32. Cristiano

C ristiano

In my rearview mirror I see the gates closing behind me. My heart aches , the grip of regret closing tighter with every mile I drive. I've never had a girl get under my skin like this before. It goes deeper than flesh; deeper than bone. My brother's wife is inside my beating heart and swimming in my soul.

Every cell in my body screams at me to turn back, and I'm right on that edge, my fingers tingling around the wheel.

Savero and I have grown apart more in the past few weeks than in the past fifteen years of my life. I can't shake the image of him as a twelve-year-old with a gun pressed to his head. I can see the arm of the person clearly. It looks exactly like Father's, but there's no way Father would have done that. Like Augie said, Savero wasn't an easy son, but Father loved him.

Still, a relentless feeling of unease makes me pull over and take out my phone. I find Augie's number and press call.

"Cristiano. I thought you were leaving today," he says.

"I am. But something's bothering me."

"I wondered when it might." His cryptic response draws my brows together.

I take a deep breath and hope this comes out right. "I've been having these dreams—or flashbacks. I'm not entirely sure ..."

"Go on," Augie says patiently.

"I keep seeing an image of Savero being held up at gunpoint. He's a young boy, about the age he was when he saved me from drowning. I can't see who's holding the gun to him, only the outstretched arm. It reminds me of Father ... Tell me I'm going crazy."

"You're not going crazy, Cristiano. You're right to have questions. But that wasn't your father's arm."

The engine runs in the background. "Then whose was it?"

"Think about it," Augie says. "Who else in your family has the same build, the same inked right forearm? Who might have been hanging out near the boat shed?"

My mind scrambles, but only for a second or two.

"Nonni."

When Augie doesn't confirm or deny, my stomach drops.

"Why would Nonni hold my brother at gunpoint?"

A long sigh of resignation mixed with decades-old relief winds its way down the phone. "Because he'd just caught Savero trying to drown you."

What?

In less than five seconds, I know what it feels like to have my face drain of all color.

"No," I say sternly. "I fell overboard ... I couldn't swim ..."

"He pushed you, Cristiano."

"No ..." I don't remember. I've never been able to remember, and now I wish with all my heart I could. "But ... the rope?"

"What rope?"

"The rope that got caught around my ankles."

"There was no rope," Augie says in a low voice. "He was holding you down with his bare hands."

I can't speak. I have a million questions on the edge of my tongue, but none of them will take shape or form.

"Your nonni was inside the boat shed. It was late at night, and Savero thought no one was around. Nonni pulled you out and pumped your stomach until you vomited. You were seconds away from drowning to death. I don't know how long your grandfather had your brother at gunpoint, but that was the way your papa found them both."

"Wh-why didn't Father tell me this?"

"Your father and nonni had a tense relationship. You were probably too young to remember. Your nonni never liked Savero, and in this case, it was your brother's word against his. Your father never knew who to believe."

"But you believed Nonni?"

Augie sighs again, and I hear him scrub a hand over his thick eyebrows. "One time, not long before your nonni passed, I had a drink with him. He told me he regretted very little in life, but the one thing he regretted the most was not shooting your brother in the head for what he did that day. He was afraid of what Savero would grow into. When I looked into your nonni's eyes, I saw nothing but raw, genuine regret. I don't think I'd have seen that had it not been true."

I sink into my seat.

Savero tried to drown me.

Cars burn past me on the freeway as though my world hasn't just collapsed. Everything I thought I knew about my life needs to unravel, and fast.

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"I couldn't do it to your father. He didn't trust Savero to succeed him as don, but that doesn't mean he believed him capable of killing his own flesh and blood. I had to honor your father's belief."

"What am I supposed to do?" I whisper the words, but I know exactly what I need to do. My fingers are burning to spin the car in the opposite direction, because if Savero could do that to me—to his own brother—then what the hell is he capable of doing to his fiancée—someone he's marrying for pure convenience? I need to get Trilby out of that house, and I don't think I'll be able to breathe until I do.

"I have to go, Zio ."

"What are you going to do?" His tone is anxious.

"I don't know yet. I just need to get back to the house."

I hear doors opening and closing in the background. "I'll see you there."

"You don't have to. I'll be okay," I assure him.

"I know you will." His reply is firm and filled with conviction. "I'll still see you there. And Cristiano ..."

"Yeah?"

"Tell me you still carry a gun."

"I'm a Di Santo," I say. "I never leave the house without one."

I hang up and throw the phone onto the passenger seat. Then, with zero regard for oncoming traffic, I spin the car into the opposite lane and put my foot to the floor.

As I drive, a series of recent images flashes across my eyes like a seventies home movie: Trilby's fearful face, the house cleared of people for the first time in my living memory, suspicion tunneled through a sideways glance at last night's dinner.

My chest tightens.

Savero wanted to kill me when we were just kids. Does a desire like that ever go away?

The decision I made to move to Vegas probably saved my life. I'd never been a threat to him ... until I stuck around after Father died.

Until now.

Another image spins into view and makes my pulse thunder. The doll's eyes. What was it that Ranch said?

"One of the most dangerous plants in North America."

"Deadly."

I hit a red light, so instead of burning through it, I reach for my phone and search for the plant. Photos depicting its white irises with black pupils on blood-red stalks pepper the screen. It's also known as white baneberry, or so Wikipedia informs me.

Then, as my eyes scan the words, blood pumps loudly in my ears.

"Poisonous."

"Cardiogenic."

"Ingestion of the berries can lead to cardiac arrest and death."

It can't be. I swallow around a sharp lump in my throat. He wouldn't.

He wouldn't poison his own father. Poison is a fool's folly. He couldn't be so weak .

Father's death wasn't suspicious , the rational part of my brain asserts. But he died of heart failure despite never having had heart issues before , another part argues.

My mind darts back to the living room, where Savero found Father lying on the sofa, dead. That morning, the staff were dismissed, and Sav spent the day and night at the private mortuary, holding vigil by Father's bedside. When I stopped by the house to drop off my things, I saw nothing suspicious. Nothing to suggest Savero had a hand in our father's death. I don't even remember seeing the eerie plant. Everything appeared to be normal—from the drapes fluttering by the window to the half-empty glass of water on the table.

Water.

Sav has never in my life offered me a glass of water. The only times he's offered me a drink, it's been beer or whiskey.

This afternoon he passed me a glass that had already been poured, then he poured his own and Trilby's from a pitcher. I drank it all. And I feel fine.

Unless . . .

I placed my glass next to Trilby's so I could touch her one last time. It was on her right. The glass I drank from was on her left.

I drank hers, not mine.

Not the one meant for me.

My mind spins as I wait for the lights to switch.

Trilby.

The light turns green, my heart drops, and my chest caves. I ram my foot down and weave through the cars in front. Horns sound behind me, but if anyone dares pull me over, they'll get a bullet between the eyes.

Please don't touch that water.

The end of the street is in sight, but cars collect, slowing to a standstill at another set of lights. I mount the sidewalk and burn along it, the car half-on, half-off. Tables and chairs scatter; people scream. Tires squeal along hot asphalt and metal scrapes against metal as I slide the car past those waiting patiently for the lights to change. I spin past oncoming vehicles and race down the remaining part of the street.

Less than a minute later, I'm burning back into the parking lot outside my childhood home. Security guards stand back to watch as I pull out a gun and shoot open the main gates. I don't have time to recall any codes right now, and the intercom would be useless—I'm the last person Savero will want to see, especially if he hopes I'm already dead.

When the gates swing open, I sprint to the house. More security guards step into view, but they know better than to challenge a Di Santo who must look like he's prepared to burn the fucking world down. The doors are still open, so I run through them, pulling up short in the kitchen.

Savero has gone.

Three glasses sit on the kitchen island. Two empty, one half-full.

With my heart in my throat, I step around the island, and my gaze falls to the floor.

Trilby.

In a beat I'm on my knees, my fingers pressed against the side of her throat. I can't feel a pulse. I lift her wrist and run my thumb over the soft skin. Nothing. I press my ear to her chest. A weak thumping sound gives me hope, but I have to move fast. I scoop her up and get to my feet. Her head flops toward the ground, so I lift an arm, bringing her to my chest. The way her forehead smacks against my ribs sends shivers through my bones.

Minutes.

I might only have minutes.

I run with her back to my car and thank God I left the door open and the engine running. Just as I'm placing her along the back seat, Augusto's car screeches to a halt.

"Call the hospital!" I yell at him. "She's been poisoned. Her heart's failing."

A dark shadow of realization falls over his face, and he presses a phone to his ear. When I look in the rearview mirror, I see him speaking.

Then I focus on nothing but the road up ahead and my heart in the back.