Page 8

“Tony, don’t . . .” Benito warned from his seat beside my brother. He was always the voice of reason in that duo. But Tony didn’t even glance at his cousin—instead, he smiled at Stefan Russo and it wasn’t nice at all.
My chest tightened, and I looked down the table to get Papà’s attention, but he was in conversation with Nicolas and my uncles.
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Tony drawled. “I didn’t miss—what was his name? Ah, yes, Piero . . .?” My brother’s eyes flickered with dark enjoyment. “Hit the bullseye on that one.”
Tony’s amusement faded into a deathly quiet that even the family and guests at the head of the table noticed. Everything went static, like a still-shot in a magazine.
I never saw it coming.
My pulse leapt into my throat as an arm clamped around my waist, pulling me to my feet. My head was forced to the side as a cold barrel pressed against my temple.
Shouting rang out in Italian. Chairs fell backward to the patio as everyone jumped to their feet. Guns rose in every direction.
I heard my papà ordering commands, but my heart drowned out his voice. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. The beat resounded beneath a cold sheen of fear.
I hadn’t lived a picturesque life, no matter what my red front door and golden knocker conveyed. I’d seen my papà cut off a man’s finger when I was seven. I’d watched my uncle shoot a man in the head, his face sideways on the bloodstained carpet, eyes open. I’d seen knife wounds, bullet wounds, so much red. But through all that, I’d never had a gun pressed to my head. Never felt cold metal against my temple. Never felt as if my life could be gone, just like that.
The cold in my veins froze to ice.
Nicolas’s voice cut through the drumming of blood in my ears. It was low and smooth, and I grabbed onto it like a life raft. “Put it down, Stefan.”
“He was the one who killed Piero!” The barrel shook against my head, and my lungs constricted, but I didn’t move a muscle as I stared at the hedges lining the iron fence.
“Tony!” my papà snapped. “Don’t.”
I glanced at my brother, only to stare at the end of a barrel. He was going to shoot the Russo behind me, but with my heels on the man didn’t have much height on me.
“You’re a poor fucking shot, Tony. We all know you’ll hit the favored little Abelli!” Stefan’s heated voice vibrated against my back.
“Put. It. Down.” Nicolas’s words carried a calmness with a hint of animosity, like the ocean before a storm.
One second, two seconds. Stefan was hesitating—
Bang.
Something warm and wet hit my face. My ears rang as the voices around me sank underwater. The man’s arm fell from me, and a dull thunk sounded as he hit the ground.
The newscaster’s voice replayed in my mind, murder spilling from red lips, again, and again. Numbness flooded me. Sounds rushed in, pulled out of water with heavy chains, dripping wet.
“Sit the fuck down! Now!” my father’s voice rang out. “We’re going to finish this lunch, goddammit!”
It took a moment for his words to process and to realize that everyone sat stiffly in their chairs but him and Nicolas. My future brother-in-law’s heavy, unreadable gaze touched my skin as I stared at the gun in one of his hands.
“Elena! Sit!” Papà snapped.
I dropped into my chair.
The warmth of blood dripped down my cheek. Red had splattered across my chair and part of the white tablecloth. A dead Russo’s feet touched my own.
I sat there, pulling my gaze from a staring Gianna to Tony, who ate his dessert with relish.
“Elena.” The small warning came from my papà, and because I was told to, I put a forkful of tiramisu in my mouth and chewed.
Placing my hand on the back of my hat, I glanced up at the clear blue sky.
Circumstances aside, it really was a beautiful day.
“This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”