14. Cristiano

C ristiano

Growing up, I was always the calm one, the steady one.

Mama's words still ring in my ears a decade after she was run down on the street by the Marchesis. You can't figure out Cristiano. You'll never know what game he's playing until he's wiped the floor with you.

I was the cool customer to Sav's hothead; the ice to his flame.

While Sav often drove headlong into battle lines, fuck to all consequences, I knew what power lay in caution; in holding back and staying out of sight.

It's for this very reason I can't still my bones as we follow Sav's car away from the church, through the heart of Newark, in broad daylight. This place is home to the Marchesis—the biggest rival family in New York. I don't understand why we've taken the scenic route. Is he gloating about the fact we found and quartered the guy who shot Gio?

His car alone has a price on its head in this neighborhood. Driving it beneath the beams of the sun and the heat of the enemy's gaze isn't just ballsy—it's irresponsible as fuck. It isn't just his own life he's risking. It's Castellano's too.

My eyes scan the streets as we drive along slowly and then come to a stop at a red light. A few people turn to take in our two blacked-out cars before walking away quickly, pulling kids and elderly companions with them. A woman to my right trips, drawing my eye for a second. A young couple help her up, and she nods vigorously, letting them pull her to her feet and guide her along the road in the opposite direction to our cars.

A heaviness grows at the base of my chest, then the sound of gunfire brings everything to a halt.

"Mother FUCK!"

Donato, who pulled the slightly longer straw of driving me around today, throws open the car door and leaps out, a pistol raised in his outstretched arms.

I jump out onto the sidewalk, trying to make sense of the scene before us. Savero's driver has been pulled out of the car and is lying limp on the ground, blood seeping from a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

From a short distance away my gaze scans the rest of the car, measured and fast. I see movement in the back seat, and my chest blooms with relief. Sav stands over his driver's body for all of half a second, then he's gone, sprinting down the road after whoever it was that pulled the trigger. Donato runs after him, his yelled directions probably falling on deaf ears since Sav will be singularly focused on killing someone.

I scan the road. Pedestrians have scattered like mice at the sound of gunshots. My eyes spin back to Sav's car.

Castellano.

I run to the car so hard my thighs burn, yanking open the back door and bending down to see where she is. A scream pierces the air as she scrambles to the opposite side of the car.

Marchesi assholes could be anywhere—I don't have the luxury of being able to coax her out in her own sweet time—so I grab her ankles in one hand, pull her roughly toward me, and lift her with my other arm. Her fists beat against my shoulders, panic lacing her shrieks.

I run back to my car, drop Castellano in the front seat, buckle her seat belt, and slam the door before sliding in behind the wheel. The engine is still running, but it's barely audible over the sound of more gunshots. I slam the accelerator and spin the car across the road, straight through the lights. I don't take notice of what color they are, but I figure if the sound of screeching wheels and honking horns is anything to go by, red is a likely bet.

With one palm ramming the steering wheel left and right, I reach out to take Castellano's trembling hand in mine. I can feel her seat vibrating from her terrified sobs and gasping breaths, but as soon as my fingers graze hers, she snatches her hand away.

My teeth clench, and I put my foot down harder.

I'm not angry at her. I'm angry at Sav for putting her through this. She's just lived through a repeat of what happened to her mother, only to be abandoned because her husband-to-be values anger and revenge over protecting his future wife.

He's the don now—he has capos and soldiers who can do the chasing for him. In fact, each one of them would relish the opportunity to exact revenge on whoever shot Sav's driver on the hostile streets of Newark. Savero has other priorities now; he needs to man up and deal with them. I shake the thought from my head, because it only adds to the already sour note I'm beginning to taste when it comes to my brother.

Tension stays with me as we cross the bridge to Manhattan. Only the midday traffic stands between us and my Tribeca apartment. The urge to damage someone settles in my veins, doing nothing to convince me I changed when I fled to Vegas. I've been back on Long Island for all of three weeks, and it's as if I never left.

It's a relief in a way.

In Vegas my days are spent navigating wins and losses, profits, deficits, and middle grounds, and punishing bad behavior with bans and loaded threats. Lots of gray. Too much gray. But here, it's easy. It's black or white. Right or wrong. Life or death.

There's no in-between. No gray area. You're in or you're out.

It's hard to believe just how easily I've settled back into the Cosa Nostra ways. Distinguishing black from white is as easy as breathing.

Which might explain why being around Castellano makes it hard to fucking breathe.

With her, I can't be black or white, in or out. "Out" means I leave now and never come back. "In" means I satisfy this insatiable hunger to know how she tastes on my tongue, how she feels beneath my fingertips, destroying my relationship with Savero forever. I can't do that, because he's all I have left in this world. Not only would Father have been devastated, I owe Savero my life. And as questionable as his actions and his morals are, he's still my brother.

We drive through the security barriers and arrive in the underground parking lot, where I open the passenger door and hold out my hand, but she doesn't move.

"You're safe here." I shift impatiently. In principle it's true, but I don't want to push our luck. "You can either come with me or sit out here alone. I'm armed, and I have a secure penthouse apartment, so I strongly recommend the former."

Her eyes flick upward, a frown battling against a light flush of her cheeks.

"Come on." I swallow. "I'll take care of you."