Every woman within a twenty-foot radius stops to stare, as the men whip around, sensing the predator in their midst. He’s too dangerous to belong. His suit is too black in the vibrant sunshine, his hair wildly tousled and yet coifed at the same time.
He’ll always be able to hold one caveat over my head. I don’t belong in his world.
I never did.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the bouncer demands, and I startle to find that Donatello is frozen before the entrance. It isn’t until his eyes cut in my direction that I realize why he’s stopped.
Are you coming?
I scramble to join him, smoothing my hand down the front of my idea of an “acceptable” ensemble. A black sundress procured by Fabio, my hair loose. I knew the second I stepped into the car that I had failed Donatello’s expectations, though he acknowledged me with silence rather than an insult. Beside him, I’m a rabbit next to a wolf.
“Mr. Saleri isn’t in this time of day,” the bouncer sputters as Donatello surges inside, revealing the glass doors are unlocked.
“Then where is he?” My breath catches at that fierce tone. I’m a child again, selfishly relieved that his intensity isn’t honed on me. “You don’t want to lie to me,” he warns when the bouncer remains silent.
“On his yacht,” the man blurts. “A, uh… A private meeting. I’ll inform him that you came by—”
“Do that.” Donatello turns, heading outside. When we’re back in the car, he says nothing, wrenching the vehicle into reverse.
His speed is reckless. Nearby buildings pass in an alarming blur. Soon, they become sparser, revealing glimpses of the bay expanding over the horizon in between.
“So, what if you’re right,” Donatello says out loud, though I get the sense he isn’t talking to me in particular. “Saleri is acting as a proxy for someone looking to build a net around the harbor. But for what? Why box me in rather than buy me out, or just open up another section of the port? It doesn’t make sense, and it’s a lot of fucking money to throw around. Maybe that’s the point…”
His disgusted tone matches my instinctive reaction. To scoff. This mysterious figure is just doing what anyone with money in this city seems apt to—spend it frivolously.
“But why here?” Donatello continues. “Why now? Why use Salvatore and the Saleris as a proxy at all…”
To cover their tracks. Whoever the culprit is, they aimed for stealth. Their ultimate end goal is something they don’t want to be traced to them. At least, not yet. It harkens to my spider comparison all over again—but several creatures, working in unison to create a larger web.
All to catch a very, very big prey.
“You’re thinking about something.” He risks taking his eyes from the road long enough to scrutinize mine. “Tell me.”
I tense, waiting for the impact of what I’m sure was an insult. And yet, the telltale inflection never comes.
“What are you thinking?” This time? He sounds almost…genuine.
I swallow hard, overwhelmed by a reaction that comes from nowhere. Nostalgia? Something uglier, perhaps. A terrifying sense that we’ve been in this position before, him asking what I’m thinking. In fact, he used to be one of the few people to ever care.
Tell me.
I hesitate, feeling much like a child again, forced to pantomime. I’m acutely aware of him watching as I raise my hands, linking the fingers of both together.
“Your web,” he says gruffly. “We established that. So, what’s the point of it?”
The point? I extend one finger and turn it on him.
“Me?” He shakes his head. “No. It has to be more than that. I’m nobody as far as the city is concerned. At least by the time these purchases took place. And why rope the Saleris into it? And use me against Mischa? Sure, it makes sense on the surface, but beyond that? It’s fucking stupid and reckless.”
Unless…
I don’t know how to convey the thoughts in my head. I just lean forward, flattening my palms over the dashboard in front of me. Each individual finger could resemble a piece on a chessboard—him on one end, Mischa on the other.
But what if that’s the wrong way of viewing it entirely?
I withdraw my hands, triggering a grunt from Donatello.
“Maybe it’s not a web after all?”
I shake my head, still sure of that detail. Only he might not be who the trap is designed to snare.
“Mischa?” he guesses, somehow following my train of logic. “Makes sense. He’s the biggest player in the game as far as the city is concerned. But he doesn’t have a stake in the harbor, so why the fuck would he care? You’d need to strike hard and fast if you wanted to drive him from the city. Not leisurely buy useless property.”
He’s right, but I try to see past the obvious reasoning. Mischa is powerful; who wouldn’t want him out of the way? But how does the spider’s web truly operate? It ensnares, trapping its victim until it finally gives up the fight.
Then it drains the husk dry. Speed is an unnecessary factor with such a method. All you need is time.
“You think you know why?” Before I can reply, he pulls into a nearby parking lot and faces me. “Let’s hear it.”
Communicating with him is a strange exercise, almost like looking at a mirror but in reverse. I move, and he copies the motions, extending his hands, his head cocked expectantly. As I spread each of my fingers, he does the same. Then I form a fist with both.
“You want it all,” he says, catching onto the strange pantomime. “It’s not the purchases on their own but taken as a whole. It’s the long game. Force the target into a corner. Goddamn! It’s
