But I can give him this.
“Call for your brother, Paul,” I whisper. “The Crows will follow.”
He nods shakily, this boy who turned into an adult the moment he watched his brother be executed for treason. Blowing out a breath, he takes a few seconds to compose himself before he raises his head.
His cry echoes out into the Courtyard, a mournful wail of grief that hits me directly in the chest, even as I take a breath and follow his lead.
One after another. Our grief rises up, one after another, until the space around us is filled with the cries.
Hear us.
We have not called for anyone in our time here. Dante straightens, his face slacking a little before he wipes the expression from his face. Luciano, for once empty of his charm, stands silently before us, watching.
We are the Crows.
And we mourn the loss of one of our own.
When our voices trail away, our harsh cries silenced by the limitations of our own throats, I turn to Dom. Perhaps he was right, earlier. No need to hammer this particular message home.
The silence in the Courtyard tells me that the message has already been received.
“Burn him,” I say hoarsely. “Send the ashes to his parents. I’ll speak with them.”
Paul stiffens on my other side, but he doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask for any more. Anton is lucky to have received the call at all, and he knows it. I did it for him, to try and nudge one of mine in the right direction and avoid his heart hardening with resentment and anger.
But my mercy only extends so far. And our traitors do not rest with family.
Chapter three Dante
Rocco stands silently next to me, watching the show, but my mind isn’t on the update that he’s just stopped right in the middle of, his attention drawn by the Crows.
No, my mind is well and truly on the infuriating woman in front of me. Caterina tips her head up, her cries easily identifiable amongst the calls from the other Crows.
She grieves despite everything, and the smallest pang of guilt hits my chest. Anton Maranzano is dead because of his double crossing. He wasn’t even a particularly useful mole, too full of self-importance to have much room for anything worthwhile in his head.
He made his own choices, trying to claw his way up in a world that was always going to chew him up and spit him out. I’m not about to shed tears over a traitor.
Still, I felt a flip in my chest when the Corvos began to circle. They know how to put on a show, reveling in their crownickname. Their methods are common knowledge but rarely seen in public. Until now, at least.
Cat meets my eyes, and I dip my chin in acknowledgement.
Message received.
I’m only half-listening to Rocco as he picks up where he left off, but then my head snaps to the side. “Say that again.”
His lips press together. “Nicoletta Fusco is dead.”
That explains Gio’s absence. Normally he’d be here, skulking in corners and snarling at everyone, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “How?”
Rocco shifts on his feet. “Not sure yet.”
The oldest daughter of the Fusco crime lord is dead. It’s unexpected, and I don’t like surprises. “Find out.”
My lips press together as the Crows melt away, leaving Anton’s body where it sits against the northern oak. Red leaves sway on the breeze, a similar color to the rusty puddle underneath.
Cat talks quietly to her second, a hulking tattooed blonde fucker who looks at her with far too much possession in his gaze. Domenico Rossi is a quiet force in his own right. He’d have to be, since he’s led the Crows in Cat’s absence formonths.
Curiosity prickles me. Here one day, gone the next. Unusual for an heir to be away for so long, especially when the five crime families have been so focused on the current intake. This is the first time in the history of the so-called Mafia University that all five heirs have attended at the same time.
