Emilia's POV
I clawed at the floorboards beneath my mattress. The knife was the first thing I saw when I pried the wood open—a blade thin as a serpent's tongue.
It had a message from Paolo.
To my fierce little warrior. Love always, P.C.
The last thing he gave me before he died. The last piece of the man who was my first love and my biggest heartbreak.
I hugged the blade. Poured every ounce of everything I was feeling into it.
"Fuck you too, Paolo."
It didn't make sense, blaming him for dying. But he was Paolo Conti. He was my whole world. He should have been bigger than a tiny little bullet.
I blinked back tears. They fell anyway. I hated how missing him could turn to physical pain.
"I'm scared, Paolo." My voice cracked. "I'm scared."
Movement outside my door made me jump. I hid the blade instantly.
A knock—soft, deliberate. Not Vittorio's fist.
"Miss? May I come in?"
I wiped my face, made myself decent. "Come."
Gio slipped inside. Sweat glistened on his brow. "Your friend… the girl from juvie. She's in the lemon grove."
I almost smiled. He never used her name. "I know what she is, Gio. Her name is Linda."
He ducked his head. "Don't like her causing trouble for you, Miss. She snuck you out and now you're in trouble."
I studied him—really looked. Gio was young, barely older than me. A scar cut just past his left eyebrow. His hand brushed his jaw as he spoke.
Vittorio's signet ring had left that mark. I recognized the shape. I had a matching set beneath my armpit from where he'd grabbed me years ago.
"Linda is good people."
He nodded. "I know. Keep the meeting snappy, baby."
My face brightened. "Why are you helping me? Aren't you under strict orders to keep me caged?"
Gio hesitated. "Your brother saved my life once." The words came rough, like they cost him. "I don't forget debts. And Paolo… he would have helped you."
My lip trembled. I bit down hard.
He would have. Wouldn't he?
"Thank you."
I slipped past him into the hall.
The lemon grove smelled of sharp citrus and damp earth. Moonlight filtered through leaves, dappling the ground in silver.
Linda stood beneath the oldest tree, practically vibrating with urgency.
I crossed the distance and let myself be crushed in a hug beneath the rose arches.
"Did he hurt you?" She pulled back to examine the handprint bruise on my wrist. "The wedding's tonight. We need to move."
"I know."
"I spoke to Liliana." Her voice dropped. "She had strong opinions about what your father's trying to do. And she did something about it." A pause. "She's not the weepy big sister you remember, Em. She's changed."
My throat tightened. Liliana—pregnant again, always pregnant, always smiling with dead eyes. Changed?
"She found us a safehouse in New York. We just have to leave Little Italy." Linda glanced over her shoulder. "Your daddy's not God in New York."
I stared at her. The hope in her eyes was infectious.
"Baba is not God in New York City."
Linda grinned. "No. He's not. Passport's in a blue locker at the bus station. But we have to wait until—"
"Find the bastard who defiled my daughter!" Vittorio's roar tore through the garden. "Tear him apart limb from limb!"
I saw it hit Linda's face before I felt it myself—the knowledge that I was about to do something monumentally stupid.
"Emilia, no—"
I ran.
Burst from the grove, through the hedge, into the courtyard where my father stood surrounded by his dogs.
"Leave him alone!" The words ripped from my throat. "Leave him alone, Baba!"
Vittorio turned. His stare could have stopped a bullet. "I will deal with you in a second—"
Tires screeched.
A black Rolls-Royce with tinted windows roared into the driveway. Doors opened in unison. Four men emerged, suits sharp enough to draw blood, faces that haunted nightmares.
Their leader's tie bore the Marchetti crest—a wolf devouring its own tail. Burned into my memory.
The same symbol carved into Paolo's chest six years ago.
I'd identified his body. I'd seen the photographs. I'd memorized every face.
Salvatore Marchetti. Enzo's right-hand butcher. Caught on camera leaving the warehouse, smiling.
Just like he was smiling now.
"I know you." The words slipped out—quiet, almost a question.
He heard me. He ignored me.
"Don Vittorio." Salvatore's gaze crawled over me like something wet and filthy. Lingered on the bruise at my throat. "We've come to collect your daughter." His smile widened. "Though it seems someone's already had a taste. Enzo won't be pleased."
Vittorio stepped forward, a bull ready to charge. I didn't care about him. I didn't care about anything except the man wearing my brother's murder on his chest.
"I know you," I said louder.
He ignored me again.
"You'll get her at the church." Vittorio's voice was flint. "And nobody's had a taste—unless you're calling my daughter a whore to my face. Then I take your tongue."
"Ah." Salvatore flicked ash from his cigarette. Still smiling. Always smiling. "My apologies. But we must insist. Custom demands the bride be cleansed before joining our family. You understand, don't you?"
Cleansed.
He had that smile on his face. That stupid, amused breath in his lungs. While my brother rotted in a little box in the ground.
I shouldn't have to see that smile.
My spine went cold as ice water. What happened next proved what I'd known all along—I was just as capable of monstrosity as any of them. All it took was the right face in front of me.
Vittorio had turned slightly, presenting his hip. The gun was right there. His guards were watching the Marchettis, not me. For one breath, I was invisible.
I pulled the weapon from his waist.
And I pulled the trigger.
The shot was louder than I expected. It ate the world whole.
Salvatore's smile didn't even have time to fade. His chest bloomed red—a flower opening too fast. He looked down at himself, confused, as if his own body had betrayed him.
Then he crumpled.
The cigarette fell from his fingers. It kept burning on the cobblestones.
Someone screamed. One of the maids. Or Maybe it was me.
Time fractured. I saw everything at once—Vittorio's face gone white, the Marchetti soldiers reaching for their weapons, Gio lunging toward me, Linda's voice screaming my name from the grove.
And Salvatore on the ground.
I did that.
The gun was heavy in my hand. Hot. Paolo's knife pressed against my thigh through my pocket. I exhaled through my mouth.
Vittorio moved first. He backhanded me across the face—not the slap from before, but a full swing that sent me sprawling. The gun skittered across the cobblestones.
"Sei pazza?" His voice was barely human. "Are you insane? Do you know what you've done?"
I knew.
I'd tried to kill the man who murdered my brother.
And in doing so, I'd just started a war.