The last thing I see before my eyes close is the stars vanishing above me. The last thing I feel is my heart, slamming hard against my ribs.
And then, nothing.
32
FRANCESCO
The engine growls beneath me as I tear down the long drive toward the estate gates, tires screeching against gravel. My hands grip the wheel so tight the leather creaks, and I barely register when I leave the compound or the turns I’m making as I drive onto the main road. All I see is her face as she fell to her knees before him and that goddamn look in Marco’s eyes as he held her.
Did she choose him because she loves him? Because she wants the life he can give her? Or did she choose to survive?
The questions won’t stop spinning through my head.
I heard Marco before the Rite, begging her to fake it—to lie. So even if it was all just an act… why does it still feel like she left me behind?
I slam the gas harder, trying to rid her face from my head.
The only thing that should matter to me now is my mission. La Mano Nera’s Reckoning Ceremony is coming fast. I should focus on the lead I’ve been putting off for a few days, the one I was saving until after all this madness with the ritual.
He’s a man in the south sector. A rat with a record and a grudge, who used to run numbers for the Elders’ tax launderingscheme. He reached out through a broker. He didn’t give me his name or anything to identify him with, but he claimed he had proof—names, documents, dates, everything important I need—that could rip the entire Society apart like a throat slit clean.
Right now, I need that fire.
I take the long route, winding through the back end of the city where the air gets thicker and rougher. Tall buildings made of glass and marble give way to cracked brick and rusted iron fences. Potholes litter the road. Streetlights flicker, casting a dim glow over the cracked sidewalks. I pass old shops, a liquor store with bars on every window, and a gas station blinking with only one half-lit “O” in “OPEN.”
My grip on the steering wheel hasn’t loosened since I started driving. My hands hurt, and my knuckles are pale white.
That’s when I feel it—the cold curl of instinct at the base of my neck.
I glance in the rearview mirror and spot a black car three lengths behind me. The windows are tinted, and the headlights are off.
I take an unnecessary left turn.
So does the car.
I curse under my breath and take another. Then another. They still follow.
Motherfuckers.
I swerve right, picking up speed.
“This is not the fucking time for this,” I mutter, my eyes flashing back to the mirror.
My tires scream as I veer off the main road and cut through an alley lined with rusted dumpsters and chain-link gates. The car keeps pace, faster now.
They’re not trying to tail me discreetly anymore.
“All right,” I mutter, anger building in my chest. “You want a fucking game? Let’s play.”
I hit the gas and shoot out into an old junkyard, my engine howling as I weave between containers and piles of debris. It’s a dead end to anyone who doesn’t know the layout, but I grew up breaking bones in places like this.
I take a sharp turn around a bent cargo trailer, forcing the car to follow my path blindly. Then I slam on my brakes. Hard. My tires shriek. Their car flies past me before they can stop. The second I’m behind them, I slam the gas and ram straight into the back of their car from behind. The metal crunch is brutal and satisfying.
Their vehicle jerks sideways, tires shrieking before it slams into a stack of rusted barrels.
Smoke hisses from their hood.
I kill the engine and throw my door open, gun drawn before my boots even hit the ground.
