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The younger one goes pale.

The other does not react. Older. Smarter. He gestures with the rifle.

Forward.

I walk.

My hands stay raised. My pulse stays even. There is no calm in it. Calm is for men who believe they might walk out again. This is simpler than calm.

She lives. That is the whole plan.

Enzo wants the man who killed his son. He wants my blood, not hers. A vendetta is ugly, but it has rules old men like Enzo still respect when it suits them.

Tonight, I suit him.

The young one grabs my wrists and yanks them behind my back. The zip tie bites deep. He pats me down badly but thoroughly enough to find the knife at my ankle and the blade at my back.

"Clean," he says.

Not even close.

The older man steps in front of me. Gray in his beard. Hard eyes. He studies my face like he wants to remember the moment before anyone ruins it.

"Take me to Don Enzo," I say.

He turns toward the house.

The young one shoves me forward through the gate, past the cameras, into the light.

The gate closes behind me.

Forgive me, Amanda.

I promised I would come back to you.

I never promised how much of me would be left.

Amanda

Enzo sits across from me with his hands on his knees. He hasn't spoken since he asked about Valentino, and I didn't answer.

The translator stands by the door, eyes on the floor. He wasn't doing that before.

My head hurts. Dried blood cracks at the corner of my mouth, and I taste it every time I breathe. My hair sticks to one cheek. I want to push it away. I can't. That helpless little want puts tears in my eyes before the pain does.

I think about Vittoria. Aria. The kitchen at Vittoria's house when we were sixteen, when Aria made hot chocolate at three in the morning because none of us could sleep.

A door opens behind me.

Fast footsteps cross the room. One man. He stops in front of Enzo, bends close, and speaks quietly into his ear. The Italian comes too fast for me, but I catch one word.

Cancello.

Gate.

Maybe.

My Italian is restaurant Italian. This isn't that.