Chatty Leader wasn’t going to have another chance to make a mark on me again. Or open his fucking mouth about the woman the rose belonged to. I unsheathed my knife and before he could come at me again, I stabbed him in the throat.
It was like a scene out of a movie. His eyes froze for a second, blood trickled from his mouth, and he slid down the wall. A man came at me from behind, another one of their fighters, wrapping his arms around my throat. He pulled me back, looking for purchase against the wall, and he was putting all his weight intoit. It felt like my neck might pop off, or one of my eyes might fly out of its socket.
He was successful in getting his back to the wall, but he made a mistake. He left too much room between my head and his. My head might have been swimming in and out of focus from a lack of oxygen, but I pushed through it, and with a strained grunt, I forced my head forward and then back with all the momentum I could muster. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch. The shock of it gave me enough time to bend his hand to his arm. At the same time, I kicked his knee in, crippling him.
He screamed in my ear, cursing in Russian, and before he could come at me again, I took him by the hair and smashed his face into the stone wall. He fell to the floor, and I prepared to face another enemy, my breaths ragged in the cold but my body on fire. More of our men had joined the fray, though, and the Russians were scattering like the rats. As one of their fighters ran past me, I lifted my leg and tripped him. He went flying, landing somewhere in a passage that was pitch black.
Remo took my side. “We must go,” he said in Italian. “Stella has been found, but not in good condition.”
The news that Stella wasn’t doing well snapped me back to attention. We had to focus and get the fuck out, in case my brother needed backup getting Stella out. We were still cut off from all communications and had no idea what the situation was looking like farther into the underground club.
One of our men grabbed the torch and pointed forward after Remo gave him the order to do so. As we passed one of the tunnels, a man identical to the one who had attacked me leaned against the wall, his shoulder against it. Our eyes locked through the wavering flames. In a breath, he disappeared into the darkness. I knew. I’d killed his brother, blood related or not, and he was going to attempt to kill me.
He’d never forget my face.
I’d never forget his.
At the meetup point, a bunch of our men converged, and we made it out of the club together without incident. Most of us were sweating, bleeding, and torn up. We’d all collected wounds and enemies in this battle. This wasn’t only about Stella, but the existence of the club and what it stood for. Mamma had been forced to dance against her will, and a war broke out after it—a war that had raged for years. A war that almost took our parents. Had taken family and friends.
The air outside of the club was chilled but sweet. It smelled and tasted like life, even with the smells of fire and brimstone that surrounded us. Blood was heady in the air. Some men were being carried out by other men. Rushed to the safety of our emergency vehicles. Including my brother with Stella in his arms.
Once they were gone, I realized how messed up Stella was, and the reality of the situation hit me harder than any of those men could’ve. My brother could lose his heart right after he found her. The thought didn’t sit well with me.
My heart was experiencing a lot of new emotions, and I knew why. I was starting to feel empathy toward situations that suddenly hit too close to home.
Remo came up to me and said he was going to take me to one of our medical places to get stitched up. We had places scattered all over the world—places that my great-uncle Tito, who had been the lead doctor for the Fausti family for years, and who was also married to my great-aunt Lola, had set up for times like these. I looked down at my side. The fabric was ripped, and so was my skin. Blood poured out of it, and I was surprised the heat of it against the cold air wasn’t making smoke. I teetered a bit, and Remo put a hand on me to stop me from swaying, though he was teetering too.
My old man seemed to appear out of nowhere to check me out. He looked at the wound with serious eyes. His eyes told me that, if he knew who had done it, he would kill him.
“Too late,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He nodded and, without a word, held a wad of gauze to my side. A man waited outside to take me and Remo to one of our hospitals once Marciano joined us. My old man handed me my phone and ordered me to answer it so mamma wouldn’t worry when she called to check on me.
The phone in my hand started to vibrate. I had a voicemail.
“Signor Fausti,” the sweet voice almost whispered on the other end of the line. “This is Sistine Capella, from Cappello's Jewelry store. You gave me instructions to do as I wished with the name plate, but—” a slight, breathy pause “—I was calling to make sure you were okay…” Another pause, this one longer, and then she hung up.
My vision was hazy, my head swimming, probably from the blood loss and the adrenaline still surging through my veins, but through all the static, my brain checked the time of the voicemail. She was probably leaving it at the time the Russian was trying to stab through my ribs to puncture something vital.
“Fuck me sideways,” I said, and then took a seat on the sidewalk, putting my head between my legs. My hands were coated with blood—mine and probably someone else’s—and shaking, like the vibration from the phone alert had me trembling all over.
Somehow, someway, Sistine Evita and I were connected already.
Chapter 4
Mariano
Two weeks after Sub Rosa, I waited outside of Cappello's Jewelry store. I was dressed in my usual uniform: a custom-made black suit and long overcoat. My hands wore black leather gloves, and my head a fedora. It was tipped down to the frigid wind and splattering rain that came down in a constant drizzle, soaking through clothes and scattering the fog.
The scene brought me back to the last time I was in Venice, except this time came with rain and sutures I didn’t have before. No doubt men were following me and had the scent of my blood stuck in their noses.
I’d collected enemies after what happened that night. Chatty Leader had four brothers. One twin and three who followed. Rio had checked the night-vision footage, and the facial recognition software recognized them. The twins were Daniil and Ignatiy, who I settled on calling Iggy. The moment my eyes locked with Chatty Leader, Daniil, we became mortal enemies. The moment my eyes locked with his twin, Iggy,the situation transferred from one brother to another.
Which was why I was keeping my distance from Sistine Evita. I refused to call her by her last name. It didn’t fit her. Didn’t sit right in my chest.
What Daniil had done—prod for a weak spot—was a tactic a lot of enemies used on our family. I’d never had one before. It had never worked on me.
It worked.
