He extends his arm toward me, his smile dazzling, but I’m nowhere near as confident. Unease floods my veins, infecting every muscle.
As Fabio insisted, the café sports a cozy interior with beige walls and hardwood floors. A smiling woman greets us in the entryway. Fabio’s friend, I presume. She shows us to a private room near the back of the venue, which just so happens to sport a better view of the park. A stream of people flocks past, crowding the sidewalk beyond. Innocent bystanders.
Or potential witnesses.
Now it makes sense why Fabio chose this place—he’s left nothing to chance. A wooden table in the middle of the space is already set for four. Conveniently, the chairs are arranged so that Fabio and I sit directly in between Donatello and whoever happens to claim the spot across from him.
Considering the purpose of this meeting, everything down to the presence of butter knives in place of a sharper utensil, seems carefully choreographed.
“He’s late,” Donatello remarks coldly. Pale sunlight washes over him, and I don’t expect the thrill shooting through my belly. His black suit hugs his frame, deceptively softening the hard planes of muscle lurking beneath. At least until he raises a fist, propping it beneath his chin—the sleeve bulges. “I hope you have one of your scolding speeches ready.”
“One isn’t necessary,” Fabio quips while reaching for a pitcher of water. Gracefully, he fills each of the four glasses, his hand steady. “He isn’t the one I’m trusting my reputation to.”
Donatello scoffs, flicking his napkin into the air. “And yet, you seem willing to entrust all of our lives to him. A true display of your priorities, Fab.”
“You and Vincenzo are my priorities,” the man remarks while spreading his own napkin over his lap. I notice the calculating way he scrutinizes Donatello.
“So… Have you thought about whatever ‘condition’ you wanted to set?” he asks, cutting to the chase. Apparently, he hasn’t guessed this mysterious demand either. “It will need to be added to our predetermined paperwork, of course.” He lifts his leather briefcase and withdraws a black folder which he sets in the center of the table.
“Paperwork.” Donatello’s laugh inspires goosebumps. “I don’t think this request needs to be written down. In fact, I think it’s so small, we can uphold it in name only.”
His gaze cuts to mine as I try to decipher his tone. A threat? Yes, warns the ominous sensation running down my spine.
“You know what? This just gives us the time to rehearse how this meeting should go. I present the documents,” Fabio suggests. “Everyone agrees to the terms, and then we all go about our merry way. No surprises. Understood?”
Donatello grabs the nearest glass of water and takes a sip, his head at a skeptical angle. “There isn’t very much ‘merry’ to find in the situation, is there? Having to play tea party with the man who tried to kill my son—”
“A fact that we all are very much aware of, and one you shouldn’t attempt to bring up during said tea party.” Abruptly, Fabio breaks off, craning his neck for a view of the doorway. Whatever he sees makes him sit straighter, tugging at his collar. “Speak of the devil.”
I turn just in time to witness the entrance of said devil. As shame sears my cheeks, I figure it’s a fitting taste of hell. Mischa. He enters the room, scanning the surroundings with a predatory focus. Clothed in dark fatigues, he’s flanked by a guard I don’t recognize.
My heart pangs. I don’t have the right to crave a friendly face. Still, I can’t resist the thought. Where is Evgeni?
“Welcome.” Fabio stands, the picture of poise—at least until Donatello pushes back from the table and stands as well. He’s rough, jolting the silverware and causing the water jug to skid toward the edge.
I hold my breath as he approaches the door, entering Mischa’s path, coming dangerously close to a set of silverware lying just beyond his reach. Rather than lunge for them, he extends his hand.
“It’s good for you to come here.”
My ears ring. I don’t recognize his baritone. Or perhaps I do—the speaker is just haggard with age and unrecognizable without his trademark grin. Only his old letters preserve him in this way—Donatello before life destroyed him. Seeing a glimpse of him now is anything but comforting.
Ignoring him, Mischa claims the empty seat while his guard stands near the door. He looks at me directly, his gaze piercing. In that expression, I see all of his pain and irritation reflected. My fingers twitch, and I find myself grappling for my napkin. Using the excuse of unfolding it, I stare down at my lap.
Because I’m a coward.
“Forget your terms,” he hisses, his accent thick. “I’m here to bring my daughter home.”
“Strange,” Donatello says. An unmistakable shift in baritone transforms his tone, and I wince in anticipation. Rather than rant, he moves. His steps echo, followed by a shudder running through the table as he returns to his seat. I imagine him bracing his hands over the surface, prepared to lunge at the slightest provocation.
“I can’t bring my nephew ‘home,’” he says. “If you wanted to protect your daughter, Mischa, then you should have thought of that before you put a bullet through his brain.”
“And you know all about putting bullets into skulls,” Mischa counters.
My head shoots up, my gaze darting between them both. Mischa is stoic, but genuine confusion flits across Donatello’s face. “I don’t think you’re in the position to trade body counts—”
“I’ve killed men,” Mischa says, baring his teeth in a grim imitation of a smile. He looks directly at me as he speaks. “Only men. Can you say the same?”
Donatello blinks. “What the hell are you getting at—”
“Enough.” Fabio somehow manages to straddle the delicate line between cordial and authoritative, effortlessly regaining control of the room. “Let’s get down to
