CHAPTER ONE #2
An invitation to a wine tasting upstate with a senator’s wife and her friends.
A committee brunch for a fundraiser.
A spa weekend with my good friend Frankie Keaton, the sitting president’s wife.
I’d have to say yes to all of these engagements.
Since I didn’t have a real job, my task was to form connections my brother and the Irish Mafia could use.
Tiernan paid me a monthly salary. I, in return, made police officers look the other way, county clerks speed up permits, and the port workers put aside goods the Irish later sold for triple the price on the streets.
After RSVPing my next month into mindless social obligations, I logged on to the encrypted messaging app, stopping on an unread message from a few weeks ago. My thumb halted over the screen.
Unknown: Do the right thing, Tierney. It’s your only chance at freedom.
Nibbling on the corner of my lip, I contemplated answering FBI Agent Tom Rothwell. He’d been on my ass for a couple of years now, trying to convince me to flip on the Ferrantes. But since I didn’t have a death wish, I kept shutting him down.
He was an option in case everything went to shit. Hopefully, it’d never come to that.
With a sigh, I slipped my phone into my bag, turned around, and reentered the church.
In the span of a few minutes, the first few pews had filled up almost completely. Tiernan and Lila stood at the altar, next to the priest. So did Luca and Sofia, the godparents.
There was one almost-empty pew—the second one from the front, where Achilles sat alone. Since I’d rather bathe in acid than sit next to him, I hurried to the first pew and squeezed myself between Lila’s brother Enzo and my father.
“Pumpkin.” My father kissed my cheek.
“Tyrone.” I coiled away, pressing against Enzo. The childish pet name grated on my nerves. I was twenty-nine. Besides, we weren’t close enough for nicknames.
“Shame about the outfit. You don’t need it to look beautiful.” His eyes swept over me disapprovingly.
I didn’t answer. I was never good enough for my father, and he made sure I remembered it. He had ignored me all of my adolescent years, and as soon as I came of age and he realized I was too difficult to marry off, he gave up on me altogether.
These days, we barely spoke and only saw each other when Tiernan invited us both over.
“Yo, Tier.” Enzo slung a tan, muscular arm over the pew, giving my shoulder a playful squeeze. “Waddup?”
I liked Enzo. He was funny, kind, and outrageously hot. Our paths didn’t cross often, but when they did, we could spend hours bantering and having a great time. He and Lila were the only Ferrantes I didn’t actively want to push off a cliff.
“No complaints,” I said. “You?”
“A few complaints.” He tossed a piece of mint gum into his mouth, scratching his forearm absentmindedly. “Hunger, mainly. Been cutting carbs. Gotta maintain that eight percent body fat.”
“Only a certified masochist would do that.” I scrunched my nose. “Quitting pasta and bread would make me stabby.”
“See, that’s not a problem in my line of work.
” He grinned good-naturedly. Enzo was an enforcer.
Stabbing people was his day job. You’d think it’d make him less lovable.
You’d be wrong. “And the results are wild. You should see me under this shirt. I’m more shredded than sensitive documents President Keaton doesn’t want leaking to the media.
” He rolled his tongue over his perfect teeth, giving me a cheeky wink. “Allegedly.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “If you’re trying to milk me for gossip about the First Couple, save your breath.”
“So you’re not denying that he did it. Interesting.” He wiggled his brows.
I laughed. “What else is new?”
“Oh, let’s see… I’m giving up pussy for Lent.”
“Why?” Achilles chimed in. “The whole point of Lent is giving up something you like.”
“Enzo, it’s May.” I frowned, ignoring the asshole behind us. “Lent is in March.”
“Next year’s Lent,” Enzo clarified. “This year’s done. Might as well enjoy the sex.”
“Everything I know about your sex life, I’ve learned against my will.” I chuckled. “Do I want to know why you’re doing this?”
“Lost a bet with your brother.”
“What’d you bet on?”
“I said you wouldn’t wear something scandalous today. And he…well, doesn’t have much faith in you.” Enzo’s whiskey eyes trailed down my bare legs.
“Even her brother knows she’s a lost cause.” Achilles tsked from behind me. “I made the mistake of trying to fix her once. Never again.”
That was it. I’d had it with this asshole. I turned around sharply, spearing him with a glare.
“Can you be helpful for once in your life and evacuate your grotesque face from my vicinity?”
“Only because you asked so nicely, Piccola Fiamma.” He stood up, buttoning his blazer with one hand. “As it happens, I do have business to attend to.”
Achilles glided out of the pew with a grace that no hulking, six-four man had any business possessing, disappearing between Roman columns.
My nickname, little flame, wasn’t born out of love. It was born out of hate. A reminder of everything we’d lost and everything we could’ve been if I hadn’t gone and fucked it up.
That was what killed me the most. Knowing it was me who threw it all away. Who managed to take this beautiful, pure love this boy had given me and turn it into potent, burning hatred. I’d ruined our lives, and now he was making me suffer for it.
The organist began playing, snapping my attention back to the here and now. The chatter stopped. The priest, a frail white-haired man, stepped forward and began his blessings.
“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo.”
Echoes of muffled screams ricocheted across the church’s walls. Every back in the room straightened. The ominous music grew louder. The priest proceeded, ignoring the cry of panic and pain.
“Padre nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo nome.”
Achilles appeared from behind the altar, holding a thrashing, disheveled man by the back of his neck. His captive’s hair was sweat-drenched, his suit unkempt.
The underboss. The molester.
Lila instinctively pressed Gennaro to her chest. Achilles stopped in front of the baptismal font, pressing the blade of a sharp knife to the man’s main artery.
“Venga il tuo regno, sia fatta la tua volontà, come in cielo così in terra.”
The priest clutched his Roman missal to a point of white knuckles, training his gaze hard on the pages.
“Dacci oggi il nostro pane quotidiano, rimetti a noi i nostri debiti, come noi li rimettiamo ai nostri debitori.”
Achilles slowly ran the blade across the man’s neck above the font, slicing his carotid artery with a surgeon’s precision. Crimson liquid gushed out, pouring into the hollow object. The thrashing and muffled cries stopped. All the while, Achilles stared at me, hatred burning through his pupils.
A river of blood sloshed over the fountain, filling it to the brim. The audience watched in silent shock. Achilles let go of his victim, and the lifeless body crumpled at his feet.
“E non ci indurre in tentazione, ma liberaci dal male. Amen.”
Tiernan scooped Nero from his mother’s arms and brought him to the font.
The priest took a shell, scooping some of the blood, and let it drip down Gennaro’s head.
His hair was the same shade as the blood.
Nero gurgled happily, fingers reaching for the shell, trying to snatch it from the minister.
More blood dripped down the crown of his head and onto his christening gown.
My stomach churned. Even though I grew up in the belly of the underworld, I wasn’t a big fan of blood and murder. Plus, I wasn’t a believer, but slaughtering someone in a church seemed especially sinister, even to me.
Suddenly, the rumbling purr of motorcycles sounded from outside the church. The engines roared louder and closer, making guests look at each other in confusion. It sounded like dozens of them were approaching.
Tiernan made a cutting motion with his hand, and the priest stopped talking. Silence fell over the church. The steady, quiet drip, drip of blood leaking from the baptism tub filled the air.
The church’s doors blasted open. Women shrieked, jumping from their seats and grabbing their children, stuffing them underneath the pews for shelter. The men unholstered their weapons, charging toward the doors.
Twisting in my seat, I watched as two men in balaclavas tossed hand flares into the church and ducked back outside. The flares hissed and exploded. Red smoke detonated, thick and suffocating, covering the entire room.
The rapid fire of semiautomatic weapons rang in the air. Smoke scorched my eyes and filled my lungs. Screaming and blood blanketed the nave.
Shit.
I darted up from my seat, peering around, desperate to find Tiernan and Lila. My main goal was to save my family. I’d worry about myself later.
A large figure stepped in front of me, their face veiled by the red smoke. It snatched my hair at the back of my skull in a punishing grip and pushed me chest-down onto the floor.
My pulse roared in my ears, and I immediately tried to thrash and fight. “What the f—”
A designer boot slammed between my shoulder blades, tucking me so I was hidden under the pew safely. I coughed out smoke, fighting for my next breath. All I could see was the wingtip toe of the boots that hid me. They were spattered in fresh blood.
I was about to grab it and break his goddamn ankle when the figure crouched low and Achilles’s face peered down at me through the red fog.
Scarred.
Terrifying.
Achingly beautiful.
Gone was the long-limbed sad boy who had crawled through my bedroom window every night to keep my nightmares at bay.
These days, Achilles Ferrante was a warrior forged from violence and mayhem.
Every inch of his face was marred with scars and burns, and the rest of him—from the jawline down—was covered in ink.
He gripped my jaw, tilting my face from side to side. “Hurt?”