He grimaces as I grab one of the dead men’s ankles and yank him onto the floor with a thud. With some reluctance, Rafe helps me carry both bodies to the cattle incinerator behind the woodshed.
“I’ll never look at barbecue the same.” He gags.
I shrug, because I’ve been doing this for so long, I don’t even think about it anymore. Rafe is no stranger to violence and bloodshed, but he doesn’t have much of a stomach for it. This job isn’t for the faint of heart, but that’s why my father gave it to me. After years of trying to rewire my brain post-nuking, the doctors sat him down and told him they’d done all they could.
He knew if he left me in that facility, it would have been the end for me. I wasn’t going to live out my days staring at the same four walls.
I was still fucked in the head, but my father brought me back to the island anyway. Then he sat me down and gave me three rules.
Forget the life I had. Don’t leave the island. And do the job he chose for me.
For three years, I only left my wing of the house when it was time to work. He helped me outfit the woodshed and taught me what he knew, then left me to figure out the rest.
I became the most primal version of myself, learning how to hunt and kill. My father thought it would be good for me, and in a way, I guess it was. I was still a liability—prone to explosive mood swings, intrusive thoughts, and darkness that followed me like a shadow. But at least I had a purpose.
My days were spent in isolation and misery, living in chronic pain as I tried to organize the chaos in my mind. I didn’t trust myself around anyone, so I kept my distance, drawing pictures from memory and learning how to hack.
Over time, I gradually reintegrated with my family, accepting my role as the storm cloud in every room. But I grew restless. I wanted more.
I wanted something I could no longer have.
As I close the hatch to the combustion chamber and start the incinerator, it reminds me who I am.
Moody, volatile, and lethal.
It’s a stark contrast to the cotton-candy-pink world Gabi lives in. She might be a daughter of theCosa Nostra, but she’s nothing like the rest of us.
She’s pure in a way I taint just by looking at her. Gentle. Nurturing. Sensitive. She respects all living things and feels guilty if she so much as injures a bug by accident. She spends her days dreaming and creating. I spend mine destroying and taking.
She’s sunshine, and I’m nightmare fuel.
“Hey.”
I glance up to find Rafe studying me. I let my guard down and forgot he was still here. The last thing I need is any of my brothers trying to decipher the thoughts running rampant in my mind. If they knew what they were, they’d stage an intervention.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks.
“What I’m having for lunch,” I answer blandly.
He releases a breath, finally getting to the reason he’s here.
“Angelo wants to talk to you.”
“Then Angelo should have come down here himself.” I traipse around the woodshed, lock the door, and leave the mess for later.
“You’ve been avoiding him,” Rafe says.
“I avoid everyone.”
Rafe doesn’t take the hint and joins me for the walk back to the house.
Black Stag Island is an eighteen-hundred-acre property that was once settled by our nonno and two other Mafia families. After our father died and Angelo took over, he trimmed the fat. Now, the island is divided into two halves—one belonging to the Stavros family, and the other to the Vitales.
Tenuta del Cervo Nero—The Black Stag Estate—is a mansion built of stone my grandfather imported from Italy. It was designed to be a multi-generational home, consisting of one central gathering space and individual residences. An open-air courtyard connects all six wings, and as we pass through, I veer off in the direction of mine while Rafe sighs after me.
“I guess he’ll come to you, then.”
“Yeah, I guess he will.”
