Chapter 5
Mikhail
The scent of her perfume lingers, even when she’s gone. Orange blossoms, vanilla, and musk—my fucking favorite.
Leaning against the hard wall, I can’t help but sketch a smile as her steps fade.
They’re faster now, unlike when she came to me—rushing back to her cage, not realizing she’s already been trapped in another one.
She wasn’t even supposed to find me this soon.
Then again, curiosity always kills the prettiest cats.
Pain ripples through my body as I shift, reminding me of what it took to get here. Bringing my fingers to the side of my abdomen, I hiss when they come away slick. Must’ve torn the wound open again.
Hilariously enough, it’s not even from the gunshots—it’s from the fucking rose bushes they planted in the gardens like they’re living in La-La Land. Figures. The Italians have always carried a certain delusion with them, thinking they can get away with every pathetic attempt against my Bratva.
Even this basement feels more like a low-end hotel than a killing ground.
The air is warm and humid—classic West Coast climate—with a nice breeze coming from the hole in my cell.
For someone who’s supposed to be tortured down here, it’s fucking paradise, completely different from how we treat our enemies.
But to each their own, I guess.
The worst part about being stuck here is actually how boring it gets.
Truly. Thank fuck Cecilia decided to bless me with her presence, even if all she did was try to topple every chance she got.
I loved it. After watching her every move for weeks, she still managed to surprise me. I expected nothing less from her.
Sweet and innocent, I’ve only ever seen her try to please others as if she’s trying to score points with God. It’s a constant lie she has to live through to obey her daddy, and I know exactly why.
Down here, however, her disguise was different. There was detachment—cold, unbothered pretense with lots of fucking cracks. I saw right through her, and it made this whole plan I’ve thrown myself into that much more delicious. Maybe she’s more than a wounded little bird after all.
The throb of bruises from when they dragged me here pulses together with the screech of a metal door.
But the steps that follow aren’t small this time—they’re heavy, loud, and obviously belonging to a man.
They’re also coming from a completely different direction than Cecilia’s, and when they stop in front of my cell, I don’t bother with more than tilting my head.
“Miss me already?” I ask.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I gave you what you wanted. Now, fucking talk.”
Cesare Cammarano, the Don’s advisor, shoves his hands in his pockets and watches me from the other side of the bars. I let out a hushed laugh, Cecilia’s pretty face coming back to the front of my mind…
Her doe-like brown eyes. Her petite stance. The way her chest trembled with shallow breaths. Yep, asking for her earlier was definitely worth a second visit from this bastard.
“You don’t want to talk? I’ll fucking talk then,” Cesare says. “See, I find it hard to believe a man with your reputation would simply let himself get caught. What gives?”
“Wrong neighborhood.” I grin. “Happens.”
Obviously, he knows I can’t be here by chance. What kind of idiot would go to his enemy’s house, alone and unarmed, in the middle of the night?
He’s right—I did let myself get caught. Which actually serves me twice—first, to make the Don a deal so good, he’ll think I’m fucking with him, and second, to spend more time with a certain someone with delicate pianist’s hands.
All part of a long retaliation plan my genius half-brother, Wolfgang, would’ve never agreed to if he knew it existed.
Too bad he has no idea what I’ve done. Yet.
“Here’s what I think,” Cesare says, pacing around. “I think you’re either suicidal, and this is your last stunt…”
“Next.”
“Or maybe—” He halts, his tone gaining an amused lilt. “Wolfgang sent you for retaliation, knowing full well you’d die at our hand. I heard the two of you aren’t exactly on speaking terms. You know, after he won next Pakhan and you remained…well, a nobody. No offense, of course.”
A genuine laugh bursts out of me, echoing off the stone walls.
“I mean, it makes sense for him to want to get rid of you,” Cesare says, pressing on. “You’ve always been at each other’s throats. Now that he runs your Bratva, he can do whatever he wants.”
Cesare really thinks he knows the full story. Cute.
Sometimes, I wonder if this is how my brother feels when he knows stuff no one else has figured out, when he catches people in naive narratives like that.
I’m no genius, but when I’m bored enough, I put in the work. I gotta hand it to Wolfgang: it’s fun—like watching monkeys banging sticks together when you already know how to build a fire.
“Then again, if Wolfgang wanted to kill you, he could’ve buried you in your own back yard. So, which is it, Mikhail? Are you suicidal, or did you truly underestimate us when you broke in last night?”
Neither. Despite his role in the Cosa Nostra, it’s not him I want to be discussing the details with. In my books, Cesare is mostly irrelevant.
“When is Antonio coming back?” I ask.
“If you’re hoping to get a word in with Don Ferrara, don’t. Based on how well this chat is going, I’d bet money on you being dead by that time. You’re fucking annoying.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I groan, feeling the sting of a wound I didn’t realize I had. “In any case, to hold up my end of the bargain from earlier, I’ll give you a crumb: I’m here for peace. Take me to Antonio, and I’ll tell him what I have in mind.”
It’s Cesare’s turn to laugh this time, but I expected this reaction. I never come in peace. Everyone knows that.
“And until that happens,” I add, growing bored with the useless exchange, “I only want Cecilia. She’s prettier to look at. No offense, of course.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. That look—protective and sharp—makes my teeth grind. What, he fucking cares about her now, after manipulating her to come down here and meet me?
He looks out into the distance, and the sound of boots against stone fills the air, as if his goons were waiting for his signal. Two assholes come into view, one of them starting to work the lock on my cage.
“Do your worst, gentlemen. Just don’t kill him yet,” he tells them. “In case things weren’t clear, Mikhail, it gets much fucking worse from here. The next time I come down, I won’t be so generous.”
When the first punch lands, I grin through the pain, feeling the tang of blood coating my mouth. It knocks me down, my head hitting the hard cement. I would be worried if I hadn’t taken multiple hits like this throughout my life. It’s just another fucking Tuesday.
A foot slams into my ribs, drawing a cough from my lungs. Then another. And another. Until the spot feels sore, and I spit out blood.
“You kick like a fucking pussy,” I say. “My grandma had more oomph than you.”
My face is pulled from the cement when a hand tangles in my hair. “What did you fucking say?”
“I said…” I spit out on the asshole’s shoes, pushing my arm into the floor to get up. “It’s in poor taste for Cesare to send me two pathetic nobodies who can’t even throw a punch. Frankly, I’m offended by your obvious lack of training—”
A punch to the nose sends the sound of broken bone echoing through my ears. More blood whooshes out, and I know this one is going to hurt like a motherfucker as it heals.
But the pain is euphoric for now. It’s my drug, my companion, my lifeline. It’s the only thing I’ve known to be ever-present, which is why I’ve clung to it from a young age like a psychopath.
Images of my mother showing up in a cell like this with her bodyguards flash through my mind. She’d drag me into similar situations so I could ‘toughen up’.
The memory should numb me, but all it does now is fire me up.
In the end, her plan worked.
And now, we are who we are.