Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FINA
Escaping the villa is unwise.
But before I paint everything inside the villa red with my misery, I leave the whitewashed walls and white tiles behind and accompany Riley to the fair, the day in town a welcome distraction.
My heart is shattered into tiny irreparable pieces, each sliver sharp and piercing, small daggers keeping the pain alive.
“I’ll do right by you, babe. And when I ask again, your knees will buckle. I promise you that.”
Promises, promises.
I was a fool to believe him.
I’ve survived before. I can survive this.
Oblivious to my heartbreak, Riley’s all excitement and light. I do my best to put on a happy face and not ruin her fun.
Sandro went overkill with security. Men in a car in front and behind us on the short drive into town.
Men trailing behind us, arms stuffed with antiques, as Riley and I make our way through the fair.
I force myself to relax and enjoy doing normal stuff.
Failing beautifully, yet nevertheless, I persist.
“What about this?” Riley lifts a broken clock with a yellowed face. I didn’t frequent antique shops in California per se, but the most hideous pink dresses in my wardrobe in Los Angeles came from thrift store racks.
Another time. Another life.
I thought the necessity of reinventing myself was behind me.
Wrong, Fina. Life without that liar in it is your next invention.
I flash Riley a forced smile. “You can put the clock on the nightstand beside your bed.”
She laughs. “He’ll kill me.”
“Doubtful.” I dig into my purse and withdraw my wallet. “My treat.”
“But you already bought a lamp.”
I hand cash Renzo left me to the vendor, ridding myself of it like I’ve done all morning, like I’m ridding myself of him. “You’ve been beyond kind to me, allowing me into your home and wardrobe.”
“You’re perfect for Renzo. I’ve never seen him so serious.” She smiles, not realizing her words crush me. “I bet you get married before we do.”
“How much?”
She blinks at my sharp tone. “You’re fighting?”
I press my lips together, unwilling to drag her into our breakup.
“He can piss off the Pope, for sure.”
Nope. Not saying a word.
She studies me closely. “I am loyal to him, and he’s done so much for me. But the Beneventi men can be … difficult. Please know I’m a friend you can talk to.”
“Thank you,” I mumble. Drawing a breath, I shove the ache down deep. “You know what might help?”
“What?”
“Gelato.”
We cross the square to the small shop and, while security waits outside, make our selections. We settle at an outdoor table.
“It’s the milk,” I say between licks. “That’s why it tastes better than ice cream from home.”
“I think you’re right,” she replies, chocolate coating her lip. “Even beats the ice cream from my hometown in the Midwest.”
I force my mind to stay present, my thoughts on Riley’s easy smile, the vanilla cup, the busy market beyond.
But a sudden movement snags my attention. A flash of black over by the statue.
Goose bumps prick my arms, and the fine hairs on my neck stand at attention.
Riley tracks my gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Just paranoid,” I lie, though my pulse hammers. “Must be tired.”
“We can head back to the villa and doze by the pool?”
“Perfect,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “But first, we’ll redecorate.”
Men in tow, we head back to the cars. I don’t relax until the glass is between us and the street, and the cars are pulling away from the curb.
We’re halfway around the square when the cars are forced apart by the Polizia Municipale, directing a chaotic swirl of pedestrians and traffic. A curse slips from our driver’s lips as he jerks the wheel, veering onto the next street.
Riley’s voice cuts through the tension. “There’s the pink pig.”
I catch sight of it etched on the butcher shop window.
“This road ends at a church,” Riley warns the driver. “Dead end.”
The man beside me places his gun on his lap, a cold calm settling over the car.
Don’t panic. The driver will reverse, loop back, and we’ll slip away. But a knot tightens deep in my stomach anyway.
I slide my hand into my purse, pull out my pistol, and tuck it inside my waistband. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe not.
At the foot of the church, the driver shifts into reverse. The moment we swing back toward the square, they move.
A dozen men in black, fast as shadows, sprint down the street. Guns raised, locked on us.
No. No. No.
“Get down!” Sandro’s man yells.
Riley and I dive low, heads tucked tight as bullets tear into glass. The windows shatter but hold, but we’re pinned down.
“There’s no way out,” the driver shouts. “Take them! I’ll cover.”
He spins the car hard, passenger side toward the church, then the door nearest me flies open.
“Keep your heads down until we’re inside.”
I don’t wait. I’m on my feet before the words finish.
Riley scrambles, snatches something beneath the seat, then bolts after me.
We race slightly in front of Sandro’s man toward the heavy wooden doors. Bullets hum past like angry hornets until a searing pain blooms in my arm.
I clutch it, fingers slick with blood. A nick or worse?
The few villagers unfortunate enough not to be at the fair scatter, parting like a broken wave. The dark figures behind gaining ground.
Suddenly, the man shielding us explodes, his head blasting apart and spraying Riley and me with brains and blood.
Neither of us stop. Neither of us cry out. She recognizes it as well. The Life is brutal, and the weak flounder.
Push back the fear. Stay strong.
Riley grabs my hand like she can hear my thoughts.
We sprint up the steps toward the enormous wooden doors.
Silence descends, thick with terror and ripe with fear.
At the top, panting, we shove open the doors.
I don’t know if it’s instinct or curiosity that causes me to glance over my shoulder.
The men pursuing us stand in an arc below, and several more race off to encircle the church.
My stomach drops. They’re not firing. They’re waiting.
“Riley, hold up!” I hiss.
Her fingers tighten around my hand as we’re pulled inside.
Sunlight streams through the beveled glass, the scent of incense clings heavy, and an eerie quiet welcomes us … just before the devil greets me.
“I’ve got you now, bitch.”