Page 78 of A Murder of Crows

They don’t understand. And they won’t, not until they face a similar choice, have to face crossing their own lines. We all have them.

I nod towards the doors. “Open them.”

The men around me stir, exchanging glances over my head.

“I said,open the doors.” At my snap, they slowly move ahead.

The main hall is far more ornate than the dining hall. This is the place where we gather for formal occasions, though nonehave ever felt so somber as this one. The atmosphere is chilled as we walk through. This is no party.

The only light comes from the golden chandeliers above our heads. Each one is lit with dozens of slim candles, casting flickering light and shadows across the floor. At the bar, smartly dressed staff in black offer every possible choice, from the best champagne to the finest brandy.

The dons have not skimped on the expenses for tonight.

Everywhere I look, people are drinking. Most of them heavily. A few of the more inebriated stumble into our path, quickly pushed back by my guards, as I push on, the train of my dress flowing out behind me.

Towards the thrones set up in the middle of the room.

How fucking ludicrous. One for each of us, as if we’re gods. As though we’re not just as flawed and human as the rest of them.

Stefano is the only other heir present. He watches as I ascend the small steps, sweeping my skirts around. Settling into the middle throne, I grip the gilded edges. The intricate gold decoration cuts sharply into the back of my legs through the feathers of my gown. “Evening, Stefano.”

“You should not be here.” His voice is just loud enough to hear over the music.

I don’t turn my head. “I am exactly where I need to be.”

In a place where I can watch. Noting the people in attendance. Asantes, Morellis and V’Arezzos mingle in small groups, loiter at the bar.Mingle, as directed by the dons.

The next generation of the Cosa Nostra. There will be fighting tonight, or fucking.

Probably both.

I don’t see a single Fusco.

Even the Crows are thin on the ground, the bulk made up by the men who spread out in a line in front of the five thrones.I spot Amie, pretty and perfect in a bright gold gown, but she turns away rather than meet my eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I show no discomfort as I sit there, watching. Stefano joins the rest of the Asantes, but I remain where I am, my back straight.

Alone.

And as the evening crawls along, I wait.

Because they are coming.

I glimpse Dante and Luciano in the crowd below, working their way through. They don’t turn towards me – don’t look my way at all, it seems.

So I sit there, waiting. Trying not to think about Dante. Luciano. Or about Domenico, who will be raging in his hospital bed as nobody picks up the phone.

But above all, I try not to think about Rosa and Giovanni Fusco.

The crowd grows steadily more active as the night passes. Quiet, serious conversation turns to drunken calls and shouts, the noise growing into an almost deafening buzz that rises above the music. Someone falls over in their drunken stupor, taking a table with him. Glasses smash to the floor, red wine soaking into the pristine white tablecloth.

A moving, pulsing wave of animals.

And then a frenzy erupts.

Chapter forty-one Luciano