I shake my head, fighting to ignore the thoughts.
But they persist, feeding on the unease building in my stomach with every second that Mischa remains gone.
You were jealous, that voice hisses, impossible to escape. It wasn’t that I threw you away that hurt you so much, Safiya. It’s that I kept Vincenzo. I always loved him more than you. Always. You knew from the day I took you in that you were nothing more than a burden, always on borrowed time.
I can see that very day unfolding before me. My father had made me pack a bag, telling me that I was going on a “vacation” for a little while.
But we never went on vacation.
And, given his lack of a suitcase, he wasn’t coming.
On our way from our small, cramped house, we’d passed by mother lying on the couch, too drunk to acknowledge my leaving.
Even now, my heart flutters as I recall that very first day that I saw Havienna, that big beautiful house in the countryside. A pair of oak trees had shielded the front path, perfectly framing the stone cottage with its big red door.
Donatello himself met us on the front steps. As he descended them to greet me, he tripped over a cracked piece of stone and cursed. “This damn place. It’s falling apart.”
But to me?
Then and there, I knew one certainty—it was paradise.
Laughing, his wife Olivia had scolded him from the doorway, “Language in front of your little guest, Donatello.” Her laugh was infectious, sending him into his own raucous bout of mirth.
And I just remember standing still, watching him. Dappled by morning sunlight, he was a figure unlike any I’d ever known, and as our gazes met, he smiled in that reassuring way. Even the memory makes me shiver. One quirk of his upper lip, and I would feel so safe…
As my father drove off, he crouched to my level, taking my small suitcase in his hand.
“I won’t lie to you,” he warned. “I can take one look at your face and realize that you understand what’s really going on. You aren’t here on ‘vacation.’ You are my guest. For as long as you need to stay here, you are welcome.”
And looking back, I realize something the little girl I used to be had been too naïve to understand. Even then, he always left a route for him to rescind his offer whenever the urge struck him.
But you can admit that day didn’t come out of the blue, the phantom of him hisses. Did it?
No.
The day Olivia died was the day the Don I knew changed forever. He’d been colder after, more prone to isolating himself in his study rather than spending the evening playing games with Vincenzo and me like he used to. Most telling? He never once looked me in the eye as if avoiding the truth he knew he’d find there.
I had been so worried about him.
Because as well as he could read me, I could interpret him just as adeptly. I knew him. Deciphering every nuance to color his expression came as naturally to me as reading the words in a book. I understood how to read his many smiles. How to scour his face for a hint of softening.
And I knew the way his eyes narrowed when he sensed my presence after Olivia’s death—a reaction he never displayed before. How he’d stiffen when I tried to meet his gaze. There was more to his response than grief.
And, even at that age, I knew that few men knew the way to Havienna. Knew that Olivia would be there.
Knew how to truly hurt Donatello Vanici.
And somehow, in my heart, I knew why my Don’s love for me turned to something else overnight. Hatred.
Because my father’s betrayal led to Olivia’s murder.
A flash of bright light snaps me back to the present. Beyond the window, a vehicle approaches, driving slowly up the long winding road leading to the house. My heart pounds against my ribcage as I recognize the shape of the sturdy van—one of Mischa’s.
Turning on my heel, I race down to the main entrance just as the massive doors open in tandem. I stop short before I even realize why.
The smell reaches me first—a sharp scent I’ve never sensed from Mischa before. Alcohol. A lot of it. Shadows drape his form, obscuring his expression, but he stands rigid, moving slowly in a way I barely recognize. I step forward as a million fears race through my mind. Is he injured?
Slowly, he turns in my direction, his head cocked. I wait for him to speak. Acknowledge me. Anything.
But all he does is keep walking, trudging down the hall toward his study without a word.
On his heels is another man who races through the main doors, closing them behind him. Evgeni. He takes one look at me and sighs, shaking his head.
“You should go to bed, Ms. Willow.”
He heads after Mischa, leaving me alone in the entryway. Silence falls again, seeming so unnatural in this large house.
The same quiet fell over Havienna the first night Donatello mourned his wife. How he could even manage to stay in that house, I’ll never know. I remember how he hugged Vincenzo to him as though God himself couldn’t tear the boy away.
As for me…
He didn’t make me pack a bag like my father had. He didn’t feed me some lie about a “vacation” that would span the better part of two years. Donatello said nothing to me at all until we finally reached our destination, a foreboding, unfamiliar fortress far from what had become my home. I recall clinging to his hand so tightly it hurt, desperate to find the warmth in his touch I usually could.
But he was stone that day, ice-cold as he wrenched his fingers from mine.
Then he left me there.
Tears sting as I blink them back. Swallowing hard, I find myself creeping down the hall in the direction of Mischa’s study. Paces down from the room, his voice reaches me, so gruff and hollow, his accent thicker than ever.
“You can hold your mothering,” he growls, presumably to Evgeni. “It’s already done. Have your men patrol the perimeter tonight. I wouldn’t put it past him to retaliate soon.”
“Yes, sir,” Evgeni replies in a crisp tone that makes my breath catch in my throat. I know him well enough to predict his expression even before I near the doorway and peer inside. He stands beside Mischa’s desk, his hands clasped behind his back—but as expected, his expression is constricted, visible in the moonlight streaming in from the window. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the faithful bodyguard so troubled in the presence of his employer.
The two men stand in the dark apart from the silvery glow emanating from outside. Mischa leans over his desk, his hands braced against the surface. Head lowered, his hair falls wildly down his shoulders, obscuring his face.
“You want to say something,” he snaps. “So say it.”
“Vanici may have been behind the attack, but going after the man directly could start a war that I doubt you truly want.”
Mischa scoffs. “It’s too late for your scolding—but I’m sure you know that.”
My blood runs cold. I turn, bracing my back against the wall for stability as the air sticks to the inside of my lungs.
Donatello…dead? It’s a reality I’ve told myself over and over that I wanted. The only way to move on from him. Forget him.
I try to picture him lying lifeless, those dark eyes closed forever, his laugh silenced—and I don’t feel an ounce of joy or satisfaction.
I just feel cold.
“The man will want his revenge,” Mischa says, and something in his tone draws my attention back to him. With difficulty, I focus on his voice, trying to decipher the words he says. “And he can come after it if he wants. He will lose more than his son.”