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“It boils down to this: You don’t think I have a place in the famiglia.” Triumph rang through my words.

Those black eyes glowered at me. “You don’t think I would give you a seat at the fucking table, sorellina?”

“No, I don’t,” I pushed back, fingers turning white as they pressed against the table.

“I made her my right hand!” Sandro stabbed his finger in the air, pointing at his wife. “If you showed even a drop of inclination to serve the famiglia, I would have rejoiced! You’ve been aimless, spoilt, and despondent for twenty-some years, Serena. I would have welcomed the desire to make something of yourself!”

“Sandro,” Penelope cautioned, voice stern.

Wrath sizzled under my veins. “I found my place, my calling, Sandro. And now you’ve taken me prisoner.”

“For your own good!” he spat. “You went on a vacation and wound up kidnapped! Clearly, you can’t be trusted—”

“Enough!” Penelope banged her fist against the table.

Piccolo barked, fangs bared. Her faithful sidekick dared us to turn our anger against the queen.

“I won’t have this hostility in our home,” Penelope snapped. “It would serve you both right to lock you in a room and let you starve for a few days until you make up.”

“She—”

“He—”

“I said enough.” Penelope’s words were pure ice. “Serena, your brother was worried sick. He barely slept these last weeks. And Alessio...you need to let her go, my love.”

The first calming breath I’d taken since coming north filled my lungs. As consigliere, Penelope’s job was to advise the don. Lucky for me, he happened to listen to her ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time. I mentally crossed my fingers this wasn’t the point-one time he didn’t.

In the silence that ensued, Sandro’s phone rang. He flicked a glance at the screen and cursed.

“Pronto.” He listened to whatever was said on the other end of the line.

Then something happened that I’d never seen before. My big brother, the mighty and terrible don, blanched. The color drained from his face. His hands freaking trembled. And his gaze darted about, glancing at the exits and windows as if a poltergeist haunted the shadows.

“Quick, under the table,” he ordered, waving his hand—which had his pistol in it.

Piccolo moved close to Penelope, growling low in his chest.

“Alessio, what’s happened—”

“I said take cover!” my brother shouted as a quick pop-pop broke the glass.

I shrieked and dove. Unlike the first gunfights I experienced, this was horrific in the extreme. As I hid shivering under the table, I realized why.

Markos wasn’t here.

My brother was a capable fighter, but his wife came first, just as duty came first to his soldiers.

I was alone.

In a gunfight.

Screw this.

I scuttled from under the table, duck-walking to the kitchen. Shepherd hid weapons in there, and sure as shit, there was a shotgun in the false side of the pantry.

Aiming around the aperture, I took a deep breath. First rule of gunfights: never show fear. Second rule: shoot straight.

Or so I assumed.