“You okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just… women stuff.”
“Women stuff?” I’m dumbfounded. She’s never brushed off being upset with that type of excuse before. And when’s the last time I even saw her cry? Ten years? Twenty?
“I’d like to be alone, Sandro.”
“Sure.” I nod, and take a few steps back. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
She slams the door in my face before I can say anything else. I rub my hand through my hair, perplexed. Is she angry with me? That’s what it seems like, but there’s no reason for it. We haven’t argued in weeks. If she saw something upsetting at the shootout, then it would be reasonable for her to be upset, but I don’t know why she’d hide that from me.
I continue walking to the basement, where we have our in-house clinic. “Women stuff,” I mutter to myself. Why wouldn’t she elaborate further? All the joy at Vincenzo’s injury has died, and this has taken over my mind. I’ve always been there to protect her. The number of men that I have killed or maimed for as much as looking at her the wrong way…
Most of them at her request too.
I shake the thought of what’s going on with Elena out of my head and run down the stairs until I get to the medical wing. We have a doctor or two on staff twenty-four seven, but to prepare for today’s festivities, we called every doctor from our contacts in.
And we’re lucky we did. Today did not go as planned.
I hear furniture being thrown around and don’t need to round the corner to know that it’s Marco.
“My only son!” he screams just as I witness him throw a potted plant at a wall.
I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood to avoid saying, “He’s not even your son.”
He’d probably shoot me on the spot for saying that out loud.
My eyes flick to my adoptive brother lying on the bed, white as a sheet and hooked up to machines. He was shot twice: the side of his head and his shoulder.
The other capos stand stoic against the wall as Marco continues his tirade, threatening to find and torture whoever did this to him, threatening to methodically kill all of Sofia’s family members until there’s no one left.
It’s strange seeing Vincenzo lying in bed like this. Vulnerable. Dying.
I didn’t see what was happening when we were growing up. But Marco used me to get under his skin on purpose. Vincenzo was the golden son. His chosen one. Anytime he did anything wrong, I was always the comparison used to shame him.
You don’t want to end up like Alessandro, do you? Maybe I’ll have him take over instead if you’re so weak and fucking stupid.
He’s a few years younger than me, and we were adopted by Marco within the same year—though with vastly different circumstances. Vincenzo’s father was Marco’s best friend. His parents were murdered by an enemy family, so Marco took him in as his own.
My story is a bit more complicated.
My mother moved from France to Sicily for a reason unknown to me. She was addicted to anything she could get her hands on and sold her body to get what she needed. That’s how I was born, but she never knew who my father was. But for my sister, my mother could pinpoint Marco Ferrara as the father.
Her lifestyle caught up with her, and she found herself lying on her deathbed when I was nine and Elena, two. That’s when she reached out to Marco, begging him to take us in.
Now, Marco can’t have children easily—some type of medical issue that causes him to be nearly infertile. After doing a DNA test for him and Elena to prove the relation, he took her in without question, realizing that she might be his only chance of having a biological child.
He tried to leave me behind, and I spent some time in the foster system. But Elena wouldn’t stop asking where I was, and apparently that annoyed him enough to eventually adopt me as well.
He resented having me in his life, but I think there is some part of Marco that loves Elena—and that’s why he hasn’t killed me yet. But he didn’t make my life easy.
“You!” Marco’s voice snaps me out of my spell as he stands there, pointing his finger at me. “I hope Sofia has suffered already because of this mess. The nerve of her family!”
Yes, the nerve of her family to defend themselves against a blatant attack.
I force a smug smile, bending the truth. “Let’s just say I left her sobbing and distraught in the shower.”
“Good.” He gives me a Cheshire cat smile that sends a chill down my spine. My disheveled, sweaty appearance and lack of a suit jacket gives Marco a different impression of what occurred between me and Sofia. “I’ll want to hear frequent updates on her condition.”
