I grew up on white bread and bicycle rides, Sunday dinners and county fairs, loving parents and a community where everyone looked out for each other. In a safe world until cancer,and later murder, shattered the illusion. But even so, that could never prepare me for something like this.
A bullet ricochets off the floor. Fight or flight instincts scream “keep running.” But logic says I’ll be dead if I do. So I stop and freeze, and not knowing what else to do, simply stand there.
“You stupid ciglione.” Scarface glares at the gunman, and the shooting stops. “You’ll alert the police.” His attention swings toward the kid. “Don’t stand there, get her.”
He charges toward me, then with a death clamp on my arm, drags me into the foyer and pushes me to the floor. I fall backward, my head hitting the cement floor.
Ciro swings like a piñata overhead, blank eyes staring off into nothingness.
As I sit up, my fingers feel tacky like I touched wet chalk. It takes me a moment to process what it is.
Blood. Ciro’s blood. I’m covered in it. Bile burns my throat, and my stomach churns, but the agonizing pain within my heart overwhelms everything else. Frantic, I wipe my hands on my shirt. “No, not again.Please, not again.”
“Shut your trap,” Scarface warns.
I swallow a whimper like it’s foul medicine. Two men dressed in suits, more suitable for Wall Street than murder, point guns at me. The remaining four wear black sweatpants and hooded sweatshirts. All six are sweating profusely, and a small part of me revels in their discomfort.
Though not enough to ignore the fact they’re wound so tight, Saran Wrap would be proud.
“You the girl who left earlier?” Scarface demands.
So, Iwasbeing followed. The kid answers for me. “I said it’s her.”
“Shut up.” With the barrel of his pistol, Scarface gestures at me. “Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Tough luck, then.” He grins a twisted, sadistic smile that chills me to the bone. “You should have stayed gone.”
Oh God. Am I about to die? Was this my father’s last thought when stupid Stephanie welcomed him home with a canceled credit card statement and a bullet?
A cell phone rings.
Scarface turns completely pale as he retrieves it from his jacket. “Fuckin’ hell.” He tosses it like a hot potato to the kid. “You answer it.”
Frantic, the kid swipes to answer. “Boss. They pumping you full of good meds in the hospital?”
Everyone stiffens.
“Che stupido!” Scarface exclaims. “Who does he think he’s talking to?”
The kid shuffles nervously as he listens with wide eyes, then stutters, “No. No disrespect. Sorry. It’s a goddamn sauna in here and…”
I study them from beneath my lashes. Dark haired. Speaking Italian mixed with English. Minions to a boss who terrifies them. These men are mafia, for sure.
And the likelihood I’ll survive this is less than zero … in the negatives, really … I draw in a breath, then gag. The unbearable stench of blood is only magnified by the heat.
Will I be covered in my own blood next?
“Um … yeah,” the kid announces. His eyes skim across the other men before resting on me. “No. No. We locked the building up good and tight like you asked. She must have had a key because she came in through the back.” There’s a lengthy pause. “No. Nothing on Conti. But we’ve got some files you’ll wanna see.”
The kid’s eyes bug out of his head as the others exchange worried glances. Soldiers, isn’t that the term for lower-rankingmafioso? And the kid did address the man on the phone as “boss.”
“Yes. You got it. We won’t leave until we’ve collected every fucking paper. No need for threats…” Eyes wide, body tense and goofy smile gone, the kid’s in full panic mode. By the expression on the other men’s faces, they all are freaked out by the phone call. Whoever their boss is, there’s no denying his power.
A shudder races up my spine.
“What?” the kid finally exclaims, and abruptly stills. His eyes rake over me. “Brown hair. Short, like five foot three. Really pretty, even with blood all over her.”
