Confusion rips through me as my brain tries to identify the unnamed figures. He as in Donatello. And as for his son…
Vincenzo.
Maybe I’ve always known, the same way I know Mischa and how he responds to his enemies—violently and callously, rarely striking them head-on at first. He prefers to make them suffer. The same way he kidnapped Ellen to prove a point to her first husband. He wouldn’t attack Donatello directly.
He’d do the next best thing and attack the one person whose loss would hurt him the most.
I barely register wandering down the hall on trembling legs. My fingers flex against the icy wall as I brace myself in some distant corridor.
Left in turmoil, my thoughts are a tangled mess of fear and doubt. Donatello gave me away without a second thought. Then he martyred that girl and turned her into some kind of saint. But now?
All I can do is think of him.
His pain.
And his rage.
I know Mischa well. I once knew Donatello even better. If Vin is really gone, nothing will hold him back.
And no one.
Nicolai Baryshnikov was a tall man with piercing green eyes that seemed to cut through me like a knife. He ruled his domain like a tyrant, one with a vicious streak who preferred for those under his control to resist his commands.
Then he could break their will to the point they never questioned him again.
To such a man, even a little girl was nothing more than a tool to be utilized as he saw fit. And yet…
Looking back, I can admit that much of his brutality might have been for show. Those first few weeks in his custody, I was beaten and put to work around what little of his complex I was allowed in—just a few rooms and the kitchens. But as an adult with the knowledge of the true horrors this world has to offer, I know it could have been worse.
And Donatello expected as much. He didn’t give a damn about what might happen to me.
He wanted me broken.
Brutalized.
He wanted me dead.
I shouldn’t shed a single tear for him—and I’m startled to realize that I’m not. I don’t sob or weep even while my steps carry me into another wing of the house. All the same, my body rebels against my mind.
I’m in my room, crossing to my bed without understanding why. At least not until I sink down and feel underneath the frame for a crumbled item I vaguely remember dropping here the day I was brought home from Havienna. My fingers curl around it and, trembling, I lift it, straining my eyes to view it in the dark—a business card with a number printed on it.
A number that’s entirely useless considering that I don’t have a cell phone—according to Mischa, I don’t require one. While at school, I’m rarely alone. Any communication between us was always done with the aid of a bodyguard’s device.
Still, I stand, moving toward the servant’s entrance, my mind racing.
Mischa owns several vehicles for various purposes. Most are kept in a large garage several yards from the main house. The second I creep down the narrow hall before the back exit, murmuring voices catch my ears.
“I’ll take the first shift on the perimeter,” a man says, “then I’ll switch to the gate. New rules say that everyone takes double shifts. No inch of the property goes unpatrolled, so cut your break short, so I can charge my battery, lazy ass.”
“I’m guarding this entrance,” a man replies with a yawn. “I’ve been outside all damn day.”
“Alexi is watching this side of the house,” the other man snaps. “So, you’ll be on the south lawn.”
A heavy sigh echoes in the wake of the warning. “Let me at least take a shit first,” the second man replies. “Don’t touch my phone, either. You can wait to charge your own. Your little girlfriend can wait five damn minutes for you to reply to her sexy little photos, eh?”
“Asshole.”
Both men storm off, their steps echoing in the opposite direction. Cautiously, I creep forward and spy the narrow room off the entrance where the servants sometimes take their breaks. Attached to a cord in the wall is a plain, black cell phone. Without thinking through the consequences, I dart forward and grab it.
Silently, I backtrack and retrace my steps to the main hall. Apart from the servant’s entrance, there’s a side door on the other end of the house for deliveries. Sometimes, Eli and I would play here, dashing down the halls.
A sturdy lock on the door complete with a passcode always left it less patrolled than the other entrances. Eli, as smart as he is, figured it out by the time he was eight and spied on a servant accessing it.
Even years later, that same code works, and the door opens with a musical ping. Cautiously, I creep out into the west side of the property. Flashing headlights betray a passing van. Another in the distance reinforces the previous guard’s observation. Mischa’s set the entire security on high alert.
To evade them, I have to rely on the skills I haven’t used since childhood. The three of us used to play hide and seek on every stretch of this vast property—me, Mischa, and Eli. My favorite hiding spot was an oak tree near the very edge of the property. If I climbed it high enough, I had a clear view above the stone wall lining the perimeter.
I find my way there in the dark, treading over the damp earth of the west lawn. I’m barefoot, wearing nothing but a pale sundress Ellen bought me two summers ago. Why I chose it now, I don’t know.
I don’t even know why I’m trying to find a way out at all.
Or what I plan to do afterward. Finding Donatello now would be insanity. Reckless. Suicidal. Besides, he could be anywhere.
And yet…
I’m running through the shadows, trying to evade detection.
Maybe it’s a grim need to see his face. To gloat?
Or to grieve.
After everything he’s done to me. Everything I’ve been through since his return.
I deserve to see him now, no matter the reasons.
Or so I tell myself.
And there is one place he would go—the one structure haunting us both.
25
Don
Havienna laughs as I approach, the place where everything began. Once my haven, these old stone walls were the last place I experienced my family intact—and the hell where I watched it fall apart. And now? This house is the very purgatory where my Safiya returned with a vengeance.
It’s an irony even someone as twisted as Antonio Salvatore couldn’t devise. The little cub grew into a tiger, and she got the revenge her parents could only dream of.
Damn her.
Damn…
As the moon rises high in the sky, I park near the abandoned garage behind the house and climb out, staggering toward the old structure. All it contains now are canisters of lighter fluid and dust-covered wood for the fireplace.
With the liquor bottle from Salvatore’s in hand, I head for the house, leaving the car behind without even looking at the trunk.
This damn house. It mocks me as I enter through the kitchen in utter darkness. Even after seven years, I know the floorplan by heart. This modest room with its old appliances was where Olivia spent more time burning our meals than preparing them. Still, it was in her nature to try something over and over until she succeeded.
Safiya was the same way. She excelled at proving wrong anyone foolish enough to doubt her. And yet, at her core, she was sweet. Kind. A girl who strived for peace above all else. Vin, as good as he was, could be stubborn, prone to grudges from time to time.