I stiffen, cutting my gaze up to his.
“Trust me,” he snaps, but I think he realizes how hollow those words sound in this context. “The manager has his eyes on me. He won’t be watching you.”
I doubt the validity of that. In reality, he wants to leave me behind, but in this case, should I even care if he does? My entire being is screaming at me to stay. Find Mischa. Run far away from Donatello Vanici and everything he has to offer.
Instead, I turn on my heel, grabbing the railing to steady me as I climb back onto the dock. The manager isn’t anywhere in sight, and I grasp the rope, loosening it. Then I turn to the other.
Almost immediately, the boat starts to drift, and I have to lunge to bridge the gap. A sturdy hand on my shoulder steadies me as I do, helping me back to the upper deck.
“Sit tight,” Donatello says, returning to the helm. I’m still dazed by the fact that he kept his word. He let me come. Let me stay…
I almost miss what he shouts to me next, “I haven’t driven a boat in years.”
It’s an anti-climactic escape when all is said and done. Despite his supposed inexperience, Donatello easily steers us from the dock, aided by the wind. The manager doesn’t seem to realize until we’re too far out to stop, and he’s just a frantic speck in the distance.
Up ahead, the white yacht resembles an unattainable fortress, larger than expected. A pang of doubt creeps in. He’s insane for even trying to track it down.
We’re insane…
Those logical viewpoints make sense in my head. None of them manage to penetrate the excitement pulsing down my spine, electrifying my limbs. I blame adrenaline.
Liar, a part of me snarls. Adrenaline isn’t a man with piercing eyes that find mine from his seated position paces away. It could be the fresh air, or perhaps the thrill of the hunt, but he’s different here. Alive might be too dramatic a word, but it fits. His hair glistens in the sun, his posture relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since…
Well, seven years ago. But the past doesn’t belong here. The man I knew, and this current creature, are not one and the same. As if to prove it, he averts his gaze to the water, his expression unfathomable.
“You played along. Back on the docks. Then you leverage your status as the daughter of a mob boss. Touché. I’m guessing Mischa didn’t teach you that,” he scolds. I bristle at the accusation, turning my attention to the water as well.
Mischa didn’t teach me a lot of things. He didn’t teach me betrayal, for one. How to turn my back on those closest to me, or that no one else matters in the quest to fulfill my own selfish impulses.
In fact, Mischa, as much as I love him, didn’t influence me much at all.
I was already infected by the teachings of another.
“Look at me,” my original corruptor demands. When I do, he’s pensive, wrenching on a dial that must put the boat into the equivalent of cruise control. We’re rapidly advancing on the yacht, but at the moment, it’s a distant obstacle.
I feel a burst of unease at a sudden realization—we’re utterly alone.
“What the fuck are we doing? Jesus, Christ, what the fuck am I doing?” He chuckles, swiping his hand across his mouth. “If the Saleris even harm a hair on your head, Mischa will have every right to fucking castrate me. But you don’t care, do you? So, let’s turn our attention to something you do care about. Why would someone want Mischa to come after me? Is it personal, or business?”
I try to look at him objectively. Donatello isn’t the sort of man someone takes on directly.
“They wanted me out of the way,” he says. “I thought Antonio was just being a prick, wanting the harbor for himself, but there was more to it. He needed it. Whoever was pulling his strings was doing so to ensure that he was the one to gain control of it from me. Salvatore specifically. Why?”
He trails off, mulling over the question. Suddenly, he cuts his eyes up to mine. “You’re thinking of something.” His voice is barely audible above the roar of the waves, though no less accusatory. “What?”
I’m thinking that anyone who would go through the trouble had a lot more in mind than buying a few buildings. No. They were laying the pieces of a trap.
Or, I could be overthinking it all, so desperate for his approval.
I start to turn away, only to feel his hand land on my shoulder. “Don’t play coy. You don’t need words to talk to me—” He grabs my wrist to prove his point. “Tell me.”
I slip my hand from his grasp and point at his chest.
“Me. No…” His face betrays his entire thought process. Confusion at first, then gradual dawning until finally, he says softly, “Revenge. Someone wants to prove a point.”
But to Mischa or someone else?
“Whoever they are, I think we’re about to find out,” Donatello says suddenly. He rises to his feet, and I follow his stare to a smaller boat approaching from the direction of the yacht.
“We have company.”
Their approach seems to occur in exaggeratedly slow motion. I swear it’s hours before they finally draw close enough to make out the two men occupying the vessel, but it must be mere minutes.
“Greetings, Mr. Vanici,” one of them calls. They’re both dressed in black with sunglasses obscuring their eyes. “Mr. Saleri would like to invite you and your guest to join him this afternoon aboard the Santiago.”
Donatello inclines his head sharply, but I’m impressed by his restraint. “An invitation, huh? Can I ask what the occasion is?”
“To celebrate new business ventures,” the first speaker replies. “If you two would proceed to enter the vessel, we can return in time for drinks.”
I sense Donatello stiffen, though outwardly,
