Forced silence suited her just fine. All she could hear besides their footsteps as they followed Roman (seriously, his name wasRoman) down the alley that looped around the tiny island was the gentle smack of waves against the rocks, the distantputt, puttof a motorboat and Jett’s goddamn breath down her neck, ruining everything.
She turned to glare at him.Do you have to walk so close? Shouldn’t you be walking up your girlfriend’s arse instead of mine?
He returned her glare, offering no insight into whether he’d understood.
She increased her pace. Unfortunately she’d worn her magenta Lululemon leggings, which encouraged her arse to be the best version of itself. Not that he would notice or care, but still, with that kiss lingering between them, it was hard to focus knowing, as the path inclined, he would be eye-level with this ingenious sportswear design.
He’s dating Daisy. Your colleague. Your friend. He cancelled their date to drive you home. Because he promised your brother and mother he’d play the role of bodyguard so you don’t end up strung up on a ceiling fan in your office before this case goes to trial.
She argued with herself for the rest of the walk, ignoring the signs written in Italian, English and a bunch of other languages telling her to bask in the silence, set her thoughts free and thatthe walls are in your mind.
The walls were definitely not in her mind. The walls were a pink-haired, perfect girlfriend, a dysfunctional Italian dynasty, a dead university friend, a damaged childhood and a kiss that never should have happened.
If she was going to be Jett’s friend and show him that he should stay in Bindi Bindi, then Daisy was the perfect trump card to help her do that. So why was she fantasising about chopping off her colleague’s perfect pink ringlets and fly-kicking her over the Wall of Silence?
She was a hypocrite. The worst kind of friend. How many times had she thought about Clarkson since they got on the plane? She was the exact type of person she’d made her challenges to weed out of her own life. And now she was sprouting, out of control, in Jett’s.
She stood as far away from him as possible once they reached the wrought iron gates of the abbey. But it was redundant, because Roman was ushering Jett out of the way.
Women only, he mouthed, winking at Nella again. He was what she needed – a hot Italian distraction. Roman was probably five years younger than her and she had more facial hair than him (before her bimonthly waxing appointments, of course). He’d already insinuated they could go on a boat ride across Lake Orta that evening and she’d been going to decline, but now, battling her poisonous thoughts and the feel of Jett’s breath lingering on her neck, why not accept?
The nuns were out in the front garden, snipping, pruning and plucking under the peachy glow of winter sunshine. Surely this cold, orange sphere casting frosty glimmers across the grass was not the same sun they’d left behind in Australia?
Nella nodded at Ariana, who was still a sort of greyish colour but had at least stopped throwing up for the duration of the walk. Maybe she reallywaspregnant. That would make getting Forrest’s DNA for Max a hell of a lot easier.
Nella placed her right palm between the bars of the cool metal gate, trying to ignore the sensation that the bars were going to clamp together and sever her arm at the wrist. She’d writtenROSETTAwith the thick lines of a Sharpie pen across her palm.
The nun closest to them, a young woman with a murderous set of pruning shears, squinted at Nella’s hand before giving a curt nod and resting the shears on the grass.
Nella felt Ariana’s shaky breath beside her. If they were not sworn enemies, she might have offered reassurance in the form of a squeezed hand. But nothing could undo hundreds of years of their families’ feud, so she did nothing as Ariana unbuttoned her cream blouse.
A nun was walking towards them. Rosetta, Nella presumed. Taller than the one with pruning shears, and older. Years of silent living seemed to be good for the skin at least; despite the fact that she was probably in her early fifties, she had very few wrinkles around her mouth (lack of muscle movement?) and eyes.
Rosetta stopped a foot before the gate, her expression neutral, brown eyes curious. She was only looking at Ariana.
Nella looked over at her too and tried not to yelp.
Ariana’s blouse was open, revealing a black lace bra. How had she never noticed before how incredible the younger woman’s boobs were? Oh, right. Mortal enemies. And the drab, bulky grandma clothes she always seemed to wear.
Ariana had dragged the lace down over one of those ridiculously perfect boobs, not in a sexyVictoria’s Secretway, but like she was showing a doctor a concerning mole. Under the lace was what looked like a Celtic tattoo but was actually a heart-shaped crest.
The La Marca Cuore.
The Heart of the La Marcas. People could say all they wanted about the Barbaranis, but at least they hadn’t descended to gang rituals like the La Marcas had, marking their family members and loyal servants with theircuore.Straight over the heart. So they had a bullseye to aim their knife at if you betrayed them.
But that wasn’t what Rosetta was staring at, and Nella’s breath caught in her throat as she realised what it actually was that Ariana was showing Rosetta. She had to look away from the red and purple lines cutting through Ariana’s flesh. Tiny little lines, like marks on a cell, counting the days of isolation across her stomach. Nella didn’t know what had caused those scars. She didn’t want to know. Especially if it was Ariana.
Something passed between Rosetta and Ariana. Something intangible and strange, like a cold breeze over a desert plain. Understanding. Rosetta tilted her head and Ariana nodded slowly, a tear rolling down her cheek. Everyone on their side of the gate held a collective breath.
But as quickly as she’d arrived, Rosetta turned and walked away towards the abbey.
The instinct to scream in rage billowed inside Nella. Silence was bullshit. She grabbed Ariana by the arm as she tried to do up her buttons with shaking hands, making her look up. Ariana shook her head:I’m sorry.
Nella’s insides screamed as Clarkson’s face beamed across the sky of her mind – a sun slowly setting. No.No. This couldn’t be the end. She needed that key. They had to get into the La Marca house. It was going to lead her to what had happened to Clarkson, she knew it. He hadn’t killed himself, he justhadn’t.
Just as she looked up to gauge exactly how far she’d fall if she tried to climb the abbey gate, a movement brought her gaze back to eye level. Nella and Ariana exchanged a look. Dangerously close to one shared between two people who were on the same side and could understand each other via alook.
Rosetta was back. Her left hand was clenched into a fist, which she held out to Ariana – it looked absurdly like she wanted them to fist-bump. Ariana, blouse still half open, tears drying on her cheeks, held out a shaky hand, palm up, and Rosetta dropped a large bronze key on a plastic keyring into it.
