I owe everything to the Chiaroscuros, and still, I couldn’t save the Don, the only man I’ve ever called Father. And Iwillhave my revenge.
For the Don, for my brothers.
Our family might be a complicated one—dysfunctional even—but no one gets to tear it apart without facing the consequences.
And while the Tanakas and Murrays will face my wrath, first, I intend to make an example of the man who took my father’s life.
Pyotr Novikov.
I never liked the man.
In truth, I’ve disliked him like one would a creepy little spider that sneaks into the cracks of the walls before it can be squashed, because that is what he is.
A poisonous insect that weaves webs and lays traps too flimsy to catch me in.
But now he’s gone and killed someone he shouldn’t have. And he’s going to die a slow andverypainful death for it.
Taking a quick shower, I throw on a sun shirt and board shorts—the only clothes we have on hand after our impromptu retreat from our family home—and head to the galley for some coffee.
To my surprise, the twins are already there, dark hair still a tangled mess, their five-o’clock shadows telling me neither actually slept a wink.
And from the haunted look in Raf’s eye, I know it’s because he’s reliving his wife’s death over and over—just like the don’s execution plays on repeat behind my eyelids.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.
Sando meets my eye, his gaze filled with an agony as if he himself had lost a part of his heart, and I know it’s because Raf and Sandro—as different as they might be—are like two halves of a whole.
If one gets injured, the other bleeds. He shakes his head subtly, and I press my lips together as I study Raf’s face.
The hollow look in his eye is almost more frightening than the half-crazed one from before.
Something inside him is dying, and I know that he needs to hear my plan just as much as I needed it.
Wordlessly, I start a pot of coffee brewing then slump onto the bench seat across the table from my brothers.
As if summoned by the smell, Gio appears minutes later, his hair tousled like his sleep was just as restless.
“Good, you’re up,” I state flatly as he heads straight for the coffee pot and pours four steaming mugs to bring back to the table.
My brothers’ eyes all turn to me as they hear the conviction in my voice.
“I don’t know about you boys, but I’m not ready to take this attack lying down,” I state flatly. “Our enemies might have taken our home from us—Father, Genevieve. But I refuse to crawl into a hole to lick our wounds. I say we strike while the iron is hot and show them just how badly they screwed up, thinking they could take down the Chiaroscuro family.”
“And how do you propose we do that, Miko?” Gio asks, his eyes filled with resignation. “Our forces are scattered, significantly depleted. Leo and Sora are on the run, and like you pointed out, Father’s dead, so we have no one to lead us?—”
His words are cut short as my phone vibrates across the tabletop, and I snatch it up to look at the unknown number.
Sliding my finger across the screen, I answer in Italian—on the off chance that someone could be tapped into my phone.
“Pronto?”
“It’s me,” Leo responds curtly in our native tongue—or at least, the language we grew up speaking around the Chiaroscuro house. Considering I’m something of a stray, I have no clue what my native tongue might be. “Just checking in to let you know Sora and I are somewhere safe.”
Where that is, he doesn’t say, but it’s better that way.
“Good,” I confirm. “Your timing is perfect. We were just discussing where to start our revenge.”
A long pause stretches across the line, and I share a look with Gio as Leo releases a sigh that crackles through the phone.
