I worked my jaw, grinding my teeth. “Father snatched you away from them for a reason.”
Her lips curled in distaste.
The topic of my father all these years later left the woman bitter. I hissed under my breath. “Thanks to them, we have to carry weapons.”
Her nostrils flared, and she pinned me with a glare. “My brother inherited the same enemies as my father, if not more. Lorenzo, whisking me away from my former life, changed nothing. I’m my father’s daughter. His enemies are my enemies, and yours. One day, they’ll be your children’s enemies, too.” She analyzed the side-view, then sat poised in her seat.
One hand kept on the wheel. I seized the gun in my pocket. “What?”
“I thought we were being followed. False alarm.” She slapped her hands over the garment bag in her lap. “Now, where was I? Right, I want to see my family. They want to meet you too, you and your brother. Wewillattend this event.”
Great, an evening amidst mafioso criminals loomed in my immediate future. My father, Lorenzo Cammarata, forbade her from contacting her mobster kin once they’d eloped; no problem there since Carina’s own father excommunicated her for rejecting Vito De Luca.
Lorenzo stemmed from ambitious men, Cammarata men, who built their legacy and branded a name for themselves. He abhorred my mother’s past, in particular the mafia’s dishonest lifestyle.
We hadn’t heard a peep from my mother’s side when my father died. Had Carina tried reconciling with her own father before his own timely death? My proud mother would never admit she regretted eloping with Lorenzo Cammarata. Perhaps if she had listened to her father, married someone from her world, she would have been happier. Yes, she’d have been a mobster’s wife—but perhaps a happier version of one. What if her life had turned out better than her current existence? Could she have had power, respect, and a modicum of contentment instead of this simmering, ever-present resentment?
Her phone buzzed, and she answered on the second ring. “Va bene. No, don’t bring her to the villa. Go to the address I sent. Have her ready tomorrow.” She ended the call and grinned.
Her hired men had called nonstop, for sure keeping her posted with their every move. “Good news?”
“Your future mother-in-law’s here.” She smirked, no different from the cat who stole the cream… or, in this case, the mother of the bride. “All our hard work’s about to pay off.”
So our men shipped Elisabetta Russo back from Australia. Let the games begin.
In the rearview, a black car pursued us. Two men occupied the front, and another in the back middle seat. I extracted the gun from my pocket. “You’re right. We’re being followed.”
Carina surveyed the rear window. “Those unscrupulous De Lucas!” She wrenched her purse, brandishing her own gun. “Fretta, Enzo.”
I merged onto the exit, aware the deserted dirt road led to Messina’s open plains and hilltop scenery.
“Why go this way?” She scolded, loading her gun.
“You’d rather risk us getting stuck in traffic?” Not to mention this route saved civilians caught in the mess. If one of these lowlifes shot at me, guaranteed I’d shoot back, and had done so many times before, but I refused to risk bystanders; this good conscience trait had to stem from my father’s side, considering Carina displayed little to no sympathy for the innocent lives of others.
Telephone poles and grassy hills greeted us ahead. She hit the side button and the tinted glass lowered. Wind whipped her hair and the roar of the chase flooded the car. Carina fixed her gaze on the side mirror, cold and calculating, a sniper sizing up its target. She wanted De Lucas to know who was in control, by toying with their pursuit, fueled by a loathing that ran deeper than bullets.
I flexed my fingers over the wheel, swiping my tongue across my teeth. As a young boy, I feared for my mother when faced in these scenarios, but experience taught me the woman owned nine lives and a bravery not even found in grown men.
She fired rapid shots from within the car, her focus tight on the side mirror. Each shot punctuated the ping of metal on metal. Her voraciousness epitomized the cold, simmering rage of a woman wronged, and who grew determined to inflict her own brand of pain.
Bullets hurled back. One shattering my side mirror. My ears rang, and the car lurched, the impact shaking us both. Carina swore a string of rapid Italian curses, but kept her hands steady as she gripped her gun. She balanced her gun on the window’s edge, just enough for it to peek out into the open, and fired another round, blowing their tire. I hit the gas, gaining speed. Their black car shrunk into no more than a small dot in my rearview. Once back on the main road, I merged onto the highway. Now we’d endure a longer drive to the villa, thanks to those De Lucas.
Carina slumped back in her seat, her cold mask unflinching. “News we’re back in town has circulated. We have to be extra vigilant from now on.”
A clear example of why I hated this place. If this constituted our welcome home party, I grew more determined to leave.
She shot me a pointed stare. “You may not have grown up in thefamiglia, but mafia blood runs through your veins. Be thankful I trained you to protect yourself, rather than leave you vulnerable in this world.”
But shehadleft me vulnerable. I bit my tongue, stopping myself from spilling the reminder, not wanting to worsen her mood. As for training me to protect myself, no—she trained me to kill. The memory slammed into me, raw and immediate, the scent of wet concrete filling my nostrils.
“Run, Enzo,” mamma called from behind. Heavy rain pelted our bodies and soaked into our clothes. We raced up the cold, dark alley behind my father’s factory, our footfalls splashing in puddles. My heart caught in my throat at the solid brick wall. A dead end.
I spun to her. Raindrops splattered down my neck. “There’s nowhere to go.”
Mamma shoved me into a corner and slapped her gun into my hand.
“What are you doing?” I sank down. My tweed coat scratched the brick at my back. My pants soaked the instant my bottom hit the dirty, drenched concrete.
