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Gia

Boston, Massachusetts

B lood. So much fucking blood.

The blade moved with each pulse. The edge cut deeper into my flesh with every heartbeat.

A serrated knife. How fucking great.

The red brick at my back scratched me through my winter coat as the snow fluttered down from above.

Bleeding and cold. Exactly how I thought I would go.

“Durante whore!” was all I’d heard before pain struck between my ribs.

I was walking home from my last class of the semester. I was elated and careless. I trusted that after all these years of hiding in academia, no one would come after me.

Complacency. That was my downfall.

“You’re a traitor to Morelli!”

Over and over again. “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! ”

I ran as fast as I could.

As fast as my burning lungs would let me.

Fuck Boston. Fuck Massachusetts. Fuck, fuck, fuck !

Do I leave the blade in? Do I take it out? Cazzo!

The blood was warm on my cold, trembling hands. Just as it had been over twenty years ago, when I screamed over my grandfather’s corpse. His hot blood drenched my little, frozen fingers as the snow cascaded from above.

It was just so fitting. My first memory was of my nonno ’s slit throat as he took his last breath.

My father and grandfather died the same way—by an Irishman’s blade. I knew that I would meet my end the same way. It was the curse of my bloodline. The only question was… when?

Not today.

I grabbed the handle of the knife. I screamed as I pulled it from its perch and threw it with what little strength I had left. It clattered on the concrete ground as I placed my trembling hands over the wound.

I would not die until I took my enemies with me.

“Gia! Gia!”

I heard the voice cry out from the darkness. The voice of a friend. He was silhouetted in shadow as he blocked out the light. Still, even in the darkness, I knew it was him.

I was safe. He would save me.

“Marco? Marco! Help me.”

That was the last thing I said before the world turned black.