Blood

MEDICAL PERSONNEL OF La Torre march inside my room as soon as I've made my choice. All the wires and tubes are disconnected, and my protests are ignored as they lower me to a wheelchair. It's only when they've rolled me straight into a private lift that I realize that was my last glimpse of the Angel of Death.

I haven't even had the chance to say goodbye or thank her, and my chest squeezes at the thought for some reason.

Armed security flank me on each side as they escort me to the helipad. Their expressions remain stoic as they help me into the chopper. I'm airborne in mere moments, and numbness coats my entire body as I watch La Torre gradually shrink until I can no longer see it.

Minutes pass, but my brain feels sluggish, and it feels like I'm only capable of thinking a single thought per minute.

Does my father even... know I'm gone?

Should I even... care?

And is this truly the right thing to do...even if it means ruining someone else's future?

Uniformed staff is waiting at the well-manicured grounds of the Marchetti estate as the chopper makes a smooth landing across a stone fountain that has gargoyles instead of angels playing around its pedestals and tiered bowls.

While I didn't exactly grow up poor, it's easy to see that the Marchettis' wealth is on a whole different level, and that's why...

I still don't get it.

A rivalry between my famiglia and theirs is like saying there's a battle between a fucking plague of roaches...and a herd of elephants. We can throw everything we've got at them, but it wouldn't make a difference. It's the Marchettis who's been calling the shots from day one, the Marchettis alone with the power to decide if they want us out of the picture, permanently .

The Marchettis could've crushed us at any point in time, and they should've done so a long time ago...if their famiglia was in their right mind.

But they clearly weren't, since they had proposed an interspecies marriage between elephants and roaches instead.

" Signorina ?"

An older man in a dark suit approaches me, his tone and manner so perfectly deferential I already know he has to be a third-generation mafia. Or more.

He introduces himself as Francisco and gestures to the imposing-looking mansion behind him. "May I escort you inside? Signora Marchetti requests for a moment of your time before your rest."

I only nod. He could've told me la signora wanted me to dance my way to her office, and I'd still have nodded.

We're in Boston now.

A request from the city's de facto ruler is nothing but a veiled command, and what she wants, she shall get, asap.

The atmosphere inside the Marchettis' mansion is tastefully... austere. Walls of darkly stained wood and marbled floors. Sculptures of angels everywhere and cushions in blood-colored leather. It's a living room that's designed to impress, but if you know what to look for, you see right away that every inch of this place has also been designed for war.

And it's a war that the Marchettis mean to win.

Potenziana Marchetti is seated on the couch when I enter her study. Silver hair, dark eyes, and her trademark pearls around her neck. She's everything legends have made her out to be: petite and powerful, delicate and dangerous.

Scary as fuck in other words, but my heart seems to have turned into stone, and I just don't feel anything.

She gestures for me to take a seat, and I obey the silent directive.

"How are you feeling, bambina ?"

The endearment catches me off guard. But it's not enough to make me feel.

Nothing seems to matter, and all I can manage is a shrug.

It's rude for sure, and if she kills me for it...

So what?

Silence resumes, but I can't make myself care about it either.

The coldness in the room slowly penetrates my skin, and I wonder absently if the Marchettis are like vampires or something. Boston in autumn has temps low enough that would have been classified as winter in other cities.

But here we are, with the A/C on in her office. Is she, like, undead?

"You're in shock."

Probably .

"It's understandable."

Maybe.

"No child should endure what you did."

No shit.

"Our brain tends to shut down when encountering something it cannot comprehend. But it will not do you good to fool yourself."

The briskness of her tone reminds me of how the Angel of Death speaks. Is it weird that I find this comforting as well?

"If you had been born in a different world, you would have all the time you needed to process what happened. But because our world is different, you can only take this one day to cry and let it all out. But come tomorrow, you must move forward."

I just keep staring at her.

What the hell is she talking about?

How can I cry when I can't even feel—-

"Your father was supposed to protect you."

My body jerks at her words.

"But instead he sees nothing wrong in entrusting you to the man who wished to violate you."

Stop.

"Your pain is supposed to be his pain, too."

STOP.

"But instead, he's the one who's hurting you the most."

"Shut up!"

I don't care if it's the height of stupidity to snap at the Queen of Boston's underworld.

"I'm sorry, bambina ."

"Then shut up," I snarl out. "Why can't you just shut up?"

But instead she just keeps talking, damn her.

"It is never right for a child to be harmed by their own parent."

Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.

"You can cry if you wish."

She's too late in saying that. Can't she see I'm already a fucking mess?

"Or scream."

And now I'm screaming, too.

"Punch the walls if you think you need to."

Fuck yeah.

But as soon as I stand up, my knees crumble, and I fall to the carpet instead.

"Damn you. Damn you. Damn you."

All I can do is hit the rug repeatedly with my fists as I sob and scream.

"Damn you. Damn you. DAMN YOU!"

The words pour out of me like bile, but it doesn't make anything easier or less hurtful.

"I'm sorry, bambina . I really am."

My chest feels like it's about to explode again.

Why, God, why?

This woman is all but a stranger, so why is she the one saying sorry?

Why is she the one speaking to me the way I've always wished my father would speak to me...but never did?

"Some of my grandchildren have suffered and continue to suffer from the same pain you are feeling now. But just as I was unable to spare them from their own pain, I am sorry to say that I cannot spare you from yours."

The empathy in her gaze is unbearable.

Why? God? Why?

It's my first time to think of God my whole life.

I don't even know if he's real.

But if he is, then dammit, I want to ask why.

Why, God, why?

"The only thing I can do for you is what I have done for my own grandchildren."

Sobs rock my body as I feel Signora Marchetti gently cup my chin and lift my gaze to hers.

"Today, you are allowed to grieve. You can stay in your room the whole day if you wish. You do not need to see or talk to anyone. You can do whatever you want."

Except die, I think dully.

Because right now, I can't think of a single reason why I should even keep living.

"But come tomorrow, you must learn to accept the truth."

Truth? What truth? And why should I even care?

"Esteban may never be the father you want him to be. You can spend your whole life chasing after him and doing what you can to win his approval, but it will not matter. Your father will only change if he chooses to do so. And that's always what life boils down to. The choices we make are what shapes us."

Signora Marchetti motions me to stand, and even though I've always been a rebellious little shit, I actually find myself clumsily rising to my feet.

"And that is why you are here."

I know her words are supposed to give me hope, but all I feel is guilt.

"I'm sorry," I say unevenly. "You couldn't possibly have wanted—-"

The matriarch raises a bejeweled hand, and I shut up.

"Do you think I am where I am now because I think like everyone else does?"

The old woman smiles at me, and the hairs behind my neck stand. La Strega means 'the witch' in Italian, and she definitely looks like one now.

"My grandson only makes a move when I say so. It is how our famiglia remains strong to this day, and that is how you know you would not be here now without my say so. I want you to be his bride," the matriarch declares imperiously, "and once you're old enough, you will marry my grandson."

"I don't want you to think I'm being ungrateful—-"

"And yet that's exactly how you sound like," the older woman harrumphs.

"But you don't have anything to gain from marrying me."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"But—-"

"Francisco."

The door to the study immediately opens, and just like that, her elderly assassin consigliere pops at the matriarch's side. " Sì, signora?"

"It is time for Sarica to rest. Escort the bambina to her room, per favore. "

"B-But—-"

Francisco marches me out of his employer's study despite my protests, and he only smiles when I glare at him.

"I can already tell the two of you will get along perfectly."

"Then you're just as crazy as she is."

POTENZIANA WAS HAVING tea in the library when a knock sounded, and her eldest grandson walked in. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "It's past midnight."

"Scusa per il ritardo, " her grandson murmured in apology. " Certain parties required more convincing."

The mildness of Giancarlo's tone usually meant there was more to what he was saying, but she let it go for now. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and Francisco could fill her in by then.

For now, she focused on her grandson, who appeared unusually stiff as he remained on his feet, his back against the fireplace.

"I'd invite you for tea, but you clearly have something on your mind."

"Do not keep me in suspense, signora ."

She almost smiled. This boy of hers was truly like no other, with how he had everyone fooled into thinking he was her most obedient grandson. But in truth, Giancarlo was the opposite, and he was also the only one capable of speaking to her in a tone that was both respectful and yet lecturing at the same time.

"Why do you even worry?" she chided in answer. "Do you not remember who you're talking to?"

His shoulders relaxed, the tension visibly easing from his frame. "She believed you then."

"Certo." Of course. "And now that I have done my part, be sure to keep your end of the bargain. I granted you this favor because I did see its merits...even if she is not the bride I had in mind for you."

" Grazie, nonna. "

Potenziana snorted. "We both know you would have insisted on your way if I had tried putting my foot down."

"You must have me confused with my younger brothers," her grandson drawled. "Am I not known as your most dutiful heir?"

"Save those lies for the idiots of this world," she retorted. "You got what you wanted. And now, it's my turn. I expect you to fully support my every choice when it comes to your brothers and Gazelle."

"You have my word."

"Then we have nothing else to talk about." She gestured to the door. "Go and rest," she ordered gruffly. "You've had a long day."

"We all did." Giancarlo pressed a kiss to her forehead. " Buona notte, nonna . E grazie. Per tutto." Good night. And thank you. For everything.

Potenziana watched the door close behind her grandson. A part of her was still uneasy and quite tempted to take her word back. Sarica was not her first choice of bride for Giancarlo—-and would never be so. But because Giancarlo had never asked her for anything except this—-

She had not been able to help it.

Even though she could not understand his reason, and she had warned him repeatedly that Esteban was as traitorous as they came—-

He had made his intentions clear, and so in the end, she had given him her blessing.

This was the only time Giancarlo had asked something for himself.

How could she say anything else but 'yes' when he told her he wanted fifteen-year-old Sarica Nu?ez as his future bride?