The Foiled Plan (War of Sins Book 2)

‘You’re a crazy bastard,’ Andreas muttered as he stared at Michele’s shirtless form.

The bullets had left their mark on his skin even though he’d worn a bulletproof vest. And he’d seen in the last days how hard it had been for his boss to move around.

Michele shrugged a shirt on, raising a brow at Andreas.

‘Lighter,’ he said as he popped a cigarette in his mouth.

Andreas complied, getting the lighter from his pocket and lighting his cigarette.

‘You’re not thinking about going out, are you?’ Andreas asked, blinking in surprise.

Michele rolled his eyes at his Andreas’ tone, merely taking a deep drag of his cigarette as he regarded him lazily.

‘Of course I am.’

‘B—but… You haven’t gone through all this trouble just to reveal yourself…’

‘Andreas,’ he turned sharply. ‘No one will notice. For one to see, one must first look.’

‘You’re crazy…’ he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘So we’ve ascertained,’ Michele added mockingly.

‘I don’t understand. Truly, sir. Why did you go to such great lengths to fake your death when you could have ended your brother right then and there.’

At Andreas’ tone, Michele tilted his head, listening.

‘You could have gotten rid of your issue once and for all. I don’t get why you’d take a detour when you had him,’ Andreas blinked at him, confused.

A slow smile spread over Michele’s face. He’d expected this line of questioning, since his decision may seem aberrant to most.

‘Andreas, have you read the Art of War?’ He asked his trusted man as he took a seat on the leather sofa by the window.

His gaze was on the endless skyscrapers, the smoke from his cigarette hitting the hard pane of the window before refracting into the room.

‘No,’ he answered, coming closer and regarding him with a confused look on his face.

‘You should,’ he half turned and winked. ‘It will show you that no action is random in time of war.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ he frowned.

‘All warfare is based on deception,’ Michele quoted, before adding, ‘simulated disorder postulates perfect discipline and simulated weakness postulates strength. War is never about pure strength Andreas. And it is never decided in just one battle.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘He wins who knows himself and his enemy. It’s a matter of a series of principles coming to play. You could say I was lucky enough to find out about the trap beforehand. But you’ve seen the blueprint of the place yourself. With the soldiers he had stationed, and the planning my brother put into it, it would have been suicide to go there on the offensive.’

His mouth parted, Andreas frowned as he tried to make sense of his words.

‘Let me put this differently. No matter how I approached the situation, I would have walked into a trap. One, might I add, that would have proven deadly. Instead, I played on their expectations. I pulled the trigger before they could.’

‘I see,’ he nodded tentatively.

‘I gave them a show because that’s what they expected. But my purpose was different. It was not losing or winning. It was learning.’

‘Learning?’

‘Know the enemy,’ Michele stated. ‘And not only did I get to meet my dearest brother, but I also got to know his greatest weakness—his wife.’

‘Ohh,’ Andreas’ face lightened with a new understanding. ‘You wanted to test him.’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ he smiles cunningly. ‘I played on his expectations while gleaning information about him and his new brother-in-law. Did you know the man didn’t even bat an eye at the sight of his sister in danger? This, while my brother was willing to put a bullet through his brain for her. All quite enlightening, wouldn’t you say?’

Andreas nodded.

‘You get the best read of people when you put them in extreme situations. How do they react? Is it selfishly, or not? In self-preservation or something else?’ Michele mused, almost to himself.

After reviewing the information from Pancho, Michele had realized that he couldn’t take his brother head-on. At least not when he had an army worth of people all gunning for him. He knew Rafaelo had reached out to others for help too—others who hated him as much as he did. And so he’d realized that the safest course of action was to take control of the narrative. Even if that ended with his death.

The plan had been rather simple. He had his own men infiltrate Raf’s snipers, all positioned around the roof. And when he’d given the signal, one of his men had been the first to fire, hitting him with two rounds in the chest, in designated areas covered by a bulletproof vest.

But that was not the highlight of the plan.

He’d scouted the area days before, mapping out strategic points that he could use, and he’d planned everything accordingly.

The roof had been planned. The spot he’d taken Rafaelo’s wife had been planned. Just like the spot right below, where Andreas was waiting with a body double. The moment Michele had been shot, he’d taken a step back, given the signal, and jumped from the roof.

A few cords attached to the edge of the building had smoothed his fall to the floor below. Quickly getting rid of the evidence, they’d thrown the body double face down, ensuring there would be no way to really ID him.

After that, he’d merely watched the fruits of his hard work—all of which included the funeral and Rafaelo’s subsequent ascension as the family head. All while sporting an amused smile.

Over the years, he’d prepared so meticulously, he had several back-up identities with full background checks as well as a multitude of off-shore accounts that ensured he would not have to worry about money for the rest of his life—regardless of his name.

‘What now then?’ Andreas asked, coming to him and offering him a glass of whiskey.

‘Now we wait. We let them become comfortable in this false security and then…poof,’ he chuckled. ‘You don’t hit someone when they are at their strongest. You hit them at their weakest.’

‘Wow. I’m impressed, sir,’ Andreas breathed in awe as he looked at him.

Bringing the glass to his lips, Michele took a large gulp.

Everything would come together. Soon.

He was prepared to give the last blow to his sire’s killer—had been for some time now. Yet he found himself stalling.

A scowl marred his features as his thoughts turned to that particular subject.

He wasn’t stalling. He was merely enjoying himself and dragging the anticipation. For then, the pleasure would be far more potent, and he would be able to pat himself on the back and congratulate himself for the amount of patience and foresight he’d exhibited.

Finishing his cigarette and finding himself buzzed to a pleasant state, he finally buttoned up his shirt, wincing as his fingers brushed along the bruises he’d gotten from the bullets.

‘What about the girl?’ Andreas asked as Michele was about to leave the room. His shoulders tensed at the question, and slowly, he turned to face his most trusted man.

Andreas knew about his pet, just as he knew not to inquire too much into her. Sure, she was a pivotal part of the plan. But she was also something else.

His.

And he did not like it when other men gazed upon her, much less uttered her name.

She was off-limits. At least for as long as she was the source of his amusement.

‘Inconsequential,’ he replied, his voice thick.

He didn’t like to discuss his pet with anyone, because that meant sharing about her with another being and he could not accept that.

No. She was only his. For now.

Andreas nodded, understanding the quiet rebuke.

‘I’ll see you later then, sir,’ he said in an almost tremulous voice.

Andreas was a competent employee and a trusted man—or as much as Michele could trust anyone. He knew what his boss was capable of, and tried to keep to his lane, rarely speaking out of turn. Michele appreciated that, since there was always a shortage of men with Andreas’ qualifications on which he could count. He’d proved himself useful from the first, and slowly, he’d earned Michele’s trust enough that he’d made him his direct liaison with the famiglia.

Throwing a little caution to the wind, he exited his building, jumping in his car and driving midtown.

He knew that Andreas’ words weren’t unfounded. He was risking a lot by going out in the open, but he couldn’t help himself. He counted on the fact that his death had been so convincing that everyone was currently celebrating his funeral. And by his last update, his brother had left the city with Noelle, while DeVille had relocated to a secluded location with his wife—all in fear of being tracked down by people wanting revenge on the Black Monarch.

By all accounts, he had nothing to worry about.

Still, he was courting danger. For all his careful and meticulous planning, he was being reckless. Yet how could he resist an opportunity when it was being handed to him?

Reaching his destination, he strode confidently through the museum’s doors, going straight to the source of his frustration. His men had informed him of her latest position, and that’s how he found her—enthralled by an ancient stone block.

He approached quietly, not wanting to attract attention to his presence just yet. Instead, he took the time to study her.

Her chin was tipped up, the light hitting her chiseled cheekbones and making her look like one of the marble statues dedicated to Venus. She was wearing a long dress—unusual for her—and her beauty was out there for everyone to see.

His fists tightened in anger, and the more he watched her—the more he saw others watching her—the more he felt himself slipping.

She had a look of contemplation on her face as she studied the designs of the ancient temple. A notebook in her hand, she scribbled down some notes for her assignment.

When he’d been informed of a class trip to the Met, all of which meant his pet would be in public, with men to leer at her, he’d immediately reacted.

She always made him react.

She took no notice of anything around her. So focused she was on her tasked, she saw nothing but the pile of stones in front of her. And as he advanced forward, he could see what she was working on—a sketch.

‘The angle isn’t right,’ he added as he took his position by her side. His deep, rumbly voice startled her, and as she raised her gaze to him, her mouth parted in surprise.

He looked down at her, a disinterested look on his face that belied the turmoil inside. His hands to his back, to the regular onlooker, his position spoke of casual boredom. To Michele, it was the only way he could stop himself from reaching out.

‘What are you doing here?’ She asked, peering at him through her lashes.

His gaze was affixed to her plump, rosy lips, and for a moment he found himself unable to respond.

‘I happen to have an annual membership to the museum,’ he quickly recovered.

It wasn’t a lie. He did own annual memberships to a few other museums in the city, and he’d donated a few paintings and artifacts in his time—anonymously, of course. He was also one of the most generous patrons, and his contributions helped fund a few scholarships as well as organize charity events that raised awareness for the art community—all off the books, of course. No one knew that side of him, and no one would.

‘You do?’ she squeaked in surprise, regarding him with wide eyes.

He grunted, not offering an explanation.

She wet her lips, and he could see the wheels turning in her head, her eyes sparkling with new adoration.

A smile pulled at his lips. That was more like it.

‘And which wing do you like the most?’ She asked, her voice holding a new type of warmth. One that flooded his insides and settled deep within, feeding him with renewed energy.

He cleared his voice, feeling himself redden at the innocent question. But it wasn’t every day that he could boast about his vast array of knowledge when it came to art and history—certainly, it wasn’t every day that he could elicit even more adoration from his pet.

‘I’m rather fond of the Greek and Roman section,’ he waved to the back, to the great hall of statues. ‘But I’ve always had a sweet spot for 19^th century Romanticism and Symbolism,’ he told her, his tone more enthusiastic than it had ever been.

She blinked, her eyes settling on him and seeing him as if for the first time.

‘I like ancient art,’ she said, a blush high on her cheeks as she brought her gaze down. But the smile that tugged at her lips was unmistakable.

‘Then let us head there,’ he motioned to the entrance.

She nodded, and together, they started walking.

Side by side, they weren’t touching.

But the tension radiating from the proximity marred by the slightest distance couldn’t be ignored by anyone around. Like a thread of electricity that coiled under great pressure, the air was thick with an intoxicating allure.

She gazed up at him, adoringly. He gazed down at her, indulgently.

Hands behind his back, he was relaxed for what felt like the first time in his life.

Reaching the great hall of Greek and Roman art, marble statues and works of pristine art took over their field of view.

Michele closed his eyes, breathing in the history and for a moment, he felt himself separate into two. He was both his ruthless self, but he was also the other—the side of him he’d repressed.

They stopped in front of a statue of a goddess pertaining to the Classical period. His pet studied its form, her mouth parted in awe.

‘I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to sculpt something like this,’ she said, absentmindedly.

‘Like any form of art, this took time to perfect,’ he remarked, pointing towards the smoothed ridges and the flawless human form. ‘From the Classical to the Hellenistic era, the Greeks committed to depicting humanoid forms in art form as faithfully as possible,’ he explained, going into depth about the artistic differences.

His pet listened attentively, engrossed in his words, and his chest exploded with pride.

They moved slowly, stopping at every statue and admiring the mastery with which it had been sculpted while Michele explained the historic context that led to certain details.

As they left the hall, his pet was hanging onto every word he said, regarding him with such awe and reverence his ego soared.

‘What is your assignment, pet?’ He asked as they returned to the ancient temple she’d been studying before. The Egyptian temple had been built around 10 B.C. during the Roman Period.

‘I need to sketch this, but I can’t seem to manage to do it right,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not very good at drawing,’ she admitted with a desolate expression on her face.

‘Let me see what you’ve got.’ He extended his hand to receive her notebook, his brows shooting up in surprise as he took in her design.

While technically abysmal, she’d captured the meaning perfectly.

From base to top, she’d depicted the Egyptian landscape as perceived from the bas-relief, starting from sea and vegetation and ending with the sky and its constellations, including their divine counterparts.

‘I don’t think you need any help, pet,’ he told her.

She frowned at him, looking from her drawing to the actual construction and pointing out the obvious differences.

‘I doubt your teacher wanted you to depict it faithfully. I can help you with that,’ he paused as she wrinkled her nose in confusion. ‘But what you did here is far better than I could add,’ he admitted, for the first time proud of something that wasn’t his own achievement. Because his pet had observed that which was not visible to the naked eye. She’d taken the time to study it in so much depth she’d actually deciphered the meaning behind it.

‘Really?’ She fluttered her lashes, obviously flattered at his words.

‘Why did you focus on the bas-relief and not the structure?’

Usually, with a task like this, one would go the easy route and copy the structure of the building, maybe adding minimal shading to turn it into a three dimensional object. But she’d focused her efforts on meaning not functionality.

She shrugged, almost embarrassed. But with a little coaxing, she finally opened up.

‘Ancient Egyptians put meaning to everything. A temple wasn’t just a building. It was the culmination of their beliefs and how they saw the world around them. I can’t draw the building, but I can doodle some of the shapes that make out the temple.’

He looked at her—truly looked at her.

‘You’re right,’ he nodded.

He kept to himself the fact that she had impressed him with her short yet insightful analysis. For the first time, he was faced with a conundrum.

His pet might not be as simple as he thought.

‘Your teacher will appreciate your interpretation more than if you sketched the temple perfectly.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’ She smiled to herself.

‘Let’s move, then, shall we?’ he steered her towards the second floor, to the European Art exhibit.

A foreign feeling tugged at his chest as he sneaked a glance to her. Keeping up with his long strides, she wore her heart on her sleeve as she marveled at every little thing they came across.

Inexplicably, he felt drawn to the innocence he found in her gaze—the fact that she could find so much enjoyment in the world around her.

When was the last time he’d felt like that—had he ever?

He’d always enjoyed art, always striven to learn more about it and advance his knowledge. But had he ever reveled in it? Had he let himself go and just enjoyed its existence?

His pet reacted to every novel thing as if it was the most astounding thing she’d ever seen.

Her facial expressions were addictive. Everything about her consumed him on a level he wasn’t sure he understood.

And as he realized that there might be more to her—more depths he had yet not explored—he felt his heart swell in his chest, a foreign anticipation building inside of him.

For as long as he could remember, revenge had been foremost in his mind.

First against his family, then for the untimely death of his real sire and everyone he’d cared about—all in preparation for the final showdown. Since then, he’d never stopped to live, even for a moment.

Yet her unguarded expressions and her intoxicating happiness were drawing him out of the bubble he’d locked himself in.

In his single mindedness, he’d isolated himself from the world, content to watch from afar as it burned.

But there she was.

Unexpected.

Unwelcome.

Uninvited.

He still wanted to watch the world burn. But a small voice inside his head wanted her to join him—take her seat beside him as they reveled in the flames that engulfed every wretched being that had ever stood in his way.

But that was the dilemma. That was the source of his frustration and the cause of his recent unhappiness.

She was part of that wretched whole.

She was nothing but a means to an end.

Then what was he doing here?

‘Can you take a picture of me?’ Her voice startled him from his thoughts. He blinked, focusing on her figure.

She had a shaky smile on her face as she waited for his answer. Her hand extended towards him, she held her phone for him to use.

He disregarded it, however, taking his own phone out to snap a picture.

‘Go on,’ he drawled, waiting for her to get into position.

In the middle of the gallery, she twirled around, choosing a painting at the far end and darting towards it before signaling him to take the photo. He aligned the phone and captured a few photos of her, belatedly realizing how fitting her choice had been.

‘Done?’ She asked cheerfully, running to him to check the picture. ‘Oh, I like this,’ she said as she scrolled through the pictures he’d taken. ‘And this,’ she marked the ones she liked, asking him to send them to her.

Michele dazedly agreed.

‘Let’s take one together,’ she suggested, and before he could give his assent, she grabbed the phone from his hands, asking a passerby to snap a picture of them.

With a boldness uncharacteristic of her, she grabbed his arm, pulling him next to the painting to pose with her.

Ready to tell her off, he looked down at her. But as he opened his mouth, the words would not come. Not when she sported the most ethereal look on her face.

Beautiful.

The thought came unbidden in his mind, and he could only stare at the mass of mahogany curls that flowed down her back, her porcelain skin and the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen in his life. And as her lips widened into a radiant smile, he found that his own followed suit.

Madness.

There was no other explanation for what was happening. He thirsted like he’d never know thirst before—but he didn’t know for what.

He was caught in a web of confusion unlike he’d ever experienced, and as she took the phone back to show him the pictures, he had to begrudgingly agree that he looked entranced.

In every single photo, he gazed upon her like she was a blessed oasis and him a parched desert traveler.

Shaking himself from his reverie, he clenched his fists in annoyance.

How was it that this little slip of a woman could make him forget himself?

‘I sent them to myself,’ she declared proudly as she flipped through the pictures.

‘Why?’ he asked, his voice rough and almost unrecognizable.

‘Hm?’ her brows went up in question.

‘Why this painting?’ He cleared his throat as he signaled to the painting in front of them.

Clouds of smoke and rivulets of magma drew the eye to the center of the canvas, the picture depicting an eruption of Mount Vesuvius—a vision of the world burning just as he’d imagined.

She tilted her head to the side, deep in thought. Her eyes on the painting, she mulled over his question thoughtfully before giving him her answer.

‘Because that’s how you make me feel,’ she told him, vulnerability meeting stark sincerity in her tone.

‘That’s how I make you feel?’ he repeated, shocked by her answer. Of all the things she could have told him, this was the last he would have guessed. ‘How so?’ he inquired, his blood pounding, his thirst increasing.

‘Like I could combust at any moment,’ she confessed, her eyes clear and sincere. ‘Like you could end me at any moment,’ she continued in a whisper.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could end her any moment. Unwittingly, through her words, she was feeding him water on an arid day.

He didn’t reply, lazily swinging his gaze to the painting and pointing towards the small dots right on the edge of the volcano.

‘That’s us,’ he told her. ‘Watching the world end.‘

It wasn’t a denial, but it wasn’t a confirmation either. Because he might end her—no, he would end her.

Eventually.

They stood together in front of the apocalyptic painting, admiring the work of the artist, but more than anything admiring the end. Two lonesome figures watching the flames engulf the world.

Their joint breathing was the only sound that permeated the air, swirling around and engulfing them in an intimate cocoon.

Inhale. Exhale.

Cheeks flushed, heart pounding, she kept herself still by his side. Yet, inching closer, she brought one finger against his own, a touch that should have revolted him.

It didn’t.

Her small pinky grasped on to his much bigger one in a tender gesture.

Unmoving, their hands linked, they stood together.

He immersed himself in the moment, committing the artwork to memory just as he was committing her—her appearance, her moves, her innocence.

Carefully, he was storing every bit of information in his brain—details that went beyond a mere picture in front of an explosive volcano.

But ultimately, he couldn’t help the ironic grin that spread across his lips. She didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. She’d chosen the epitome of destruction, and she’d situated herself right in its path of ruin.

She hadn’t just chosen a grim picture. She’d chosen her own fate.

The end was coming.