Ruthless King: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 1), page 1
Ruthless King
Mice and Men Book 1 (The War of Roses Universe)
Lana Sky
Also by Lana Sky
The Ellie Gray Chronicles
Drain Me
Chain Me
The Complete Ellie Gray Chronicles
Beautiful Monsters
Crescendo
Refrain
Mezzo
Allegro
Club XXX
Maxim: Submit
Maxim: Obey
Maxim: Surrender
Maxim: The Complete Trilogy
Vadim: Control
Vadim: Corrupt
Vadim: Conquer
Vadim: The Complete Trilogy
Savage Fall Duet
King’s Men
King’s Horses
The Complete Savage Fall Duet
The War of Roses Universe
The War of Roses
XV: (Fifteen)
VII: (Seven)
I: (One)
The Complete War of Roses Trilogy
Of Mice and Men
Ruthless King
Queen of Thorns
Painted Sin
A Touch of Dark
A Taste like Sin
The Complete Painted Sin Duet
Standalones
Pretty Perfect
Crossed Lines
Dragon Triad Duet
Moth
Flame
The Complete Dragon Triad Duet
Rockstar Rebels
Dirty Lyrics (Newsletter Exclusive)
Ruthless King
Ruthless King By Lana Sky
Copyright © 2020 by Lana Sky
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic, and explicit content matter that is not suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: age gap relationships, explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, and graphic depictions of violence.
Contents
1. Don
2. Don
3. Willow
4. Willow
5. Willow
6. Willow
7. Willow
8. Willow
9. Don
10. Willow
11. Willow
12. Don
13. Willow
14. Don
15. Willow
16. Don
17. Don
18. Don
19. Willow
20. Willow
21. Don
22. Don
23. Don
24. Willow
25. Don
26. Willow
A Word from the Author
About the Author
Also by Lana Sky
1
Don
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.” ~Hamlet.
While I wasn’t the smartest kid in the world, I had one trait most don’t—ambition. Ambitions so grand I envisioned myself one day ruling the world—and I wasn’t satisfied with just imagining it. Sure, the dumb fantasies were no different than what most punks aspire to at that age, but I’d wanted more. More than a kid raised in the streets was entitled to.
More than I deserved.
Mama called it “dreaming,” thinking too big for my britches but, bless her soul, she was naïve when it came to the way of the world. She never taught me that dreams don’t mean shit in the long run, or that success has a price—desperation. You have to take it. With pain, with blood, by any means necessary, you take what you want.
And the easiest way to do that? Through force. Young Donatello learned that violence could garner him whatever he craved. Cars. Booze. Women.
But I also learned that there isn’t one damn thing that can’t be ripped away afterward. Despite the odds, I’d gotten my wish once, gaining everything I’d dreamed of and more. The funny thing is, I was so fixated on what I lacked, I didn’t even know it. Greed was the one constant I knew, and I only ever had one goal. Money. To have more of it than God himself, enough to have this entire city in the palm of my hand. I got that wish too—my name was feared, be it Donatello or the various monikers assigned to me by rivals. Il Mostro. The Butcher. That Violent Cunt.
Back then, I’d been stupid enough to assume that fear meant something. That fear equaled power. In his own esteem, the old Donatello was a force to be reckoned with—and if that smug little punk could see the man I am now, he’d scoff, unable to recognize himself.
A man who scrapes for what he has and appreciates every damn cent. Who knows what it means to be humble. To suffer. To bide his time and keep his fucking mouth shut.
This new man ain’t no Butcher, for damn sure. From crook to legitimate businessman. Hell, it sounds like some shitty fairy tale, but reformed or not, a man never forgets his past. If he’s smart, he’ll even learn from it.
Now, of all times, I remember a particular piece of advice—coincidentally given to me by the last bastard I ever killed myself. His name didn’t matter; he was some balding, pudgy little asshole who read Hamlet once, and thought that made him a fucking intellectual. Funny, because that “intelligence” didn’t pan out so well for him in the end. I will give him this much, though—he made an impression on me in a way few have.
“Though this be madness, there’s a method to it, see. Like Shakespeare?” he’d ranted, right before I’d put a bullet in his skull.
The madness was selling me out. The method? Using back-channel deals to frame me for extortion. In his mind, it all made sense. He wasn’t trying to set me up to save his own skin, see? By slithering his way into my inner circle like the lying cunt he was, he was merely doing me a favor by revealing how easy it could be to fuck me over. His betrayal was all for the greater good.
Unimpressed by that genius rationale, I’d reacted the only way I knew how back then.
Fast-forward almost a decade later, and karma gives me a cruel, new perspective. Finally, I understand just what the dumb son of a bitch was getting at. He wasn’t smart; hell, he wasn’t even trying to be. Logic doesn’t mean shit when you’re desperate; when you have nothing else to fall back on but insanity.
In such a mental state, everything starts looking like a good idea—like what I’m doing right now.
It’s insane to stand here before two armed guards, holding a gift wrapped by some lady in a store who assured me a woman would “enjoy such a thoughtful present.” She even tied it with a goddamn bow.
It’s insane to wear this pathetic smile and pray to God my act holds up.
It’s methodical insanity.
“We’re Fabio Botelli’s guests,” I say, gesturing to the slender man beside me. Just like I’d told him, he keeps his mouth shut, his smile as dumb as mine.
One look at these guards, and I know they’re no bumbling rent-a-cops. Ex-soldier is written all over their stiff posture and the cautious way they glance me over. Considering the reputation of the man who owns this property, I’m not surprised.
Nerves ripple through my belly, catching me off guard. I feel like a punk again, stepping up to the head of the famiglia for the first time, wearing my Sunday’s best. Little did I know, the dress shirt sported a fucking pizza stain on the collar. Old Giovanni had taken one look at me and scoffed, seeing through my act. He’d turned me away that time, warning that he didn’t work with “boys.” He only hired men.
This inspection feels no different, though one would hope a couple decades of experience would improve my chances. A week after that initial meeting, I’d returned to Giovanni, but with the added prestige of having shot one of his rivals at point-blank range. Bloodstains carry a bit more weight to them than pizza sauce. The old man had taken me on then and taught me the importance of casting an image. Of sowing a reputation based on fear. He bought me a brand-new shirt, and I made sure never to stain it. Hell, I still have it, a reminder of that valuable lesson.
If he could see me now, Giovanni would shake his head in disbelief. “You look plain, Donny,” he’d scold. “You are a lion among men dressed like a fucking sheep.”
In this city, aptly named Hell’s Gambit, sheep wear Italian designer suits and grease their hair to shine. They smile awkwardly before those in authority and simper just long enough to go undetected. Those sheep? They dine with the wolves, a position preferable to figuratively starving. Hell, I’d bleat if I thought it would help.
Luckily that aspect of this ruse doesn’t seem necessary. The guards share searching glances, and then one inclines his head. “This way, Sir.”
He gestures to the massive oak doors propped open to allow guests inside. With a few tense steps, we’re in, joining
Relief surges through my blood, mingling with the shot of whiskey I’d taken for good luck. I fall into step behind a woman dressed in a black gown and catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the wall. A crazy son of a bitch stares back, his eyes only slightly bloodshot, his hair the neatest I’ve seen it in days. His smile is charming, but the strain in his expression gives it all away—he’s desperate. In a sense, he looks like Mr. Hamlet did when he pled for his life before me.
What supposed method might explain this man’s madness?
That’s easy. Survival.
I’m here because the only other option is to lie down quietly and let the brutality of this city swallow me whole. I can’t, not even newly reformed as I am. Luckily, Mischa Stepanov, owner of this massive residence, has done the one thing worth prostrating myself at his mercy. An act powerful enough to change the entire Vanici legacy for the better.
He’s decided to present his daughter to the world on a silver platter.
So, call me insane. I’m here, ready to grovel.
And apparently, I’m not the only one. A queue of well-dressed guests extends both ahead of me and behind. On polished shoes and pointy heels, we tread over a floor burnished to shine, and into a home displaying breathtaking gothic architecture. A large central staircase dominates the entryway, and past that is a winding set of corridors capped by vaulted ceilings and grand arches. Eventually, we’re herded into a massive grand hall, every bit as impressive as the name would imply. Instantly, I find the rumors were true after all, and this isn’t some elaborate trap. The fearsome leader of the Russian mob has decided to throw a birthday party of all things, in honor of his eldest daughter. Fresh roses litter nearly every available inch of space. Soft white accents lessen the intimidating atmosphere cast by the house itself and the security presence out front. As the swell of elegant music reaches my ears, and I spot dedicated servers mingling with trays of food, some of my unease lessens.
“You see, Vincenzo? There’s a method to my madness,” I tell the boy beside me. He doesn’t look convinced, an eyebrow cocked, his mouth flat in a hard line. Balancing the gift on one hand, I flick his nose the way I used to when he was a kid, always giving lip. “Stop your pouting and smile, damn it. You have a principessa to charm.”
“A princess, huh? You’ve lost your mind,” Vin grumbles while tugging at the collar of his tux. Hell, it might be the first time in years that he’s worn one—I know for a fact that he spends more time hiding in the library of his fancy school these days, than dressing to impress. If he didn’t share my eyes, and the signature Vanici grin, I’d doubt we were related. My heir, the genius, who’d have thought?
What he makes up for in ambition—to become a doctor, of all things—he lacks in political savvy. Sadly, even a doctor must learn what this world comes down to in the end—filthy, dumb politics.
“It’s like a game of chess,” I explain for what has to be the millionth time. “You make your connections to stay ahead, or you’ll be the pawn in some other motherfucker’s game of checkmate.”
As usual, he rolls his brown eyes from behind the wire rims of his glasses. Apparently, the ways of the mob aren’t as interesting as medicine.
No better time to learn than now.
“This little party could change your entire life,” I insist, adopting the gravelly baritone of old Giovanni. “Sonny, with a move like this, you’ll be set.”
“Set to marry some rich girl? This isn’t medieval times, Donny,” he says. “People don’t do dumb shit like marriages for alliances anymore. You’re about a thousand years too late for that.”
“And you’ve been at that pretty-boy school for too long,” I snipe. Though I’m the one who insisted he get a degree in the first place. Pride swells in my chest whenever I think back on everything he’s accomplished. Graduating from that fancy private school at the top of his class and earning a ticket to one of the world’s best universities. Not to mention doing it all without so much as a misdemeanor to his name.
It sounds too good to be true. My boy, the scholar. He’s made his mother prouder than I ever did. Though, despite all that knowledge, he’s never learned how to wear a thousand-dollar suit like it doesn’t itch worse than a motherfucker.
“Look at you.” I nudge his shoulder, scowling at his posture. Giovanni would send him away as a lost cause, even if he were covered in blood. “Slouching in designer duds. Disgraceful. My nephew? Bah! You look like you might be a doctor or something.”
“And you look like a criminal or something.” His quick smile draws a chuckle from me as I ruffle his hair.
“You little smartass. Now, look sharp.” I stiffen, sensing several pairs of eyes swivel in our direction. As much as I’ve joked with him, this isn’t a game. “We’re here on business, and you need to act the part. I know you’ve been poring over those doctor books of yours, but let me test your knowledge of the real world.”
I fix my gaze on two men standing near the hall entrance, their backs to us. A face alone can be enough to identify a man, but clothing is just as signifying. Burgundy suits stand out amongst the sea of the typical black. Even Vin recognizes the color, and his upper lip curls back from his teeth.
“Going off those hideous outfits, they must be Sigerelli men,” he says.
“Good.” I nod in approval.
As if on cue, the two men turn in our direction. Both Vin and I nod in a greeting that is promptly returned. Forcing a smile, I mutter, “We like them because…”
“They helped you launder your dirty money through their luxury car dealership,” Vin recites as crisply as if reading from a goddamn book. “Back when you were a crook.”
I can’t deny him another laugh. “Good boy. Old friends can prove to be valuable, even to someone on the straight and narrow. Now, who are they?” I nod to a couple across the room. Between the diamonds draped over the slender, brunette woman, and the quality of her male counterpart’s suit, they could purchase the entire Sigerelli stock for fun.
“Hooked nose, a scar on his chin… He’s Giovanni Rossi. Runs a casino, but that’s just his day job,” Vin murmurs around his own fake grin. “Pompous. A dick. We don’t like him.”
“That’s my boy,” I mutter back. Unlike his namesake, this Giovanni is a pathetic whelp, unworthy of the Rossi name. His own father didn’t allow him into the fold, but he still has his uses. “Now, tell me why we don’t like him.”
“Because he’s not only a dirty crook, but a backstabber,” Vin replies under his breath. Spotting us, Giovanni inclines his head in greeting, and Vin’s the first one to return it with so much enthusiasm I’d think it genuine if I didn’t know any better. “We still show him respect, though,” he adds as we approach an unoccupied corner. “Even if he no longer runs the famiglia.”
“And why is that?” I ask, my head cocked, tone critical.
The answer is so obvious, he shoots me a sideways glance. “Because you keep your enemies closer than your friends.”
“Damn right. Speaking of enemies…” My eyes narrow as I spot a figure holding court across the room, and a worrying ripping sound comes from the gift tucked beneath my arm. I grasp it with both hands, fighting to keep my expression neutral. “Who is that?”
I nod in his general direction, though Vin has no trouble seeking him out. A white suit sets this man apart from the rest of the crowd—but not in the way he probably expects.
