Chapter 2
RENZO
Voices bleed through the dark.
They come and go like the tide, breaking against the edges of my consciousness before retreating into the nothing.
At first, I think it’s the whine of the machines or the hiss of the oxygen feed.
Then I catch the familiar rhythm beneath it – the gravel of Cesare’s voice, the clipped tone of Rafa’s temper, the quieter cadence of Bibiana murmuring in the background.
Hospital air always smells the same, like bleach and despair.
Even half gone, I can feel it seeping into my skin, leeching the fire from my veins. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out but as I catalogue the shit show going on in my body, I can just about guess how bad things are. Halfway through, the memory of someone’s voice – probably the doctor’s – returns.
Something about second-degree burns along my shoulder and hip, a cracked rib and a broken arm. But what everyone seems to be wringing their delicate hands about is a very bad concussion. Or possibly worse… brain damage.
Ha. Fuck.
Could be worse though. I could be dead.
But as I drift in and out, it’s Cesare’s voice I hear most often, even more than hers. Irritatingly. My brother’s deep, controlled voice, too calm to be anything but terrified.
‘The burns were minimal. You get to keep your good looks. That alone should make you wake up, eh? Dammit, you dumb, prissy fuck. It’s been days and this is getting old.’
A snort-chuckle rises and dissolves somewhere in my head.
And somewhere along the line, Rafa’s voice joins in.
I should stay unconscious just to piss him off a little longer. Or better yet, channel some psychic crap – summon a ghostly vision, whisper into his mind, Hand over your prized gun collection, brother. The one Nonno Orazio keeps threatening to throw into the East River every time Rafa screws up.
If only there was a way to communicate any of this.
But even if I could, reassuring my family wouldn’t be top of the list.
No. Number one would be—
Her.
Christ, why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about her?
If Orazio knew how many times I thought about the girl who shot my mother, he’d put a bullet in my skull himself.
I should hate her. I’ve tried… God knows, I’ve tried.
For years, she’s made me feel like a traitor in my own skin. Keeping her secrets.
Our secrets.
The snort in my head sounds harsher this time, edged with bitterness. Serves me right though.
Because long before Cesare fell for Maddelena Mancinelli, and Rafa kidnapped then fell for Sofiya Mancinelli, Giada Mancinelli was my secret.
Our family’s unspoken sin.
Even now, the memory burns hotter than the fires from the crash. Her name, her face, rise through the dark like embers that refuse to die. I try to push it away, but she lingers. Always has. I’m fearing she always will.
I remember Orazio’s volcanic fury when my mother died.
I remember my father’s shattering silence, the worst kind of agony a thousand bullets couldn’t bring.
I remember my mother’s body, the shock of red on marble, and the flash of Giada’s shadow as she fled through the church, her small, shaking hands covered in blood.
My mother’s blood.
But what came after…
That’s the part that hurts most.
Because I let my mother’s killer go.
Didn’t chase after her because I thought we would have time. For her to explain. To make it make sense.
But she fled without a backward glance and dropped into hiding more effectively than smoke vanishing into a confessional grate.
With every single answer she owes my family.
Owes me.
And every time I’ve come closer, she’s slipped through my fingers.
I allow my fury to build as another teasing image of my virginal traitor surges into my mind’s eye.
For whatever reason the Man Upstairs has decreed, I’ve been spared death.
Again.
It’s time to make better use of it.
Find answers once and for all. Even if those answers kill me.
* * *
A mechanical beep drags me closer to the surface. Somewhere near my right ear, Rafa’s voice grates through the fog.
‘All this fucking about playing dead just to get out of my anniversary party?’
If I could move, I’d clock him one. Hell, I’d at least flip him the finger.
‘Rafa,’ Sofiya’s voice cuts in, softer than usual, but still carrying steel. ‘He doesn’t need that shit right now. It’s just a party. No big deal.’
‘Fuck that. He’s always been a little—’ He breaks off with a huff. ‘I’m not pussyfooting around him just because he’s being a little shit.’
Typical Rafa. All bark, more bite than sense. But there’s something off in his tone – raw, tight. Beneath the bravado, he’s scared. I’d laugh if it didn’t feel like my chest was full of broken glass.
A spark of pain flares sharper than a blade to the shoulder I received as part of my initiation when I was sixteen. My pulse spikes and my insides go into free fall.
The monitors start to shriek.
Someone swears. Another voice joins in… Bibiana’s.
Cool, efficient, no tremor in her tone. ‘Calm down. It’s just his heart rate rising. He’s waking up.’
How the hell does she know all of that?
‘Renzo, can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me.’
I try. God, I would if I could, even if it’s to stop the caterwauling. But my eyelids feel glued shut. My fingers twitch instead. The faintest scrape against the sheets, but it’s enough.
‘Jesus Christ, he moved,’ Rafa blurts.
Sofiya again, firm. ‘Then stop yelling in his bloody ear, you idiot.’
A low laugh follows.
Cesare’s this time. Tired, relieved, the sound of a man who’s been holding his breath for too long. ‘About time, brother.’
‘It’s cool. He’s going to be okay. It’s cool.’
The sound of my twin brother’s reassurance calms me more than most. And yeah, I know it because he feels what I feel… most of the time. Even though right now he’s panicking harder than a priest caught with his trousers down in a Palermo brothel.
Then, chaos. Footsteps. Someone calling for a doctor. Hands gripping mine.
Pain swells up from the pit of my chest, exploding behind my ribs.
I gasp, or think I do. For a second, the world tilts, brightens, clears. I catch a flash of movement – Cesare’s outline against the harsh hospital lights, Rafa pacing at the window, Sofiya’s arms crossed tight over her chest, her eyes dark and gleaming with something that might almost be tears.
‘Renzo? Renzo, stay with us!’ Bibiana’s voice now. Always the calmest. Always the one who doesn’t break despite the shovels of shit life has thrown at her.
For half a heartbeat, I think I’ve made it.
That I’m back.
But the light sharpens, then fractures again. Pain hits like a freight train, and everything fades.
* * *
Silence.
Then warmth.
A different kind of light now, gold and dappled, soft as candle flame.
I know this place. I’ve been here before.
The echo of church bells drifts through the haze, mingling with the scent of lilies. My pulse slows and the pain ebbs.
And she’s there.
Giada.
Barefoot on the marble floor, skirts whispering against stone. Her hair’s shorter than I remember, darker. But her eyes – those eyes – still hold that impossible light, like forgiveness and fire all at once.
‘Renzo,’ she whispers and steps closer, her hand reaching for mine.
I should pull back. I should curse her, hate her, condemn her for what she did.
But… I can’t. My greatest sin in this goddamn life is that I never could.
Her fingers brush mine. Warm and soft and so fucking real.
And then the church dissolves into smoke, and I’m falling again – back into the dark, back into the sound of my name echoing through machines.
Renzo.
I try to hold on to her, to the memory, to the only piece of heaven I’ve ever known.
But she slips away like light through stained glass.
* * *
The Past
Three more nights.
I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin watching the seconds tick away.
Sure, the law would string me by the balls for pining after a seventeen-year-old three years my junior. But guess what? The law can get fucked.
For all intents and purposes, I’ve been an absolute gentleman where Giada Mancinelli is concerned. Save for a handful of torrid kisses and a few dozen thoughts that would make a saint faint.
I know worse guys than me who’ve broken worse laws. And as the youngest capo of the Salvatore family, I’ve seen men marry girls her age in the old country without anyone blinking or threatening to call the carabinieri. Not that I’m planning to marry the chick.
I just want her to turn eighteen in three days so I can finally part those satin-smooth thighs and—
‘—finally stop humping the air like a dog in heat?’
Dante’s voice slices through the haze of my thoughts. My twin’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, the usual smirk playing on his face.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. ‘Do you ever knock?’
‘Do you ever stop thinking with your dick?’
I throw a pillow at him. He dodges it easily, laughing.
Then his face – with features so identical to mine, I have to look away – turns serious as fuck.
‘She’s seventeen, Ren. And she’s fucking Mancinelli blood. You’re either insane or suicidal.’
‘Or both,’ I mutter. But do I give a shit? Fuck. No. I tried. I really did. But I’m grasping in a really bad way that there’s a good reason Nonno calls the Mancinellis cursed.
Dante pushes off the frame, crosses the room and plants his palms on my desk. ‘You tell me this girl’s worth it, I might believe you. Otherwise, Orazio will flay you alive, and Cesare will finish the job. Rafa’ll just laugh and bet on how hard you scream before you die.’
I shrug, pretending I don’t care, even though my pulse is hammering like I’ve been caught red-handed. ‘Let them try.’
‘Frate…’ His tone shifts, quieter now, something between admiration and warning. ‘First time I’ve seen you not give a fuck about the family. So I’ll say it again – she better be worth it.’
I look away.
Out the window, Manhattan glitters like a city of sinners waiting to be saved.
‘Fuck,’ I say under my breath. ‘I hope so too.’
* * *