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MARIA

T here’s a buzz of death in the air—clinging to my skin like static as the storm rages outside my bedroom window.

It’s morbid as hell, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming for us—something that wraps around my throat and won’t let go.

I can’t focus. I paint to quiet the noise in my head, but tonight, the storm outside is louder than usual—and so is the silence inside me. Something crawls beneath my skin, whispering that everything is about to change.

The wind gusts into my room—and then comes the thump. A sharp, clustered snap in my chest, like something breaking in my heart.

“Oh,” I gasp, nearly spilling my wine on the easel. “Well… that was strange.”

I inhale slowly, pushing the chill out of my chest. Fear doesn’t get to live here. Not in this body. Not with the last name Faravelli.

I stare out at the dark clouds that loom ever closer to the manor. I can smell the scent of rain in the air as it wafts through the open window. I close my eyes and allow the scent to calm me. It’s not the storm I find peace in—it's the first breath of rain, the brief hush before everything breaks.

My family and I have been living in Florence ever since I was ten years old. This is the place that shaped me and created the ideas and dreams that lay in my chest. I was not born here, but it feels more like my home than New York.

I draw my glass back to my lips to take another sip. But just as the glass kisses my lips, a rippling scream shatters my eardrum, and I drop my glass onto the floor. Small little shards scatter everywhere, and another wail makes its way into my room.

What in the world is going on?

My heart pounds in my chest. I jump over the small shards and make my way to the door, running with bare feet and heart in hand.

The screams come from the foyer, echoing through the hallway like a prophecy already fulfilled. The dread cements itself onto my bones, growing heavier with each step toward the top of the stairs. I stop and stare down at the scene unfolding below.

Three people stand in the middle of the foyer.

My father’s second, Elliot, stands drenched in blood and pale as a sheet. He stares at my papa with somber eyes. My mother rests at his feet, her body collapsed on the floor. Her face is red as she screams Bloody Mary, her cries echoing into the foundation of the home.

Death. Just as I had felt.

I swallow hard as I try to release the lump that has lodged itself in my throat.

Breathe, Maria. Breathe .

“Papá…” I don’t even recognize my voice. It feels more like that of a stranger.

The two men turn their heads to where I stand at the top of the stairs. All the color has drained from my father’s face. My mother continues to wail on the floor, and Elliot looks like a broken man.

I open my mouth to ask what has happened, but deep within my soul, I know. I felt the tether snap—I believe I knew before they all did.

“Antonio is dead, cara.”

Four words. That’s all it takes to shatter my world.

“He’s gone, cara.”

I hold onto the railing to steady myself, to keep from falling over. I press my hand over my heart and will myself to breathe.

He’s… but… I just spoke to him this morning. There is no way that my twin is… No. No. No. This isn’t real. Antonio was just here. Laughing. Breathing. Living.

The world tilts beneath me. My knees hit the cold marble floor, the impact barely registering over the crushing weight in my chest. My breath comes in short, jagged gasps, my ribs caving in as if the air has been punched from my lungs.

My lips part, and like my mother, I let out the most gut-wrenching wail—one that comes from the mist-broken and bitter parts of my soul.

My brother is dead.

48 hours later

My brother is dead. I will never again hear his boisterous laugh moving through the empty hallways. I will never share a coffee with him in the morning after our runs. This world— all it does is take from us.

I try not to let the bitterness of it all consume me, but it’s hard. I bat my eyes and try to push back the tears that threaten to spill. I’ve cried enough to fill Lake Como. It has been nothing but tears and heartache for the past forty-eight hours.

“Il mio bambino, Dio ha preso il mio bambino.” My baby, God took my baby. My mother’s cries can be heard throughout the cemetery. She clings to my father for dear life, his sunglasses on, his face stoic and unchanging.

The cries pierce right into the deepest chambers of my heart. I hear it crack, the soft flesh-like thing shattering like glass under the weight of a mountain. Tears streak down my face as I stand beside my wailing mother, a single white rose in hand.

The breeze blows, weaving through my hair and kissing my cheeks as if the heavens sent it to wipe my tears.

“And so from dust you were formed, and to dust you shall return.” The pastor holds his hand in the air and makes a cross.

The coffin begins to lower into the ground, and my mother’s wails increase.

“We lay you to rest, Antonio Marcelo Faravelli. May the Lord open His arms to you at the gates of heaven, and may you find everlasting peace.”

The soft strumming of the violin begins to play. The gathered crowd watches in sorrow as my brother finds his new home in the dirt.

Fuck. I thought I could make it through this day. I thought that somehow I would manage, but now… I realize I’m holding on by a mere eyelash.

Pain. This can only be described as the most gut-wrenching pain I have ever experienced in my entire life. I want to be strong. I want to hold fast, but…

I lift my gaze—and freeze.

Across from me, a pair of dark brown eyes lock onto mine. Cold. Calculating. They’re an electric storm, raging and roaring in silent dominance, promising destruction without a single word. My breath catches. My pulse stutters.

I’m staring into the face of a man I haven’t seen since I was ten—a man from the past, now cloaked in flesh and power. A name that shifts the air in any room, stilling every breath.

Feared like a god. Obeyed like a king.

They call him the Warlord.

Matteo Davacalli.

And not without reason. Because he doesn’t negotiate. He annihilates.

They say he once wiped out an entire rival family in a single night. No survivors. No mercy. Just blood and silence.

What is he doing here? I knew that back in the day, he and my father had been friends.

But as the years passed and we relocated to Florence, the man had turned his back on us.

As far as I remember, he looked down on my father for wanting to pull us out of New York before the turf wars that nearly took his son—Daniele.

So why is he here now? Maybe it’s simply a courtesy, an obligation of sorts that he wants to fulfill to honor his old friend.

My parents step forward, and my mother’s wails have now dropped a few volume levels. They throw their roses into the grave and step back.

His gaze lingers a second too long, like he’s searching for something beneath my grief.

I rip my eyes from Matteo Davacalli and step forward.

I stare down into the hole, the coffin now resting at the bottom.

I never imagined this is how my year would unfold.

Antonio just never seemed like the dying type.

He is—was—invincible in my mind. My superhero brother who defeated all the bad things that went thump in the night.

And there he is, in a box, six feet deep in the ground.

“Mi hai lasciato il cuore spezzato, fratello.” You left me brokenhearted, brother. The tears trail down my cheeks again. The wind blows once more, lifting the wisps of hair that hang against my face. “I love you for all eternity.”

I step away from the grave and allow the others to throw their roses inside. My father has taken my mother off to the side, giving her the privacy and decency to break away from the proximity of the crowd.

I lift my head again, and like before, he is watching me. His eyes are like lasers—precise and deadly in their sharpness. His expression is blank. I can’t get a good enough read on him to guess what he could possibly be thinking.

All I know is that this man’s presence alone is enough to make me feel uneasy. If the Warlord is here, it means that death and chaos are not far behind.

I splash my face with cold water, trying to wake myself up. The chardonnay has finally caught up to me, and my body is beginning to feel the downhill effects. I lift my head and stare at my now bare face in the mirror.

My eyes are bloodshot from all the tears I’ve cried. My neatly pinned bun has stayed in place all day. My cheeks are flushed from the icy water, but other than that, I don’t seem too off-putting.

“Smudged mascara, red eyes—time to paint over the wreckage.” I reach under my bathroom sink and pull out some concealer. If I didn’t have to go back down and mingle with the rest of these people, I would be on my second bottle of chardonnay. It’s what my brother would have wanted.

Antonio always used to say, “Every second is a good time for bubbly.”

I choke out a laugh as I apply my concealer. Tears brim in my eyes, but I do my best to hold them back. The last thing I need right now is to ruin my makeup for the second time.

Go down. Talk to parents—mainly my father. Then drink my sorrows away in my bed.

That is my game plan, and a solid one at that. I’m sure the wine will be a better conversationalist than the people currently in my home.

I come out of my room after about twenty minutes. I walk to my parents’ door and open it slightly. There, I find my mother lying on the bed, her chest rising and falling gently.

The pills worked.

I am not in favor of drugs helping her cope, but I popped a Xanax this morning to get through the day. If this is what helps her sleep and keeps her from being hysterical, then it’s a win for all of us. I hate hearing her bloodcurdling scream. I hate not being able to soothe her pain.