"You sure about this?" Scarlett asks for the third time, her bright red hair tucked under a beanie, worry creasing her brow. "I could come with you, sit at another table maybe."
"No," I say firmly, squeezing her hand. "I've kept you away from all this for years, Scar. I'm not risking itnow."
"But what if?—"
"We'll be fine," Lucrezia cuts in, her voice steadier than I expected. "Damiano won't hurt us."
"It's not just him I'm worried about," Scarlett counters, glancing nervously at the street. "What if Byron's people are watching?"
"That's exactly why you need to stay here," I tell her. "If anything happens, we need someone who knows everything."
Lucrezia nods. "Damiano will be watching for Byron's men. Actually, that might be the one thing we can count on."
Scarlett doesn't look convinced, but she pulls me into a tight hug anyway. "Call me the second you're done," she whispers. "And if you're not back in two hours, I'm calling every hospital in Manhattan."
"Deal." I pull back, managing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
"Remember what we practiced," Lucrezia says as we start walking. "Tell him everything about Byron first, then about your father."
The café's warmth hits me as Lucrezia and I step through the door, the scent of fresh coffee and pastries filling the air. My stomach lurches at the smell.
"Table for two?" the waitress asks, smiling brightly.
"Three, by the window please," Lucrezia answers, her voice calm despite the tension radiating from her body.
We slide into our seats, and I scan the street outside, searching for any sign of Damiano or Byron's men. The waitress returns with menus, but I can barely focus on the words swimming before me.
"Just a mint tea for me," I tell her, hoping it might settle my churning stomach.
"Cappuccino," Lucrezia orders, then turns to me once the waitress leaves. "You look pale."
"Morning sickness," I mutter, trying to smile. "Though apparently it can strike anytime."
We fall into silence, both of us too wrapped up in our thoughts to make small talk. My hands fidget with a napkin, folding and unfolding it until it's creased beyond recognition. Lucrezia keeps checking her phone, though I'm not sure what she expects to find there.
When our drinks arrive, I wrap my hands around the warm mug, drawing comfort from its heat. The steam carries the mint scent upward, and I breathe it in, willing my nausea to subside.
"There," Lucrezia whispers suddenly, her eyes fixed on something outside.
My head snaps up, and my heart nearly stops. Damiano stands across the street, flanked by two men. Of course he wouldn't come alone. We knew that although Lucrezia asked him to be on his own.
Damiano stops at the curb, saying something to his men. They nod and retreat to the black SUV parked across the street, though I notice they don't drive away.
The bell above the door jingles as he enters, and suddenly he's there, looming over our table. The sight of him—so close after eight days apart—sends a wave of emotions crashing through me: fear, longing, guilt, hope.
"Damiano—" I start, but my stomach heaves. "Excuse me," I gasp, pushing past him and rushing toward the bathroom sign at the back of the café.
Behind me, I hear Lucrezia's chair scrape against the floor as she stands. "Fratello," she says, her voice softening.
"Lucia," he responds, his deep voice making my heart ache even as I flee.
I shove open the bathroom door just in time.
I dry my hands and reach for the door handle, rehearsing what I'll say to Damiano one last time.
The first sound that registers is wrong. A loud crack echoes through the café, followed by terrified screams. My hand freezes on the door handle as another crack splits the air.
Shotguns.
