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Figures etch out in the dark, and a constrained sob startles me.
“Carla?” I cry out as I home in on her.
I want to rush over to her, but Vincenzo slides his grip down and tightens his hold on my wrist.
My sister’s sitting on the sofa, hugging her legs to her chest, in skimpy shorts and a T-shirt as if she came right off a boat cruise on the lake. I look to the man who sits at the desk and do a double take. It isn’t Don Trapani residing over his domain. I’ve never seen him before, and the way he’s looking at me makes me ice over in dread.
“Gigi Trapani,” he says. “We’re so glad you joined us.”
I want to scream, but I know it’s futile. We’re far enough from the next estate and surrounded by forest. Exclusivity comes at a price, and this is one of them.
“Gigi.”
I glance to my left. Papa’s voice is strained, and he doesn’t stand from where he’s sitting in a wingback.
“Papa? What’s going on? Who…?”
Can he even stand? They could have tortured him. I have no clue how deep I’ve stumbled into the quicksand here.
“Cara…” Don Trapani starts again. “I’d like you to meet Franco Fiore. Our new Don. He’s replacing Emilio Randazzo.”
So Randazzo is really dead. God help us all. Randazzo didn’t have children as far as I know, not even out of wedlock. A shrewd decision, until shit hits the fan. Which it obviously did.
Franco Fiore stands and comes around the desk, and Vincenzo keeps me in place, a warning in his death grip on my wrist. As if on cue, someone switches more lights on, and it pours over Franco’s face. He isn’t old as I expected, not even close to fifty, but more Vincenzo’s age. He’s in a tailored suit but has shed the tie. His black shirt is unbuttoned, showing off a body tattoo that reaches his chin. He’s clean-shaven, his mouth pulled in a deceptive smile, and when his gaze hooks mine, I quiver.
He raises a hand, and the first thing I notice, hypnotized, is the bruising, the scars and scabs on his knuckles. The ring that still has blood crusted in the fine edge between the diamond and its gold setting. A tattoo of a snake coils around his forefinger, its head where there should be a nail, but he has none.God.
I swallow, my pulse hammering in my temples. He leans in and brushes his knuckles down my cheek, and each scab scratches like sandpaper. I force myself not to flinch.
“The younger one’s prettier. At eighteen maybe still a virgin.” He forks my chin with his fingers and turns my face this way andthat, inspecting me. “Although, some experience is useful in the marriage bed. I’d hate to be bored.”
I want to spit in his face but know better.
“And why would anybody be marrying you?” I ask point blank, shaking my head to make him let go of me. I can’t afford to appear weak. Not here, not now.
Franco smirks as he lowers his hand. “I’ll let Vincenzo answer that.”
Vincenzo clears his throat and shoves me gently in the direction of the sofa. I keep my composure as I sink down next to Carla, but she leans into me and claws at my hand. I squeeze back. It’s warm in here, but she’s shivering, petrified.
“Emilio Randazzo was killed a month ago on his estate near Catania,” Vincenzo says. “We’re still trying to figure out who killed him, but as you can imagine, without an heir apparent, there’s been…unrest.”
And more deaths than I can probably imagine. Maybe forcing myself out of the Mafia grapevine has been a stupid move. Not being informed…why didn’t Don Trapani say anything? Surely, he knew exactly what was going on. He didn’t warn me we were being ambushed. Carla shouldn’t be here. She’s still a child. Except she isn’t.
“The fact that Randazzo was murdered is moot,” Vincenzo says. “Franco has been planning to take over his operations for some time. Randazzo was old, too laid back, and things were getting out of hand.”
I don’t even want to know what he means by that.
“You know how this works, Gigi,” he carries on when I say nothing, but only stare blindly at him.
Yes, I know. I glance at Don Trapani for help, but he’s closed his eyes, sagging into himself. “Enlighten me?”
Vincenzo has the decency to rest his gaze for a second on Carla’s distraught face. “Franco wants a wife. And we, as theTrapanis, need to strengthen our alliance with the new Don.I’ve already pledged my alliance. In fact, I took myomertàin April.”
“Good for you,” I say. “Your alliance doesn’t need me. It also doesn’t need an eighteen-year-old student who’s about to go to university. We have nothing to give to your organization.”
“Gigi,” Don Trapani starts, and I eagerly meet his gaze.
He pauses for a moment. The weight attached to his silence presses on my chest like a boulder. Here it comes. What would happen if I don’t comply.
