22. Ravenna
Ravenna
“ W elcome, family, friends, and allies,” Uncle Davide, the new don of the Pontrelli family, addresses the Italians and Irish with Cian at his side. “Tonight we have justice for the tragic loss that we have all suffered. May my brother, and our beloved late don, rest in peace.”
Everyone repeats the sentiment. The words taste like ash on my tongue.
My father was not a well-loved don among his people.
All of this is for show, and Uncle Davide is a good showman, giving the people what they want.
He’s even nice enough to briefly mention my mother’s death, attributing it to her love and devotion to my father.
A ridiculous lie, of course. But it’s what everyone wants to believe.
Or is it a lie? Why did Mama kill herself? I suppose it could have been that she didn’t know how to live without Papa. Or was she consumed by guilt? Or some other motive entirely?
I’ll never know. Her reasons died with her, since she left only the briefest note: I’m sorry .
Unless she said something more to Elena, but it doesn’t sound like they spoke that morning.
I’m tempted to ask my sister, though how much more anguish will I put her through?
Do I really need an answer? I might, just for my own sense of closure.
Uncle Davide gestures to Cian. “This treachery almost ruined our new treaty with the Gaelic Devils. It almost set us back to a time of war, of blood running in the streets, of all of us losing loved ones again.” He lets the too fresh horror sink in.
“But we were smart enough to see right through this devious plot. The Irish didn’t murder my brother.
” He points into the ring. “That man did. And tonight he will be delivered the justice he deserves.”
Two beefy Italians drag a bound man into the fighting arena. A black hood hides his identity, and he must be gagged because his voice comes out muffled. I haven’t a clue who the so-called traitor might be, but my guess is that he crossed Uncle Davide and now he’s been made the fall guy.
His life will be taken instead of Cian’s. One man’s sacrifice will preserve the delicate truce between our peoples.
My uncle gives a grave nod. We all watch as one of his soldiers puts a gun to the prisoner’s head, and unceremoniously blows his brains out.
Blood and gore splatter everywhere. Cheers rise up all around me. The people have their vengeance, the issue’s solved, and now we can carry on with our lives.
My uncle speaks over the roaring sound, “Now we celebrate!”
The two guards drag the dead man’s body from the arena, leaving a smear of bloody gore on the ground. No one bothers to mop up the blood.
I catch sight of Cian shaking Uncle Davide’s hand before he meets his opponent in the boxing ring. It’s a slightly elevated space with chain-link fencing surrounding the arena. I’m seated with Wolfe in the front row, for the best view of the fight.
Irish versus Italian. The crowd around me goes wild, practically salivating in anticipation of this mostly friendly competition. No one else knows the fight is fixed.
My stomach churns, queasy with nerves. Unfortunately, I know how this has to end, and I don’t like it one bit.
The boxers take their corners. Little Italy versus The Beast. Both large, muscular men, and seasoned fighters.
A whistle splits the air.
The fight begins.
P ainful . That’s the only word to describe what it’s like to watch Cian get hit over and over again. I regret ever saying that I wanted to see this. I take it all back. Each blow to his flesh seems to physically hurt mine. How he’s still standing, continuing to endure such violence, I don’t know.
This fight seems to be lasting for hours. They’re already seventeen rounds into it. Which is absolutely ridiculous.
Wolfe sits beside me in the packed seats, his stoic exterior in stark contrast to my gasps and cringes. While the Irishmen around us shout in frustration, my kinsmen on the opposite side of the room cheer, their bloodlust insatiable.
My soul burns with discomfort. I should be seated with my own people, yet I am now bound to the Celts. My loyalties are torn. Yet, in this moment, I wish Cian would fight back, even though I know he can’t, and won’t. Not really.
The fighter called Little Italy has numerous fresh bruises forming, one side of his face speckled red, but he’s in much better shape than Cian at this point.
My husband takes another hit, stumbles back several feet, but remains standing. Bastardo testardo .
I’m beginning to feel remorse over my insistence on coming tonight. The heavy, metallic scent of blood hanging in the air makes me nauseous, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
How much more can Cian take?
Every time he falls, he stubbornly returns to his feet, though each time is slower, more sluggish, than the last. He’s gotten his fair share of hits in, his opponent will be hurting tomorrow, that’s for sure.
But now his swings are laden with exhaustion, it’s clear in every line of his overtaxed muscles that he’s spent. Why doesn’t he just stay down? What more is there to prove? Especially when he knows he’s going to purposefully lose this fight in the end.
I’m starting to suspect that my husband might be a masochist. Does he feel the need to punish himself for some past wrong? Or is he punishing me for my harsh words earlier? If that’s the case, I’m ready to tap out.
Come on, Cian, stop this now. Please. I’m begging you.
His opponent delivers an especially wicked right hook, so powerful that blood sprays over the audience on that side of the cage. Which only has them cheering louder.
I cringe with disgust.
Looking to Wolfe, I ask, “Can’t you put an end to this?”
“Nope.” He glowers. “If he has any teeth left after this, I’m going to knock them out. Stubborn fucker. This should have been long over by now. Those Italian bastards are getting far more out of this than they deserve.”
I quickly glance at him, but his gaze remains fixed on Cian. I haven’t forgotten about his threats to kill me if I hurt Cian. Hopefully, he doesn’t blame me for our current circumstances. Though who else could be at fault? I’m the reason Cian’s in that ring and taking this beating.
Guilt slams into my chest.
“I can’t watch another second of this. I need to leave. Now.” I stand. Wolfe gets up too, muttering curses under his breath as he scowls.
“We can’t just walk out of here,” he protests, but I ignore him.
We can and we will.
“Leaving gives the wrong impression.” He sounds annoyed.
I don’t care if mi famiglia sees me as weak. I can’t watch another second of this carnage.
As soon as we near the exit, a raucous cheer shakes the walls. I glance back to find Cian passed out, lying in the dead man’s blood from earlier. His opponent raises his bloody fists in the air and the Italians go wild.
Finally, it’s over.
Instead of relief, I’m furious. Turning back, I march toward the fighting platform. I have some choice words for mi Irlandese —once he’s conscious.
Gesturing at a blood-covered, unconscious Cian, I turn to Wolfe. “Will you get him out of there and bring him home? As soon as he’s awake, I’m going to kill him.”
“You’ll have to get in line, sorceress.” Wolfe grumbles, but does as I ask. He and two other men haul Cian from the ring and get him into the car.
I cradle his swollen, brutalized face in my lap. Blood smears my clothing, ruining a nice silk dress, but I don’t care. It’s an insignificant casualty of this evening. Much like the man who died in that arena for a crime he didn’t commit, all to preserve a much more important peace treaty.
We ride in silence as I fume. Cian has the audacity to snore. I glare at him, unamused.
Once home, they get him out of the car and upstairs to bed, where we assess his wounds.
Wolfe had the foresight to have the doctor on standby.
The older man quickly appears when we decide that Cian needs more than ice and bandages, but stitches too.
Not to mention, to make sure he doesn’t have a damn concussion after all the hits he took to his head.
None of this helps lighten my mood.
Wolfe helps me give Cian a sponge bath, removing the majority of the blood and sweat from his skin. It’s hard to tell how much of the blood is Cian’s and how much belonged to the dead man.
The elderly doctor works silently, but efficiently on Cian’s deeper gashes. “He has a mild concussion, but nothing to worry about for now. He has quite the thick skull. Let him rest, and let me know if his symptoms get any worse.”
“Thank you,” I tell the doctor.
Wolfe escorts him out, then disappears around the corner.
Alone with my sleeping husband, my anger and worry marginally fade. I lean down and press my lips to his, relieved that he’s alive and not irreparably damaged.
“Are you worried about me, broc meala ?”
Startled, I jolt upright. “I thought you were asleep, or unconscious.”
“I am. Mostly. Sleeping.” He cracks open a swollen eyelid, taking me in. “You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?” Fully alert, he struggles to sit up.
I grip his shoulders and try to shove him back down, but even in his weakened state he’s so much stronger than I am. Giving up, I fold my arms and glare at him.
“No, I’m not hurt. This is your blood, you damn fool.”
Relief washes across his rugged, bruised features. His shoulders slump and he relaxes against the pillows.
The corners of his lips twitch. “Damn fool, huh? So you do worry about me.”
“I’m half-tempted to kill you myself after what you put not only me, but Wolfe, through. Watching you get beat to a pulp is not my idea of a good time.”
A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Wolfe can stomach it. And I warned you not to come.”
“That’s completely beside the point,” I grumble. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me. You’re the one who insisted on taking that beating. You could have ended that fight long before you were knocked unconscious, but you didn’t. You’re a goddamn masochist.”
Heat rises up my chest and neck, and I clench my fists. This man infuriates me by simply existing.
Cian grunts. “So I might be.” His gaze flashes with interest. “But you… you care about me. Act mad all you want. You’re only upset because you care.”
I open my mouth, only to snap it shut a moment later. How can I argue with that? I mean, I could argue, but we’d both know it was a lie, and I promised never to lie to him again.
“That’s what I thought.” He drags me on top of him, his mouth claiming mine. His kiss bold, desperate, and a challenge in itself. He’s daring me to try to reject what’s growing between us. “You’re so sexy when you’re mad at me, baby,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Cian,” I chide, trying to climb off of him. “You’re supposed to be resting. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yeah. Mm-hm.” He nuzzles my neck as his hands slip beneath my skirt, resting on my thighs. “It’s over and we’ve come out of it alive. And together. I don’t want anything to ever tear us apart again.”
I gaze into his pale blue eyes, seeing the sincerity in them. “Neither do I. Promise me, Irlandese. ”
“I promise to never let you down again. You’re mine and I’m yours, until death do us part.”
“Until death.” I seal our promise with a kiss.