“Maybe it’s just gas,” Brando said, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.
When no response came, he glanced at me—so quickly that if I hadn’t been staring at him, I would’ve missed it. He shrugged. “A lot of the food you ate was filled with spices.”
“Gas?” I said, incredulous. “Let me get this straight. I am mistakinggasfor beingworried?”
“It happens to pregnant women. They mistake gas for labor. Happened to Violet, remember? And people do say that it feels like gas, when stress gets stuck in your chest.”
“I’m not talking about this anymore. End of conversation.”
He laughed to himself, which made me want to slap him. We both became quiet after that, and he took my hand, placing a kiss on my wedding rings before he set it on his leg. I squeezed in acknowledgement.
The air had a thick quality to it, and underneath all of the glowing streetlights, it floated, seemingly with a solid form that had coalesced when the moisture clung to the cold to create ghostly shapes. It made me even more anxious, but we made it home without incident, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. But there was such a thing as counting eggs before placing them in the basket. Brando’s phone rang when we got to the front door.
“Rocco,” Brando said, not bothering with formalities.
Guido, Lou, and Nino were pulling up. Headlights shone on Brando’s face, illuminating his sudden pensiveness. Guido wasn’t turning the car off. He had a phone to his ear, too.
Brando listened, his eyes roving toward the street. I followed his line of concentration, and a few seconds later, a car whizzed past, followed by another, and then another.
A few seconds after the last passing, a terrible mechanical screech rent the air. A few more seconds later, an even harsher sound rang out, a sound associated with death—followed by the bending of metal and shattering of glass.
Guido backed out of the drive like a bat out of hell. I barely registered the fact that Brando was carrying me to the car, running toward it, before he shoved me in and followed Guido’s trail.
We didn’t have far to go. Halfway to Romeo and Juliette’s place, the scene revealed itself, all of the noises suddenly having faces.
Another car pulled up behind ours. Uncle Tito jumped out, his medical bag in his hand as he raced toward Romeo and Juliette’s Maserati. Donato followed behind, as did Dario, with Rocco right after.
I didn’t know where to look first, at the car smashed against the tree, or Scarlett, our doe, lying on her side, a pool of blood beneath her. Steam seemed to rise from the warmth of it. The copper tang of it coated my tongue.
Brandon Stone’s truck idled on the street, headlights glowing in the darkness, illuminating Romeo and Juliette’s car and Tito at work. The sheriff and Jane Jones were on each side of Brandon’s truck, peering in.
I held the cross around my neck just as tightly as Brando held my hand. The Maserati’s passenger-side door opened, and Juliette stumbled out. Her eyes were wide, her face ghostly in the night, and she moved like a drunk.
“He’s dead!” she wailed. It was then that I saw the blood that coated her face and hands. Her jeans and cream-colored sweater were smeared with it, the same color as the night. Black.
Brando and I took off toward her—or Brando did; I was dragged along. She collapsed in his arms, screaming into his chest. Rosaria and Carmen surrounded us. Brando cleared his throat, sniffed, and then handed her off to the first woman he found.
Before I could reach him, he had thrown the sheriff to the ground, and reaching inside the truck, yanked out an inebriated Brandon. He threw him against the truck, over and over, and in Italian he whispered in a voice that gave me chills,“Wake up,svegliati, so you’ll know that it was me who killed you. You killed my little brother.”
The sheriff reached for his gun as he rose from the ground, preparing to…I didn’t know what he was going to do. But I knew he wasn’t going to let Brando kill his nephew. Before I could intervene, Jane Jones shoved against me, knocking me a few paces back.
Rocco and Dario raced over to our scene, blocking the sheriff’s passage. The entire time, they attempted to talk Brando down. The area felt as though it was filled with hysteria, though Juliette was the only one crying, and the other noises were the cars running, and the muffled sounds of low voices.
I couldn’t comprehend what Rocco and Dario were trying to get across to Brando, not at first, and then I searched for confirmation when the words made sense.
Romeo had exited the car with blood caked on his face, spider webs streaking in all directions, and a bandage secured to his head with white medical tape. It was saturated with fresh blood.
His hooded eyes moved around the scene and then fixed on Brando and Brandon. Brandon was starting to come to, his eyes blinking and rolling. I knew there wasn’t much time. As soon as he spoke or recognized Brando, it would be over. Then the sheriff…
“Nephew!” I heard Uncle Tito’s voice in Italian ordering Romeo. “Go to your wife! She thinks you are dead!”
There had been no time to explain this to her. Uncle Tito wanted to get Romeo’s bleeding under control. He must’ve been knocked unconscious for a few minutes, long enough that she thought he was dead. And the blood…
Thankful for his intervention, I shoved Jane Jones to the side, catching her off guard. Another wail went up from Juliette, but this one in great relief.
“Talk to him, sister,” Rocco whispered to me in Italian. “The sheriff wants to use his weapon. I will kill him first.”
I didn’t want to act too fast. I didn’t want my husband to react as though it was another man attempting to stop him.
