Hate.
“Where should the flames blow next, Francesco?” he asks huskily.
“Back at O’Sullivan,” I mumble.
His cold smile widens. I’ve pleased him with my answer. “Exactly.”
There’s no more talking until we reach the clipped green edges of Clapham Common. I keep my face pressed up against the window, the heat from my tears fogging up the glass. It feels like I’m standing on the edge of something, but I can’t see the drop.
The car cruises to a stop beneath a line of Sycamore trees, opposite three smart white townhouses.
“There.” Zaccaria points to one with black steps flowing down to the street like crude oil. There are a couple of men smoking under the porch light and another two by the front gate.
Soldati. Soldiers.
“Do you know who owns that house?”
I shake my head.
“Embers.” Zaccaria slides closer, pressing his hard thigh against mine, making my insides twist. “Cian O’Sullivan is in there, right now, raising a glass to your father’s death. Tell me, how does that make you feel?”
I don’t bother to hide my tears this time.
“I know what your heart seeks, Francesco. You want to strike the match. To avenge your father... mother... brother... sister....” He lingers over each name, making each word feel like a punch to my chest.
Swiping at my wet cheeks, I reach for the door handle.
“But not yet.”
I whip my head around in shock. “I don’t understand?”
“How do you hope to achieve your revenge when you have no gun? No training?” He motions to my empty hands, then resumes puffing on his cigar. “You need to strike when your enemy is at his weakest, not at his strongest. That way, when you look into O’Sullivan’s eyes at his end, you’ll see fear and respect, not scorn.”
“But he k-killed your men, too. Why aren’t you—?”
“He isn’t my kill to make.”
I blink, trying to make sense of his words. Zaccaria makes me feel like I’m listening to a conversation through a closed door, catching half the details but not the whole plan.
“I want you to resurrect your father’s cosca, Francesco.” He reaches into his inside jacket pocket for something. “Finish what he started, but only when you’re old enough to turn the victory to your advantage. With O’Sullivan eliminated, the Red Compass will crumble. London will be ours—yours and mine. No more in-fighting. Your father’s vision will be realised. Until that time, you will be raised in the house of a trusted friend here in the city, along with a boy of his own to call your brother. Guido will be checking in on you from time to time.” He nods at the giant in the front.
But I have a brother already.
Had.
My head starts to swim. All I want to do is sleep. The adrenaline that saw me through the first half of the night is fading fast.
“Give me your hand.”
Before I have a chance to, he’s grabbing my wrist and pulling it towards him. There’s a flash of silver as he drags the tip of a knife across my palm.
“Ow!”
“Look how you spill your blood for Cosa Nostra already!” Triumphantly, Zaccaria swipes a finger though the pooling red and holds it up for me to see. “This is true Omertà. By accepting my blade, you are swearing your allegiance to The Family in the presence of your capo dei capi. Your father often spoke of your desire to be a made man. Tonight, I baptize you in sin, accept your loyalty, and welcome you. You will live by this oath, and you will die by this oath. You will be bound to it until the day you die.”
Omertà.
He’s giving me my Omertà.
But that’s not right. I’m not eighteen yet. I’m still a boy.
My eyes swing back to O’Sullivan’s townhouse. All the windows are black, except for one where the darkness is being bleached by a soft orange glow.
As I stare, there’s movement behind the glass. A flash of swirling limbs. The silhouette moves closer into view, and I see that it’s a little girl, dancing all alone with the shadows in her room.
I watch, spellbound, as she leaps and twists, her long nightdress—as white as a dove’s feather—fanning out to the sides. She dances so freely, without inhibition, as if her feet are made of feathers too, spinning her out of her own dark world and into a lighter place.
Zaccaria’s sharp nails start digging into my wrist. When I glance back at him, he’s staring up at the window as well. “Nothing will come between you and your duty to La Famiglia, Francesco. Nothing... Now, repeat it.”
“Nothing will come between me and my duty to La Famiglia,” I mutter, as the little girl stops dead suddenly, mid-twirl, her head snapping towards the window like something outside has disturbed her.
My breath catches as she presses her forehead and tiny fists to the glass, staring down at our car below. It’s like we're locked in a staring contest, even though we can’t see each other’s faces.
But I see you, dove girl.
I see you.
I want to tell her to keep dancing. That I never want her to stop. Not like my sister was forced to.
“This scar on your palm will be your badge of honour.”
“My badge of honour,” I repeat, not really listening.
“Excellent.”
He lets go of my hand as the car pulls away from the curb, travelling east; taking me away from all I know and into a strange new world filled with grey colours and terrifying thoughts.
I don’t ask him who the little girl is. I don’t want to know that she’s the daughter of the man who murdered my family. Still, as much as I try to lump her in with all my other hate, the memory of her light and grace won’t allow it. She danced like she was a free bird. Like hope. Like all this pain and confusion inside me would someday fly away too.
Tommaso Zaccaria returns to his side of the vehicle, the lights from passing buildings falling away from his face like prison bars on release day. “Remember this, Francesco,” he says, grinding his dying cigar into an ashtray Guido just handed him. “Fire is never easy to control. It changes direction with the breeze of a rumour… The draft of a mistake. Just make sure that the wind is behind you when you reignite this flame.”
“I’m not sure I understand, mister.”
He smiles again, and a sheet of ice forms around my heart. “Keep your enemies close, amico. But keep The Family even closer.”
CHAPTER 3
ADA
Seven Years Later…
Life has a plan for us.
It’s predestined, like an arranged marriage without the ceremony. It binds you to an invisible contract with different terms that shape your fate.
Sometimes I wonder if my own contract was written on old paper with a smeared signature at the bottom, all shaky and forced.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been living in hell for the past seven years.
I never asked for this gilded cage with thorns wrapped around each bar. I never asked to be stolen from the warmth of my mother’s arm at ten years old and thrust into a world that tries to break my spirit at every turn. Ripped apart from all I knew because she had displeased the mighty and terrible Cian O’Sullivan somehow.