14
ELENA
The door slammed open like a warning shot, and I flinched. Another Malatesta I assumed, who was older and meaner-looking, stormed in, his voice already raised. "You're going to blow the deal with the Donatis over this bullshit?"
Behind the angry Malatesta, a second guy slunk in—younger, barely out of his teens—clutching a duffel bag to his chest like it would save him from whatever storm he was stepping into.
Alfeo didn't answer right away. His jaw twitched, but his grip on the gun didn't waver. I could see Jackson's face paling as he held his wounded leg.
Ivy's eyes met mine, a silent conversation passing between us. We'd survived foster care together. We'd survived my mother's diagnosis. We'd survived everything life had thrown at us. We could survive this too.
Ivy's fingers found mine, squeezing hard enough to hurt. I squeezed back, the small connection our only lifeline in this nightmare.
She still clutched her pepper spray in her free hand, keeping it out of sight.
Could we do something? I was trying to figure that out, studying Alfie, deciding on what options we had. But there weren't many openings. Not with a loaded gun trained on Jackson. He'd seen me looking around, trying to find a way out of this, had given me the smallest shake of his head.
I couldn't just let Alfie, whoever the fuck he was, stop me from seeing my mom again.
"They won't let this slide again," the older man snapped. "You think they'll show mercy twice?"
Jackson's face remained masked. "He's right," he stated. "You start this war, you won't survive it. The Donatis will burn you down to ash."
For a second—just a second—Alfeo hesitated. His eyes flicked to Jackson, then to the man. Doubt cracked through his bravado like a hairline fracture.
Hope flickered in my chest, fragile as a candle flame. I glanced at Ivy, whose wide eyes reflected the same desperate wish. Maybe we'd get out of this alive after all. We wouldn't need to do anything, no crazy, dangerous moves that could end with blood. Maybe Alfie would just walk away.
"You already fucked this up," the man said, stepping closer. "You think Leo Donati's going to let this go?"
Jackson's voice was low, but steady. "Walk away now, and I'll make sure they don't retaliate. You can still fix this."
Would the Donatis really let this slide? I doubted it. Jackson was probably saying anything to get us out alive, making promises he couldn't keep. I couldn't blame him—I'd have promised the moon if it meant saving our lives.
Alfeo's laugh was sharp and bitter. "The Donatis don't run this city. They're not gods."
"They don't have to be," the older man muttered. "They just have to be pissed."
The tension snapped. The older guy reached for something—maybe a weapon, maybe his phone—but Alfeo was fast and trigger friendly. One shot. Loud. Final.
Blood sprayed across the floor as the man dropped like a sack of meat. I jerked back, my heart slamming against my ribs as I stared at the body on the kitchen floor now.
Ivy screamed, the sound piercing the air before she slapped her hand over her mouth.
"Shut up or you're next!" Alfeo snarled, swinging the gun toward her.
The blood pooled around the dead man, spreading in a sick, shining puddle across my apartment floor. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, fear crystallizing into something cold and heavy in my stomach. This was real. This was happening. Someone had just been murdered in my living room.
All my planning, my attempts to figure out what to do, it had come to a screeching halt with the reality of a dead man.
The other Malatesta—barely more than a kid—stared at the body, pale and shaking. I wondered if it was his first body, like it was mine.
"You're out of your mind," the young man whispered. "I'm done. This is too far."
Alfeo turned the gun on him. "You're not done until I say you are. Give me your gun, nice and slow, slide it across the floor. Then tie them up. You're going to help me load them in the van."
The kid hesitated. I saw the war in his eyes—fear, disgust, survival. Finally, with trembling hands, he pulled a small handgun from his waistband and slid it across the floor toward Alfeo. Only then did he reach into the duffel bag, pulling out coils of rope, his movements jerky with fear.
"Wait," I said, my voice cracking as my mind finally began turning once more. I needed to do something. Jackson was ourbest chance now. "Let me stop the bleeding. He's no good to you dead."
