Something in my chest constricts, even though I know that admission was for this figurative enemy, not me.
Oblivious to my reaction, Donatello sits back, stroking his chin. “It’s very smart, but Fab wouldn’t think of it off the bat. It’s gritty. Whoever this fucker is… They aren’t entirely thoroughbred. You have to be a gutter rat to think of shit like this. Like everything is a game.”
His eyes meet mine, and a tendril of understanding darts between us. Gutter rats. Those not born into privilege.
Someone like us.
“Fab’s parents were bankers, did you know that?” He leans back further, eyeing the roof of the car while I dwell over the fact that he’s striking up this line of conversation at all. Even stranger? I don’t even think he realizes it himself.
“Yep. Not superrich, but definitely upper crust. He had no business hanging out with a little shit like me. It’s funny how we met. My sister, Donella… I loved her to death, but she was a grifter, one of the best. Thought she could rope a fresh, young accountant into funding her latest business venture—but what she didn’t know is that Fabio Botelli is no one’s pushover.”
He laughs with genuine appreciation, smirking at the memory.
“I loved my sister, but she wouldn’t know a decent man if he bit her on the ass. When I learned the size of the loan she’d taken out, I went and confronted the idiot who signed off on it. Only to find that Fabio had coded the terms entirely to his benefit. He would own her financially for life should she cut and run. It was sly, but I was so fucking impressed I didn’t kick his ass automatically. When I told Donella the game she’d fallen for, the idiot did the smart thing for once and tried to make it right. She invested the money into a small café and ran it for a while, under Fabio’s guidance.”
I purse my lips, recalling the café where he hosted our “meeting.”
“That’s right,” Donatello says. “Donna’s. She did a good job running it too. Hell, I thought she might settle down…”
He trails off, shaking his head to clear it. It’s like he forgot he was speaking to me. Forgot everything at all but the sensation of reliving the past. Then he inclines his head, shooting me a look I can’t decipher.
“You remind me of her,” he admits in a tone that raises goosebumps over my skin. “Wild. Impulsive. Able to read anyone you look at like an open book. I don’t know what Fab saw in her, but she couldn’t stay on the straight and narrow for long. She skipped town without even saying goodbye. I learned afterward that she ‘sold’ the café to Fab, which was really his way of giving her the money to run with. Even when she turned up two years later with a baby and no clue of who or where the dad was... He always treated Vin like he was his. A bleeding heart to a fault.”
He trails off, and I have a suspicion as to what he might be thinking. Fabio is a bleeding heart, but so was he, taking on the responsibility of a child that wasn’t his.
“Long story short, Fabio is smart, but he’s not a cold motherfucker,” Donatello explains. “He doesn’t think like we do. I think you’re onto something. Someone wants Mischa out, and they’re going out of their way to disguise it. Why? Fab will figure out an answer, but he’ll do it the right way. That will take fucking weeks. Would Mischa handle it any differently?”
Yes. He would hunt down any lead ruthlessly.
“There’s another way,” Donatello says, dragging his thumb across his chin. “We know the Saleris have to be in on it. Gregori couldn’t come up with the money or the smarts to make all of those purchases on a whim. Mateo? He’s smarter, but has far less tact. There isn’t a patient bone in his body. They’re taking their marching orders from someone, and they’re as good a lead to start with as any. The only question is to confront them now before they can conspire with their puppet master? Or do the smart thing and wait for Fab to finish tracking down his leads...”
I almost make the mistake of thinking I’m the one he’s talking to. But that would require him trusting my judgment. Trusting me. I wait for his eyes to lose their piercing intensity. For him to look away.
He will look away…
“What would you do?” He shifts his weight toward me, and it’s as though he simultaneously made the car’s interior ten times smaller. I smell him with every breath, feeling his heat prickle my skin. The cadence of his voice resonates through my bones, into my belly.
What would I do? Another taunt, perhaps? Or something far more dangerous.
“Do I even need to ask?” His knowing chuckle sends blood rushing to my face. “You wouldn’t think. You’d sneak into the Saleris’ hotel room armed with a knife, ready to kill. Wouldn’t you?”
His hand bridges the gap between us without warning, his thumb brushing my wrist. Electricity zaps through me, and I flinch.
“Sorry.” He didn’t mean to touch me. Sighing, he palms his thigh instead. “Honestly, I don’t know which option would be better in this case. Patience got Vin shot in the head, and me engaged to a mobster’s daughter. But anyone who would go through those lengths must have way more up their sleeve, and I don’t think Fabio’s smooth-talking can help.”
He asked what I would do? Logically I would feel that I learned my lesson when it comes to reacting on impulse. I would wait. Trust things to Fabio and Mischa and lick the wounds inflicted from my last screw up. After what I’ve done, I don’t deserve to take the reins on any opportunity.
But what do I feel? Around him, logic gives way to instinct. It’s the difference between watching a lion in a cage and being
