
“Why?” I demand, unable to keep the rage from my voice. The confusion. The hate. I’m too damn sober.
And at the same time, I’m numb.
“I gave him everything he asked for—”
“You tell me what happened, Don,” Fabio demands with an exasperated sigh. “Did you call off the deal?”
“No,” I croak, swiping my hand through my hair. Nothing makes sense. This could still be a dream if it weren’t for the dull, throbbing ache in my chest, intensifying with every beat of my heart. No nightmare could ever feel this real. Meeting Fabio’s stare, I say, “I did everything you told me. Every fucking thing.”
Because like a fucking idiot, I expected the man to have some shred of honor.
Uphold his word.
One would think I would have learned by now—you can’t expect mercy from an animal.
“What you need to do now is come with me. This is bad, Don,” Fabio says bluntly. Moonlight from the windows ghosts over his pale face, enhancing the wrinkles exaggerating the corners of his mouth. “Very bad. I’m not an official part of the mafiya, but I’ve never been shut out like this before. Hell, I barely got any fucking warning. And… Did you do it?” He meets my gaze so reluctantly that even in this state, I’d feel some shred of guilt.
If I knew what to feel it for.
“Do what? Sell my soul to that motherfucker only to be betrayed?” The more I say it, the more real it sounds. I laugh again at the insanity of it. To work so hard to be a good man…
All to have it end like this.
“Mischa’s family was attacked yesterday,” Fabio says. His tone is comparable to a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head. Abruptly, he stands, putting his back to me. Both of his hands tear through his hair, his breathing heavy and labored. This isn’t like him, the antithesis of the calm he tries to maintain. He’s frantic. “His wife is in a coma—they don’t know if she’ll even live,” he says. “His baby girl was born too soon. His son… The poor kid may be crippled for life. From what I heard, they were ambushed on the road and barely got away with their lives. Donatello… Tell me you didn’t do it. Don?”
His voice echoes ceaselessly, but I stop hearing him.
In his place, I see another man, gloating over his own power. His smug, satisfied smirk should have alarmed me even then.
And guilt rips through me.
If I’d used my fucking head, I could have stopped him.
I could have stopped this.
“Donatello!” Fabio stands over me, his voice reverberating down to the house’s very foundation. “I know you’re not in the best mindset right now. But you need to trust me. You shouldn’t even be here. I have a property out of the city where you can—”
“Salvatore.” The name rips from me as I rise to my feet, heading for the door. Red paints my vision, and too many thoughts crowd my head. The dark, twisted shit I’ve spent years suppressing—the need to find the bastard. Make him pay. Make him bleed. “That son of a bitch.”
“Don!” Fabio appears in front of me, placing his hand on my chest. “Where are you going? At least give me the gun.”
I still have it, I realize, looking down. But I can’t seem to relinquish my grip on the handle.
“Don,” Fabio warns as I push past him. If I reply, I don’t even know what I say. I just keep seeing that smug bastard. Hearing his voice.
“Wait! I have a car waiting,” Fabio says, grabbing my arm as I approach the front steps. “I need you to get inside of it, Donatello. Get somewhere safe. I’ll give you regular updates on Vincenzo’s status, and we can figure out a plan later. Your safety is my first concern—”
“Vin…” As much as I love him, the pain is harder to process than the anger. My steps falter as I see him again, my poor boy. The blood. His fucking head…
Blown apart because of me.
No, because of Antonio Salvatore.
“I won’t pretend like his condition isn’t serious,” Fabio warns, raising his voice until I look at him. “But he’s alive. That’s all that matters, and Donatello? He needs you to stay the same. Okay? Come with me and get in the car.”
He tugs on my arm until I follow him. Nearby, a black car idles in the driveway, too expensive to be one of mine.
“Get in,” Fabio says, opening the door to the back seat. “My driver Oliver here will take us someplace safe.”
Oliver is a balding man who looks every bit the dutiful, professional type Fabio would hire. He barely even blinks when I raise the gun in my grasp and aim it squarely at his head.
From the corner of my eye, I see Fabio take a step back. “Donatello…”
“Out,” I tell the driver.
With a glance at Fabio, the man complies.
“Don’t do this, Donatello,” Fabio begs, his hands raised. Even he knows better than to approach me. “Just let me handle this!”
I ignore him, claiming the driver’s seat for myself. Before he can try to climb in, I put the engine in drive and step on the gas.
23
Don
I don’t see the road. I have no idea which force is even in control of the fucking steering wheel. I’m not. My body may inhabit this vehicle, but my brain is somewhere else.
All I can visualize is Antonio Salvatore. Mocking me. Taunting me.
Over and over again.
My jaw aches from how tightly I’m gritting my teeth—but I bite down harder. The pain is the only thing I have to cling to. That and the rage.
Like an old friend, the icy, cold mindset of my past self takes over, and I let it.
I let the hatred narrow my focus, and breathing becomes easier. Thinking is suddenly more direct. My thoughts have meaning again, and the plan they spell out is so fucking simple.
If Salvatore wants to play politics by pitting me against Mischa, I will level the playing field. He won’t get to declare checkmate with my foot up his ass.
The first step? Find him.
The potential options are too many to consider. Logic is a luxury I don’t care to indulge in. Raking through my memories, I settle on one at random—he had a house, years ago, when I dared to call him “friend.” I remember it clearly, some pussy fucking mansion in the hills where he could pretend to be a big man. I’m headed there now, watching the landmarks and street signs pass in a blur. It’s like I’m possessing another man’s body. A reckless asshole who speeds without a damn given for anyone else on the road.