What could she have said?
Or shown him…
“Over here.”
I turn to find Donatello standing before a small nook that must have served as a makeshift office. A wooden desk juts from the wall. As I come closer, Donatello wrenches open a drawer, revealing a few pens and a folded slip of paper.
He unfurls it and reads in silence, his brows drawn together.
“Son of bitch.” He sits on the edge of the nearest bench, hissing in disgust. “They were blackmailing him,” he says in response to my stare. He offers the page to me, but all I find on it is a succinct list of dates and names. The letterhead it’s printed on, however, sports a familiar name: Felicità.
“It seems Antonio likes them young, supplied by none other than the Saleris. But it doesn’t make sense.” He stands, raking a hand ruthlessly through his hair. “Why leave evidence like this out in the open? Especially if he was working with the Saleris. Blackmail or not, they wouldn’t want incriminating information like this floating around. Though, hell, with Gregori’s connections, no one would dare go public against him. Still, they must feel cocky to be so brazen about it. Cocky. Or desperate.”
He turns to the window, glowering at the water beyond. “Who the fuck is on that boat?”
Given the security, it’s likely we’ll never know.
“Well, Fabio will have fun running these numbers at least,” Donatello says, crushing the document in his fist. “But they won’t do any fucking good if whatever they’re planning comes to fruition.”
He begins to pace, stroking his chin with his free hand. I hate myself for watching him, enthralled despite my better judgment. No one in the world thinks like him.
In a sense, it’s like watching a one-man orchestra perform the most complex of concertos.
“We could stake out the marina,” he murmurs. “Wait until they disembark…” Even as the suggestion leaves his mouth, he scowls at the idea of it.
I think I know why. It’s too easy. Someone powerful enough—and paranoid enough—to rent out the entire marina for a “waterfront tour” probably wouldn’t choose to stroll in and out of the docks in plain view.
“The fucker will probably dock somewhere private,” Donatello growls, thinking along the same line. “Meaning they’re here now for a reason…” He trails off as his eyes seek mine out. I sense that chilling sensation flash between us. Like we’re speaking beyond words in a way only the two of us can understand.
Desperation and rage form their own nuanced language. I swear I know what he’ll say even before he opens his mouth.
“I need to see for myself what the hell they’re up to. What would you do for the rest of those letters?” he asks, partly taunting, partly serious. “If you want them, then go back to the car and wait for me there—”
I shake my head, my heart racing as I grab a pen from the drawer and write down my own proposal.
I should come with you.
“What do you think the benefit would be of having you there?” I can read beneath his skepticism to what he has enough tact not to state bluntly. Why would I need you?
I would slow him down, get in the way. This is a dangerous situation, and the smart thing to do would be to call Mischa and take my chance to return home.
It’s selfish to want to stay. To want to watch him in action. What spurs Donatello Vanici to risk his life?
I want to know.
But he has no interest in letting me stay; I can see that. I could always put up a logical argument to state my case. Or curse him. Rage against his dismissiveness. Instead, I put myself in his point of view and think things through just as he would—cut and dry in the most transactional of terms.
I’m Mischa’s daughter; I finally write. They might attack you. They won’t attack me.
He eyes the page warily. Then he scoffs. “And if they kill me and sell you off? You really want to end your night under Mateo Saleri?”
I picture the younger man from that night at the club with cat-like green eyes. My first impulse is to shudder—which is exactly what he wants. I look up to find his gaze smug, his mouth tilted. I simply widen my eyes, conveying a question he can easily decipher.
Will you let him?
His frown unfurls slowly, and he turns away. At first, I assume he’s making a show of observing something other than me, but then he leans forward, hissing through his teeth.
“Fuck, they’re moving.” In a blur of motion, he starts for the upper deck, pausing near the staircase. “You think if I let you come with me, everything between us will be magically fixed? Your father and I, I mean. That ship has fucking sailed, wife. It won’t change a damn thing.”
But he’s wrong. Unraveling the mystery of who attacked my family and why is only part of the equation. The other half consists of learning more of the very subject I am now—Donatello Vanici. What better way to destroy him than to know him inside and out? The reasoning behind his impulsiveness. His recklessness. Perhaps, I might finally understand what led him to treat me like collateral all those years ago.
And he still can, a part of me warns. I could very well end this night underneath Mateo Saleri.
With none other than Donatello Vanici standing watch, unwilling to lift a muscle in my defense.
“Are you coming?” His voice reaches down from outside of the salon. I climb the steps after him and watch as he circles around to the helm. He sits down, his back to the drifting yacht. At first, I assume he’s changed his mind, preferring to call Fabio instead of giving chase.
Until I feel the subtle vibration of the engine roaring to life beneath my feet.
“Hey!” Donatello stands, beckoning me closer. “You see those lines?” He points to two distinct
