It shatters in a spray of scarlet liquid as I look over to the closet. The doors are open, and a tiny figure stands there watching me, her eyes so wide, just like Safiya’s.
Safiya…
I traumatized her in much the same way, though I let that girl live even if in hell. But now? This dark, twisted impulse warns me not to make the same mistake twice.
“Kisa?” I ask her gruffly. “Is that your name?”
She doesn’t answer.
“I could let you go,” I tell her, advancing on her position. “But in seven years, you might come back…”
I crouch beside her and look into those eyes…
And even the icy mindset I crave can’t break this last bastion of the new Donatello.
Hissing, I grab her, throwing her over my shoulder.
Unlike Safy, she screams. Pummels me with tiny little fists. Each blow lands harmlessly as I cross to the bar and shove a bottle of clear liquor into my pocket.
Grunting with the effort, I carry her down the stairs and out of the mansion where what I assume are famiglia reinforcements fan out across the lawn, guns drawn.
My, how the mighty have fallen.
In my day? Three times as many men would have been already stationed on the property in fucking uniform. These men wear jeans and shirts as if scrambled here from a night at the bar.
“Get down, you son of a bitch!” A man calls from a group of at least four.
One look at the girl, and they fall back.
Aware of that, I shift her tiny body, holding her in front of me, my arm around her waist while I keep the gun trained in my free hand.
I’m not fool enough to think it will stop them—hell, would it even stop me? Regardless, I keep moving, carrying her right to the car. One of the men steps toward me, and I fire without thinking. He goes down with a howl, clutching at his leg.
“Salvatore’s dead,” I say coldly, preempting any other threat.
Against me, the girl stiffens, and my steps falter…
I didn’t even have the balls to tell Safiya as much back then. I couldn’t even give her a reason to her face. Why I sold her. Why I needed to hate her in that moment.
Because her father betrayed me.
But the truth is more twisted than that. Crueler.
By hurting Safiya, I wasn’t hurting Gino.
I hurt myself—and God, I needed to hurt.
“Don… Donatello?” one of the men calls. I brace for a shot, but none comes. In the dark, I vaguely recognize his face as a famiglia lieutenant. Luciano.
“Come after me if you want,” I declare, approaching the car as they watch. I head to the driver’s seat and find a lever to pop the trunk. Still keeping the girl within view of the men, I move toward the rear of the vehicle and drop her inside. She’s fallen silent, curling onto the floor of the compartment.
For a second, guilt almost levels me, slicing through the haze of rage.
Before it can take hold, I slam the lid and turn around. All this time, my back has been to the men, but they haven’t moved, even as their comrade groans on the ground.
And deep down, I think I know why.
That name I’ve struggled to outrun. That reputation I’ve tried to redeem.
An identity I know now I can never fully shake.
Under Il Mostro, the famiglia was untouchable, an outfit unrivaled. Even now, it seems some men still remember those days.
“If you want to see the famiglia respected again, then wait for me to call,” I say, letting my voice ring out.
As I return to the driver’s seat, no one fires a single round.
Even as I drive away.
24
Willow
The Donatello I knew was a man who, at his core, embodied everything I grew up admiring. Strength. Wisdom. Most important? Kindness.
I still remember the first day I met him, hiding behind my biological father’s pant leg as he paraded me before his boss.
The memory hurts to relive, and I’ve resisted it so bitterly until now.
Gino Mangenello was the type of man who saw those in his orbit merely as tools. Even me. At my young age, I knew my worth—to him, I was more of a doll than a daughter. A toy he could use to curry favor.
Or a pawn he could leave on a shelf in the meantime.
That day, his friend “Don” had stared down on me from behind a massive desk at the old complex he and my father “worked” at, a sprawling mansion outside of the city. What they did exactly? I didn’t know, only that Donatello was a man that even Gino—a brutal drunk who raged at everyone weaker—deferred to.
Fully aware of that reputation, I’d been so shy in his presence. So curious of this man, my father so respected.
I remember inspecting every inch of his loose-fitting gray dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was ugly. The first two buttons had been left undone, revealing a sliver of his chest and a tiny gold cross he wore back then. Cautiously, I’d observed the bold features that shaped his face, and the pink lips pressed studiously in concentration as he inspected a set of documents. The second he looked up, I didn’t feel that strange disconnect I did when most people observed me, knowing that I was different.
“Dumb as a fucking rock,” Gino used to gripe. “Retarded.”
He growled at me, using his fist when he couldn’t understand me as easily as he wanted. Honestly, the reactions of others were far worse to endure. They would exaggerate their features and speak too loudly as though the dramatics made up for the fact that I couldn’t talk back.
Maybe it made them feel better. They could project onto me their own intentions as though I were a pretty, smiling little puppet.
Donatello Vanici didn’t. He eyed me as though he knew exactly
