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FOURTEEN YEARS EARLIER

I f I keep running, I’ll make it. They’ll give up. I just have to keep fucking running. Don’t fucking stop. Not for anyone and not for anything. My stomach churns and my legs start to ache as I heave the air from my lungs, the black sky mocking me. Like I didn’t have enough demons inside me, I needed to add to it.

A gun fires behind me, piercing the air, the bullet ricocheting off a car beside me, and I thank whatever gods are on my side that it didn’t hit me. They must be out of bullets now, having unloaded everything they had when they were chasing me with their cars, but I can’t stop to find out.

I need to keep going.

I need to lose them.

“ Maledetto bastardo ! I’m going to tear your fucking fingers off!” one of them yells as they gain on me, the heavy thump of his footsteps getting closer. The streets are small and there aren’t many places to hide, so I had to be clever and lead them to a place I’ve become very familiar with over the last few months.

“He’s heading for the port!” another one yells, figuring out my escape plan.

Turning left, I run up the old path, past the rough houses and boats, and climb up the sketchy ladder, clutching my pocket. I finally make it to the concrete bridge that barricades the sea from the city and realise there’s nowhere to go from here. There should have been a boat waiting for me and slowly, as the feeling of betrayal begins to wash over me, I grit my teeth and steel my spine.

It’s me against them.

I turn to face them, their faces in visible agony as they work to recover their breath.

One of them steps towards me, he’s probably the same size as me, just a little slower.

“Give it back.” He holds his hand out, waiting for me to obey his command as I weigh my options, but there really are none.

If I give it back, they’ll kill me, and if I don’t…they’ll kill me.

He pulls out a large hunting knife and the other man beside him grins. “Don’t make me use this.”

“Come on, then.” I tear part of my shirt off and wrap it around my right hand, preparing myself for a fight.

“I vouched for you.” He lowers the knife an inch. “I told him you’d be a fucking asset to the team.” The hurt in his voice is evident as his brows come together.

I knew my actions would land me here, but I wasn’t about to join the devil in his dealings. Not when I could potentially make a name for myself. What’s the best way to piss off a mobster?

Speak ill of his name? Maybe.

Fuck up on the job? Maybe.

Steal his most expensive possession?

Check.

“Not my problem.” I shrug, which makes him angrier. He lunges at me, and I swiftly dodge it, sliding backward as we circle each other.

“You know this only ends one way.” His eyes narrow in on the bulge in my pocket, his primary goal to get to the stolen item, but there is no way I’m giving it up. Even if it means I fucking kill him. Adrenaline buzzes through me as he swings his right hook. It lands on my jaw, making me stumble toward the edge of the bridge, the water sloshing against the concrete below. Blood flows into my mouth from the impact and I spit, spraying the red saliva into his face, throwing him off balance for a split second. Tackling him to the ground, and just as I’m about to lay into him, hands are on me, pulling me off and throwing me down hard. I can almost hear a crack as his foot connects with my ribs, the collision making my head swim and my lungs collapse.

“I’m fucking tired, Raf.” The man with the knife stands, towering over me, shooing the other man out of the way. “Just remember, I didn’t want this.”

I will my legs to work, to get up, to get me the fuck out of here, but they remain still. Immobilised by the pain and shock my body is enduring. But instead of clutching my ribs, I clutch the item in my pocket.

I refuse for this to be it. There’s no fucking way I did all of this just to end up here.

“Do it like a fucking man.” I spit the blood from my mouth onto the ground and stare up at him considering my last wish. I need to use everything at my disposal if I want to make it through tonight alive and I’m not above fighting dirty. “You really going to kill someone when they’re on their back?”

He huffs, taking a step back, and I work to get myself up on my feet, but before I can plan for my escape, the thick blade cuts through my gut, slicing its way deep into my core. A warmth spreads quickly, along with a frantic tide of adrenaline. A fog of fear clouds over me, sharpening every fucking sound.

I’m going to die.

This is it.

He leans in with his hand still on the handle of the knife and whispers, “Enzo will want your heart for this.”

Grunting, I push him off. The steel of the blade is smothered in my blood, the crimson now glinting in the moonlight.

“Tell him to come and carve it out himself,” I manage to grunt out before throwing myself off the bridge, the cool night air rushing past me in a howl. The instant my body hits the water, it rips the air from my lungs, the jarring impact like a violent embrace. The iciness envelopes me as the bridge blurs into a distant memory. The endless black swallows me slowly, pulling me into its depths.

I hold my breath, my entire body pulsating with the need for air. My arms burn as I use every bit of energy I have left to swim to the surface. As I break through, their voices are muffled through my ragged breathing. I scan the surface for anything to cling onto and to my luck, I spot an old rowboat secured to the dock.

Maybe someone in the sky heard my pleas.

Maybe luck has nothing to do with it.

But maybe…it’s just not my time yet.

“ Da dove viene? ” A voice echoes through my skull as I struggle to open my eyes. The swash of the sea thrusts my body against the wet sand. My head is heavy and my body is drained.

“ Ha perso molto sangue ,” the voice says again, the words jumbling inside my brain as I open my eyes to a bearded man. I lick my cracked lips, tasting the salt on them.

“Let’s take him to the morgue,” he says as they lift me, the pain in my side growing stronger the longer I’m awake. Groaning, I run my fingers over the large gash and stare down at my hand, the sand now mixing with my blood.

“Don’t fucking touch it, idiota ,” the younger one curses as they carry me through dark woods. I’ve never seen them before in my life and I have no way of knowing how long I’ve been in that dinghy, nor do I know where the fuck I am.

When we get to the morgue, the stench of rotting flesh assaults my senses and I almost gag before I’m laid on the cold silver table. They cut open my shirt, pressing a thick gauze onto my wound. My screams reverberate off the walls as something pierces the side of my neck, the thick liquid oozing through my veins. The sting only lasts for a moment before my eyes grow heavier as each second passes.

“Go to sleep.” The guy who looks to be my age stares down at me, continuing to press the gauze down harder, and I give in unwillingly, closing my eyes.

It seems like minutes pass and I’m awake again, only this time I’m in a bed. Looking around the room, I spot a dresser and a writing desk, and I can tell by the shape of the window and the size of the room that the house must be large.

Fuck.

Lifting the blanket, I notice I don’t have the same clothes on. I flinch at the pain when I move, clutching at the fresh bandage over my wound when the door opens and the same two men walk in. They are clearly related as they share the same dark blue eyes and a strong jaw. The older one looks at me with caution before he speaks.

“What is your name, son?”

I pause, not wanting to give these people my real name because I don’t know who they are. They could be on his side for all I know.

“You first.” I clutch my side as I step out of the bed, ready to make a run for it.

He looks to the younger man and back at me. “Please,” he says in a thick Italian accent, “we are not here to hurt you.”

The younger one steps forward with my jacket in his hands, “This is yours…” He extends my jacket to me, and I snatch it from him, diving my hand straight into the pocket and coming up empty.

The older man reaches into his slacks and pulls out the item I nearly died for. “Will you explain how you managed to get your hands on this?” He holds up the Fabergé egg I stole from Enzo and I freeze. He steps forward, places the egg on the bed, and extends his hand to me in greeting. “My name is Dante Della Torre, and this is my son.”