“Tough luck, amico,” he murmurs. “I'll make it quick, out of respect for your mother."
I frown, not fully understanding. My grief is like a swamp. Nothing is moving fast enough. “W-what happened to the medic?”
“He’s not coming. Never was. O’Sullivan wants the job finished tonight… It’s a bad business so don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
“What—?” I stop when I find myself staring down the barrel of his gun, suspended two feet above my father’s lifeless body.
Time freezes.
I search Antonio’s face for traces of dark humour.
This is a joke, right?
I’m not getting it.
I’m not getting it.
“Sorry, amico.” He shrugs, but his smug expression is pissing ‘liar’ all over his apology. “Your father’s obsession with this ceasefire made him weak.” His lips stretch into a grim smile. “Better an Irish bullet than a red knife, eh, Frankie?” he adds, hiding the horror of his words behind my nickname. “The Russians wanted to slit your throat with a blunt blade. The British were eager to put their meat hooks to good use.”
“Don’t call me Frankie,” I say quietly. “That’s what my brother calls me.” Called. “You betrayed us, Antonio. You betrayed my father… Matteo... Vittoria!”
His jaw tightens at the mention of my sister’s name. I’ve never known him to hesitate before. “Listen, amico, there’s a shit ton of stuff going down you’re too young to unders—"
“I know that you’re a fucking traitor!” I lunge at him—aiming my fist at his face—not caring about the consequences because that’s the other thing about grief. It makes you feel invincible, like Superman. Like nothing else can hurt you when everything's been broken into pieces anyway.
But life isn’t fair.
I should have remembered that, too.
He pushes me off him easily—fifteen stone of muscle versus six stone of hurt. I lose my balance and go down hard, the back of my head smashing into the concrete floor.
“Dammit, amico.” His voice floats somewhere above me. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Why?” I croak. It’s the only word I have left. The only one with any power.
His reply is lost as the kitchen door suddenly flies open, and bullets start whizzing over my head. I watch them slam into Antonio, making a bloody hole where his guts used to be. He meets my gaze as he falls to his knees, and in his few last seconds on earth, he almost looks sorry for being a treacherous bastardo.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, refusing to look away. Owing my courage, in this moment, to my family’s memory. “I hope you burn in hell.”
Antonio blinks first. “But he promised—”
Bang.
The next bullet stamps a perfect circle in the centre of his forehead. There are no more words from him after that.
Who promised what?
“Are you Lastra’s son?”
I find myself staring down another barrel, this one attached to a black-eyed giant.
I jerk out a nod.
“Then on your feet, kid,” he says, lowering his gun. “Your father's capo dei capi is downstairs.”
“Capo dei—?”
Before I can finish, the giant is clamping a huge hand around my wrist and yanking me upright.
The boss of all bosses of the Cosa Nostra is here?
Papà always joked that Tommaso Zaccaria would never leave Italy, not even if his beloved villa was on fire.
“What a mess.” The giant slides his weapon into his holster and casts his eyes around the room, lingering over my father’s corpse. “You hurt?”
I shake my head, though the back of my neck is wet and sticky.
“Ten seconds later, and it could have been your insides all over that floor, kid.”
“T-thank you.”
“Just following orders.” He pushes me toward the door and out into the hallway. “Now, move. You don’t keep a man like Zaccaria waiting.”
I take one final look at my father, burning the image into my brain. His body looks empty now, like a broken shell discarded on a beach. “How did you know Antonio was—?”
“You’ll get your answers soon, kid.” Another shove. “The motherfucking storm’s just arrived.”
CHAPTER 2
FRANKIE
Marching me out onto the pavement, he steers me towards a silver SUV with tinted windows.
The doors swing open as we approach.
“Get in.”
I try to back away, but the giant has other ideas. Giving me another hard shove, I find myself tumbling headfirst into a black hole that stinks of leather and cigars. I blink a couple of times, the darkness fuzzing up my brain. There’s a shadow sitting next to me. Watching me. Puffing on an Arturo Fuente, the same brand my father smokes.
Smoked.
I hate the past tense now, almost as much as I fear the present.
“Do you know who I am, Francesco?”
His accent is strong, and he has a slow way of speaking that makes me think of soft chairs with hard edges.
“I’ve h-heard my father talk about you, mister.”
Scary stories with nightmare endings.
There’s a pause as the giant slides into the passenger seat upfront. “In reverence, I hope?”
“A-always with respect, mister.”
“Good.” He leans forward to tap his driver on the shoulder, his profile catching in the streetlight. He’s older than my father, with a narrow face and a long straight nose. His black hair is streaked with grey, and his lips are pulled tight into a cold smile.
He looks like a Bird of Prey.
Or a vulture.
“My name is Tommaso Zaccaria,” he confirms. “I am the man who ordered your father to London twenty years ago. Against all expectations, he succeeded in making London a strong hold for our organisation… Until tonight.”
“My father didn’t start this war, mister,” I say in a rush. “He was trying to end it.”
My outburst is met with three measured puffs of his cigar. “Did he ensure that his family’s allegiance would fall the right way following his death?”
There’s a warning in his words.
He’s testing me.
“There’s only me left now, mister, and m-my allegiance will always be with you.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, because you are all I need to remedy this, ah, situation.” For the first time, he aims his cold smile at me, and I shiver. “You can’t end wars, Francesco. One minute, they’re an inferno, and the next, they’re smouldering embers waiting for the next spark to come along and reignite them.”
In my head, I see the Irish flag burning again. I see the corners of the cheap material melting in the heat.
“Men like Cian O’Sullivan care more about the flames than peace. Your father should have remembered that.” Zaccaria takes another puff on his cigar and blows a thick trail of silver smoke in my direction. “There is no elegance in that man’s violence. No loyalty... London is a game to win at any cost.”
And just like that, I don’t feel so empty anymore. Another emotion is filling up the spaces where love used to be: