As we begin our ascent to what can only be one of the medieval hilltop towns nearby, I take in the olive groves, vineyards, and buildings covered with cascades of flowers. Even at night, it’s beautiful and sacred, and truthfully, I can’t imagine anywhere better suited for a marking ceremony.
Outside the ancient stone fortress surrounding the town, the first cars in the procession pull off to the side, creating a barricade that will remain behind us as we pass through.
Nicky navigates the car onto the gravel, parking us right next to one of the archways that opens into the town. Angelo shrugs out of his suit jacket and exits the car, walking around to open my door.
“You’ll want to take those off.” He glances down at my heels.
I do as he suggests, leaving them on the floorboard. I’m not about to try to navigate cobblestone in my spike-heeled crystal Jimmy Choos.
Before I can swing my bare foot out, Angelo leans down and sweeps me up into his arms in one smooth motion.
“I can walk,” I protest half-heartedly.
He hauls me through the stone archway without a response as Nicky trails behind us, carrying the bag I packed for tonight. Angelo navigates the village’s narrow pathways, and after a steep climb, we reach the piazza. It’s a beautiful square surroundedby shuttered buildings, worn stone, and centuries of history. But I’m most impressed by the fact that Angelo doesn’t seem taxed in the slightest after hefting my ass up that hill.
We pass by a church and several other meandering pathways before we reach the castle at the highest point of the village. Angelo carries me through the raised iron portcullis, leading us out onto a terrace perched on a cliff’s edge. Glowing lanterns illuminate the space, and men in hooded robes stand in a semi-circle, ready to greet us. Beyond the castle wall, this area provides privacy, along with a sweeping view of the open countryside. As far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but rolling hills and starry Tuscan skies.
As the portcullis closes behind us, it becomes apparent that this is the setting for the marking ceremony. Angelo sets me upon my feet, and one of the robed representatives from IVI steps forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Vitale.” The man gestures to the long table overflowing with a bounty of bread, wine, cheese, and fruit. “The village offers you this gift for the most blessed of occasions.”
Angelo thanks him before his gaze drifts to the ornately carved wooden throne sat against the dramatic backdrop. A small table beside it already has the necessary equipment for the tattoo, while a fire pit burns nearby, the branding iron nestled within its glowing coals.
“A gift from the Tribunal,” the representative explains. “After tonight’s ceremony, we’ll have it shipped to the island for you to use at your leisure.”
At this, Angelo scrapes a hand over his jaw, his irritation palpable. While impractical, the throne appears to be a symbolic gesture to honor Angelo’s position within theCosa Nostra. If I had to guess, this must be the Society’s olive branch for his wrongful conviction. The Tribunal’s Councilors aren’t the type togrovel, but they also know theCosa Nostraisn’t an organization they want to enter a bloody war with.
The Vitales straddle both worlds, but their loyalty is first and foremost to the family. While The Society has its own rules of law and order, they overstepped when they took the unprecedented action of imprisoning a member of theCosa Nostra. It was only because he was accused of killing a Councilor’s son that the Tribunal made the call.
There’s always been a delicate balance between the two worlds. The Society takes a willfully ignorant approach when it comes to members affiliated with the Mafia. They don’t want to know about it, and they’ll deny such a connection exists down to their very marrow. And yet, when they need something handled, they always know who to call.
Before the incident that led to Angelo’s imprisonment, the Vitales were negotiating a partnership with Adrian Lockwood. He was a Society son looking to make a name for himself in the art world. He wanted to be known as someone who could source the impossible for private sales. TheCosa Nostrahad access to those channels.
During a meeting with Angelo, Adrian’s gallery was ransacked by unidentified men, and he was killed in the process. Over a million dollars of art went missing, and only one man was left standing in the rubble.
Councilor Lockwood took the position that it had to have been a setup. It didn’t make sense that his son would be shot, but Angelo wasn’t. And given his ties to theCosa Nostra, the Tribunal agreed. They sentenced Angelo to decades behind bars in a Tribunal prison—with the condition that he would be released if the Vitales could prove his innocence.
For months, it was all anyone could talk about. It very nearly started a war, and there was a time when I was certain Silvio might forsake it all and burn the whole organizationto the ground. It was only because of Angelo that he didn’t. Silvio spared no expense and turned over every stone in search of who was responsible. Battles erupted with smaller gangs, and tensions were so high between every faction in the city, I wasn’t sure any of us would make it out alive. But in the end, Angelo must have proven his innocence because he wouldn’t be standing here today if he hadn’t.
Now, The Society offers him a table full of food and a throne as if that will smooth things over. Tension lingers in the air, and I imagine Angelo giving them a Spartan-style death as he hurtles each of them over the cliff. But instead, he dismisses them.
“You can all take your leave.”
A long, uncomfortable silence follows before the representative replies. “Mr. Vitale, it’s our job to witness?—”
“And you’ll take my word that it’s done,” Angelo replies bluntly. “Now, let my men bring me what I require. Then lower the portcullis and go.”
Unsurprisingly, the men do as he says. As they shuffle through the archway, Angelo unknots his tie and pulls it loose from his collar. When he lifts his gaze to mine, the heat smoldering behind those dark eyes leaves little doubt about his intentions tonight.
He will take me, and I will burn for it.
When he closes the distance between us, my body stirs with awareness. Every inhale becomes a little more shallow as my nerves pulse to life—waiting, craving, remembering.
His warm fingers graze my jaw, angling my face up to his. “Do you trust me,cara?”
That question is deceptively soft, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a trap. The concept of trust in this particular setting varies wildly. Do I trust him not to throw me off the cliff? Probably. Do I trust him not to use the brand? Definitely. But if not those things, then what?
I search his eyes, looking for the slightest hint of malice, but right now…I find none. All I see are the ghosts of a thousand memories time and distance haven’t erased. I’ve known him through almost every season of my life…except the one that altered us the most. We’re two different people standing at a literal precipice, and now, I have new memories with him I’ll never be able to forget.
