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"That is strange advice coming from you." Ah, my little aquila is showing her talons again.

"It may seem like that to you, but it's different." She arches a brow, needing further explanation. "My father's killer is still very much alive and with us, something I can change. Your adversary, your mother, is dead. If you want to call your father out on his part, I'm here and I will support you."

"No, I don't want my dad…" she drifts off, understanding my point. "You're right." She nods. "Nothing good will come out of me accusing myself. But I'm not sure I can just stop it."

"That, passerotta, is what I'm here for," I fold her into my arms, and she snuggles into my side, where she, as always, fits fucking perfectly.

The next morning…

It's still not easy to digest that I basically killed my mother, no matter how long I've accused myself of that very fact. Most of the time, I held on to the fragile hope that Dad told the truth when he said she was alive and he took her to the hospital. Most of the time. Just never in my dreams. In my dreams, I all but pushed her down the stairs.

But Antonio is right. I have to come to peace with it. Otherwise, it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I need to forgive my fifteen-year-old self. Need to see her—me— the way Antonio portrayed her. A confused, hurting young girl. Who is to say that even if I had grabbed Mom's hand, she wouldn't have pulled me down with her, and we'd both be dead?

I need to come to terms with the fact that part of my life is over. Over and done. I can't change it, but Icanchange future Scarlet. She can become a guilt-ridden shell of herself, or she can become a strong woman at Antonio's side. Perhaps even a mother—subconsciously my hand reaches for my stomach. Right on cue, my stomach revolts, and I rush to the bathroom.

"Scarlet?" Antonio's concerned voice reaches me as he comes into the bathroom.

Mortified, I hold my hair back with one hand, trying to wave him off with my other as I throw up mostly bile. I hear the sound of rushing water. Then I feel Antonio's hand pulling my hair from my face and up into a ponytail, before a wet piece of cloth rubs over my forehead.

"Passerotta, what's wrong?" His face is filled with concern, but I wish he would go away and leave me to wallow in my misery—no such luck. The cool towel feels incredibly good as it washes down my forehead, cheeks, and neck.

When I think the worst is over, I take the offered washcloth and wipe my mouth before accepting a glass of water from his outstretched hand. He kneels right next to me, concern written all over his features.

"Are you sick? Do you need me to call Doc?"

I would love for him to call Doc, but I have a growing suspicion he would insist on being right by my side. As much as I like spreading my legs for him, under no circumstances will I allow him to be in the same room while I do it for a doctor. I can envision the blood bath that would follow, and I'm starting to like Doc.

"I'm okay… I think it's just… the stress," I say. It's not really a lie. It's possible. I don't know anything for sure yet.

"Still, I need to make sure." He pulls out his phone.

Gently, I take it from him. "I'm fine," I reassure him. "If this happens again, you can call him."

It's as if he can sniff out that I'm hiding something, but thankfully, his phone rings, and I hand it back to him. He helps me off the floor, and I brush my teeth while listening halfheartedly to his end of the conversation, at least at first. When his tone increases in urgency, I look up.

"Fuck!" Antonio shakes his head. "Let me know what I can do. We need to find whoever did this."

My heartbeat picks up a few paces. He looks… stricken. "I'll look into it. You have my word. Keep me posted."

"What happened?" I ask when he ends the call, moving to his side.

"Marcello was gunned down."

"Marcello Orsi?" I ask, since that's the only Marcello I've heard of.

He nods. "Yes, it looks like his bodyguards turned against him and gunned him down in a parking garage." He shakes his head. "He's the guy who gave me the information on your dad."

"I'm sorry. Is he…"

"He's not dead yet. Motherfucker seems to have more lives than a cat. But he was shot in the head, so…" he drifts off, rubbing his neck.

"I'm sorry," I repeat uselessly. "Do you want to go to the hospital, see him?"

An amused expression crosses his face. "We're not that close, but I'm going to put some feelers out to see who is behind this, and they'll pay."

Ah, okay. They're not close enough for a hospital visit, but they are close enough to revenge-kill whoever did this. It should have frightened me, but the slightest smile tugged at the corners of my lips. It was hard not to see the irony in this. After all, this was my world now, too.

Toughen up, little girl,you wanted to say goodbye to the good girl, well…