Page 17 of Devil's Vows

Dominic sighs. “Well, fuck. We’re going to have to deal.”

“And soon. Fuck, one thing at a time.” Matteo grunts with such ferocity, a steady blush heats my face.

It’s been three weeks of cussing, and if this carries on, one of those is going to pop out of my mouth soon and that’s not the behavior of a good Catholic convent girl.

“Matteo,” Tasha says softly. “Can you talk shop later? Gabriella just arrived?—”

She breaks off, and I tune in to the thickening atmosphere when nobody else speaks.

Matteo clears his throat. Benedict rocks on his heels, not meeting my gaze, and it’s in Luca’s eyes that I read the sympathy.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart already beating faster. “What’s happened?”

“Gabi…we didn’t know whether to tell you or not,” Matteo starts, but then he strokes at his brow with his thumb, eyes downcast.

What on earth… I stifle my gasp. Hasthat Russianfound me?

Dominic comes to my side, makes me sit down on the sofa, and reaches for my quivering hand as he takes the seat next to me. “We wish we had better news for your arrival in Boston, Gabi.”

The way he holds me, stroking my knuckles gently as if he’s about to tell me my adopted stray dog got run over, wraps invisible fingers around my neck, squeezing. “What’s happened?”

Benedict comes over and holds out a tablet to me. “It isn’t what any of us expected. This was posted about three hours ago. It’s headline news on every newspaper site in Italy.”

A news article is open on the tablet’s screen, its headline and opening words screaming at me:Reverend Mother torturedand torched. A new unprecedented wave of violence hits Northern Italy, the convent of Potenza being the latest target.

9

GABI

The tablet slips from my grip as I pull free from Dominic’s gentle hold, clasping my hands to my face. Sobs rake through me, tearing me to pieces as my heart breaks.

Mother Lucia.Tortured and torched.There’s no Russian on my doorstep, but my dear Mother Lucia isdead.

An arm wraps around my shoulders, and I lean into Ariana.

“I’m so sorry, Gabi, so, so sorry.”

“We know she was like a mom to you,” Dominic says from my other side, and all I want to do is harden into stone and sink away to the bottom of a lake. “I wish?—”

We all wish we could turn back time. So far as to the point where none of us were born, I would bet. So many eyes are on me, watching my heartache and despair, and I can’t stop myself from falling apart in front of my new-found family. The other ones I’ve known are all dead.

This is no coincidence. These attacks on convents in Italy started a little over two weeks ago, fueled by whatever the media gets instructed to sell to the people: mass immigration gone wrong, the refugee crisis, drugs. As long as it has a label, the world knows where to slot it into the chaos of life.

But I know better. This is all my fault. Franco Fiore might have been neutralized, but the Russianis still looking for me and will burn the world down to find me.

Imaginings of Mother Lucia’s last hours spill into my mind, becoming all-consuming like fire. I’m going to be sick.

Bile battles up, and I swallow but don’t manage with the uncontrollable sobs that rip through me. I shoot up, pushing Ariana and Dominic aside, wildly searching.

“This way,” Tasha’s voice sounds as she rushes me, hands on my shoulders, toward the open-plan kitchen. “God. I didn’t know. If I had?—”

I make it just in time to the smaller prep sink built into the kitchen island. I wretch into it, emptying my convulsing stomach in mere seconds. My chest heaves as I breathe, spit and tears mingling with snot as the faucet runs, washing my vomit away.

Paper towels appear in front of my blurry gaze, and I press them to my face. I straighten to see all my brothers, my princes, hovering. Dominic with his fists clenched, Matteo with his fingers pushed into his hair, Luca with his shoved into his pockets, jaw so clenched he’s probably cracking teeth. Benedict has his hands held together in prayer, pressed to his lips. They are so tall and strong with muscles straining their suit jackets’ fabric, I involuntarily take a step away from them.

Mafia. All of them. Not a stitch better than Randazzo or that Russian. What have they done? What will they do? Would they do the same as whathehas done to Mother Lucia if they needed to?

I close my eyes for a second to block the visual as Tasha’s gentle grip circles around my shoulders, protective, comforting.