“Fine. Lead the way.”
His fingers snag my wrist before I can recover, tugging me after him. He heads to the helm first, presumably performing whatever maneuvers are necessary to drop the anchor. Then we step into the other boat.
The Santiago is nearly three times the size of the Lady Killer. As we approach, I have to crane my neck to take in the impressive three deck-structure. One thing that stands out, is that—apart from several men, dressed in black—there are no party guests lounging on the decks. No music playing. It’s an eerie, almost somber atmosphere that only intensifies as we climb the metal ladder leading to the main deck.
“Mr. Saleri is inside,” the man says, gesturing toward a door I assume leads into the main cabin.
“Stay close to me,” Donatello warns, returning his hand to my lower back. “Confronting Gregori and Mateo on their turf in the city is one thing, but this feels off.”
I can hear the unease in his voice, but as we pass through the doorway of the cabin his features harden. On the other hand, I wind up blinking while my eyes struggle to adjust to the shift in lighting. Where Antonio Salvatore’s salon was drenched in black, the Saleris have chosen white as their accent color. Everything from the walls, to the polished floors, is in the same pristine shade.
Everything but the three people occupying the space. One of them is a tall man leaning against a glass-top bar near the back of the room. His dark green eyes contrast the monochrome background, bringing the image of a snake to mind. His name comes to me instantly—Mateo Saleri, the man Donatello assumed I’d be “under” by the night’s end. As he had in the club, he doesn’t give off an overly sinister aura. Just a calculating sense that he’s watching everything, missing nothing.
The man seated on a leather couch in the corner, however? He radiates nothing but cold, dangerous energy. His eyes narrow as he spots Donatello, and I get the sense that he would like nothing more than to watch him drown in the waters below this very boat.
He must be Gregori.
The third man lurks just beyond the others, seemingly fascinated by the view of the water.
“Vanici,” Gregori snarls. Bracing his hands on his knees, he sits forward, his jowls flapping. “You have some damn nerve—”
“Let’s be polite to our guests,” Mateo says over him. He runs a finger along his lapel, displaying a thick gold ring around his thumb. “After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends,” Donatello echoes in a tone of ice. “Friends, who buy up obscene amounts of property on the sly? Friends, who work with Antonio Salvatore to set me up?”
It’s such a bold accusation that I don’t understand why he would make it now—until I see the two men’s reactions. Their body language alone gives them away better than a signed confession. Mateo maintains his sly, faux-welcoming grin, but the expression takes on a hardened edge. At the same time, Gregori cuts his eyes to the only man in the room I don’t recognize.
Donatello seems to notice the stranger the same time I do, his eyes narrowing. “And who is this?” he wonders out loud.
The man in question doesn’t respond. He’s thin, blond with sleek black glasses perched atop a delicate nose. A tailored navy suit sets him apart from the more casually dressed Saleris. Unassuming, he stands near a row of windows looking out over the upper deck, a leather binder under one arm. At a glance, there’s nothing remarkable about his face. He isn’t unattractive, but not striking. Until my gaze falls over his neck. A mottled pink mass of flesh forms a vicious semi-circle from his left ear down to his collar, stretching beneath the neckline of his crisp white shirt. Burn marks?
“Him? He’s a harmless guest,” Mateo says smoothly, turning to the bar. “Invited here, unlike some.”
“A guest,” Donatello snarls, his gaze still on the blond man. “He wouldn’t happen to go by J.W. would he?”
The malice in his tone sends a shiver down my spine—but if any of the three men recognize the initials, they expertly conceal any guilt.
“Don’t tell me you crashed this little party, Donatello, merely to point fingers,” Mateo scolds. Smiling, he fishes a glass from a nearby shelf and pours liquid from a crystal decanter into it. Rather than drink, he shakes his wrist, sending the liquid swirling. “That’s not very friendly, is it?”
“Cut the shit.” Donatello slides his hand from my back and steps forward. “You played your little word games before, pretending you were in cahoots with Mischa—but don’t deny that you’ve been working with the son of a bitch who tried to set me up all this goddamn time.”
“How dare you!” Gregori huffs. “I’ve had enough. Get him out of—”
“Wait.” Mateo raises a hand, silencing him. Setting his glass aside, he turns from the bar, his grin firmly in place. “Before your accusations raise my father’s blood pressure, do you have proof?” he demands of Donatello. “Or are you determined to do to us what you did to Antonio Salvatore?”
“I should put a bullet in your brain for that alone,” Gregori snaps, his face reddening. “After what you’ve done to my granddaughter, I should—”
“What I’ve done?” Donatello interjects. “What about what Antonio was doing to Kisa?”
I don’t know what he means, but the words have the effect of flipping an invisible switch. Gregori’s eyes widen with an unmistakable emotion—alarm.
Mateo recovers faster, choking out a laugh. “I’ll let that insult slide if you return the girl by the day’s end. We’ve indulged you enough.”
“Indulged,” Donatello says. “You don’t let your granddaughter stay with a man who murdered her father to placate him. You do it when you’re too busy to give a shit. What have you two been up to?”
“Nothing
