I’ve destroyed this woman’s family. My only hope at making amends centers on treating her sister and extended family well. So long as they deserve it. Ravenna loves her twin, so I’ll do what I can to help the girl.
“My aunt is already arranging the funerals. We’ll have to attend, but I’m worried about Elena’s safety. The man who took her is still out there. Isn’t he?”
“My people are continuing to look for him. The Italians and I will have top-notch security at the funerals, so don’t worry about that.” I pause, gazing down at my beautiful bride. “I’m sorry about your mother. Truly.”
She leans into me, wrapping her arms around my waist, and sighs. “I’m so conflicted about my feelings for her. She’s my mother, and I loved her, even though she always did what Papa wanted. Even the last time I saw her, she was the one who did my hair and makeup.” Her voice catches in her throat. “Shemade me pretty for the auction. What kind of mother does that? I hate her for doing that, but I still love her. I don’t know. It will take me some time to figure it all out. In the meantime, I’m so worried about Elena.”
“We’ll take care of her. I promise.” I hold her tighter, closer.
“Thank you.” She rests against me, like I’m her rock.
An hour later, the car pulls into the underground parking garage atRiotand we all step out. In another few hours, it will be show time.
CHAPTER 22
Ravenna
“Welcome, family, friends, and allies,” Uncle Davide, the new don of the Pontrelli family, addresses the Italians and Irish with Cian at his side. “Tonight we have justice for the tragic loss that we have all suffered. May my brother, and our beloved late don, rest in peace.”
Everyone repeats the sentiment. The words taste like ash on my tongue. My father was not a well-loved don among his people. All of this is for show, and Uncle Davide is a good showman, giving the people what they want. He’s even nice enough to briefly mention my mother’s death, attributing it to her love and devotion to my father.
A ridiculous lie, of course. But it’s what everyone wants to believe.
Or is it a lie? Why did Mama kill herself? I suppose it could have been that she didn’t know how to live without Papa. Or was she consumed by guilt? Or some other motive entirely?
I’ll never know. Her reasons died with her, since she left only the briefest note:I’m sorry. Unless she said something more to Elena, but it doesn’t sound like they spoke that morning. I’m tempted to ask my sister, though how much more anguish will Iput her through? Do I really need an answer? I might, just for my own sense of closure.
Uncle Davide gestures to Cian. “This treachery almost ruined our new treaty with the Gaelic Devils. It almost set us back to a time of war, of blood running in the streets, of all of us losing loved ones again.” He lets the too fresh horror sink in. “But we were smart enough to see right through this devious plot. The Irish didn’t murder my brother.” He points into the ring. “That man did. And tonight he will be delivered the justice he deserves.”
Two beefy Italians drag a bound man into the fighting arena. A black hood hides his identity, and he must be gagged because his voice comes out muffled. I haven’t a clue who the so-called traitor might be, but my guess is that he crossed Uncle Davide and now he’s been made the fall guy.
His life will be taken instead of Cian’s. One man’s sacrifice will preserve the delicate truce between our peoples.
My uncle gives a grave nod. We all watch as one of his soldiers puts a gun to the prisoner’s head, and unceremoniously blows his brains out.
Blood and gore splatter everywhere. Cheers rise up all around me. The people have their vengeance, the issue’s solved, and now we can carry on with our lives.
My uncle speaks over the roaring sound, “Now we celebrate!”
The two guards drag the dead man’s body from the arena, leaving a smear of bloody gore on the ground. No one bothers to mop up the blood.
I catch sight of Cian shaking Uncle Davide’s hand before he meets his opponent in the boxing ring. It’s a slightly elevated space with chain-link fencing surrounding the arena. I’m seated with Wolfe in the front row, for the best view of the fight.
Irish versus Italian. The crowd around me goes wild, practically salivating in anticipation of this mostly friendly competition. No one else knows the fight is fixed.
My stomach churns, queasy with nerves. Unfortunately, I know how this has to end, and I don’t like it one bit.
The boxers take their corners. Little Italy versus The Beast. Both large, muscular men, and seasoned fighters.
A whistle splits the air.
The fight begins.
Painful. That’s the only word to describe what it’s like to watch Cian get hit over and over again. I regret ever saying that I wanted to see this. I take it all back. Each blow to his flesh seems to physically hurt mine. How he’s still standing, continuing to endure such violence, I don’t know.
This fight seems to be lasting for hours. They’re already seventeen rounds into it. Which is absolutely ridiculous.
Wolfe sits beside me in the packed seats, his stoic exterior in stark contrast to my gasps and cringes. While the Irishmen around us shout in frustration, my kinsmen on the opposite side of the room cheer, their bloodlust insatiable.
