His nearness disrupts every normal function I’ve come to trust, turning bone and skin against each other. Tensing muscle and faltering breaths.
The worst part?
He doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Patience it is,” he says, putting the car back into drive.
I must do something. Breathe too loudly. Make some kind of movement that has him stopping short. His expression shifts, his eyes narrowing in confusion—only to slowly widen…
“No,” he says huskily. “You think we should go there?”
It’s wrong. How his inflection dips... No. I make my face blank, schooling every muscle into submission.
His eyes dull instantly, losing their conspiratorial gleam as he returns his attention to the road. “Never mind—”
He shouldn’t be able to see me nod; I do it so quickly, blaming it on a spasm of muscle. Regardless, his eyes shift back to me, and his smile returns so swiftly it’s a devastating lesson in whiplash.
“We’ll just see if Saleri is at the marina,” he suggests. “Just drive by, nothing more. Maybe the bastard decided to spray-paint his fucking plan all over the side of his yacht?” His cold laugh punctuates the statement perfectly, but I can see the irritation he struggles to hide.
This “plan” puts his livelihood at risk—and already put his family in danger. Despite the forced calm he exudes, I know internally he’s chomping at the bit, itching to fight. Punch. Draw blood in retaliation. He is a lion freed from his cage, ready to wreak havoc.
In contrast, I don’t know how to feel. Between him and Mischa, it seems as though there isn’t any room for me to feel anything. In a sense, I’m little more than a pawn.
A pawn he asked for guidance…
“Look at it, the son of a bitch,” Donatello exclaims, nodding toward the windshield. “Gregori didn’t mourn the loss of his son-in-law long, did he?”
He’s referring to a beautiful white boat out on the water, visible from the right side of the vehicle where the bay slices into the city at a rectangular angle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this part of Hell’s Gambit any closer than the view from a plane. To highlight the moment, sunlight pierces the cloud cover, glinting off the waves and reflecting off Donatello’s bared teeth. His expression is far too fearsome for a smile.
A snarl, perhaps.
“What are the chances he’s out for a lazy waterfront tour after purchasing six blocks of property on a whim?”
His tone sends my mind whirling. He loves this. The threat of violence. The thrill of the fight. Of a battle.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume I must enjoy this as well. My heart is racing, my interest heightened. It’s the same way I felt when…
When I first saw a man from across my family’s ballroom, unknowingly intruding into my life again after seven years.
“The fucker’s dock has to be close,” he says, scanning the area. Not long later, we pull onto a road leading to the Marina’s entrance. I can’t discern anything from the row of docks and boats, but something makes Donatello hiss through his teeth.
“Son of a bitch. They’ve cleared it out.”
I don’t realize what he means until I notice that the yacht is one of the few boats on the water, with most boats still docked. The nearby parking lot is all but deserted, with the marina walkways appearing just as empty.
“There are Saleri agents everywhere,” Donatello adds. “Casual tour, my ass.”
He grabs a cell phone from his pocket, and whoever he calls answers on the first ring. “Luciano. I need to get onto Antonio’s boats. Where exactly are they docked? There’s no time—” He hisses, slamming his fist on the wheel. “Don’t give me the bullshit runaround; just tell me which dock. I’ll make it worth your while. No—” He eyes the water with a steely focus. “You stay put at the house, but if I don’t call in an hour, get in touch with Fabio Botelli and tell him that I decided to join Gregori Saleri for a swim.”
He hangs up and throws open the door on his end. “Come on,” he says to me. “We’ll get a closer look.”
I follow him warily. I was wrong. The marina itself isn’t entirely devoid of people—men in black mill about, their attention on the water. The level of security reminds me of Stepanov Manor. If these men are even half as diligent as Mischa’s, they’ve already identified Donatello by now and alerted their leader.
And yet…they don’t raise the alarm or even seem to pay us any attention the closer we come. The web analogy occurs to me again—we aren’t the predator they’re waiting for.
“Something doesn’t smell right,” Donatello says against my ear. He’s closer than I realized, his heat a warning prickle before I feel a subtle pressure against my lower back. I don’t even have to look to identify it—his hand. “Follow my lead,” he warns, steering me forward. “I know the Saleris. All this firepower means they either have the fucking president on board that boat, or…”
Or the ringleader responsible for spinning this entire web.
“They’re on a fucking victory lap,” Donatello growls. His fingers flex, urging me forward to keep pace with his bold series of strides. In this moment, it’s apparent just how big he is in comparison to me. So tall I have to crane my neck to fully view his fierce expression.
He’s troubled, as if the weight of the world is pressing down, and he’s taken it upon himself to bear the burden. Recognition bites at me; I’ve seen that look before, years ago, though, in a very different context. We’d been out swimming at the beach. Despite his smile, I’d picked up on his worry that grew into full-blown dread when he received a single phone call.
And that day, the entire world changed.
“Stay
