“Prove it, lil sis.”
So I lift the gun, arms trembling, and pull the trigger. The crack splits the air, my ears ringing as shards of glass explode across the floor. One bottle down.
It isn’t the first time I’ve fired a gun.
Donal lets out a low whistle. “Not bad, Cat. Not bad at all.” He steps behind me, adjusting my grip, his hand firm over mine. “But you’ve got to steady your breathing. Aim with your eyes, not your anger.”
I swallow hard, line up the next shot, and fire. The second bottle shatters, then the third. With every crack, something inside me shifts. The fear, shame, and grief it all turns sharp, controlled.
“See?” Donal’s voice is almost proud. Almost. “You’ve got ice in your veins. That’s what it takes. One day, you’ll thank me for this.”
I don’t thank him. I just keep shooting until all the bottles are gone, glass littering the stone floor like stars. And when the last echo fades, I realize I’m not the same girl who left the sandy beaches of Italy all those years ago.
Or at least I wasn’t then. But one encounter with Matteo Rossi, and he cracks me open like it’s four summers ago all over again.
The phone buzzes, drawing my thoughts to the present.
Da: Don’t make me ask again.
My pulse spikes. I force my fingers to move, tapping out the words.
Me: I’m watching him. Waiting for the right moment.
The reply is instant.
Da: It’s been almost a week. There’s no more waiting. The Quinlans aren’t messing around. You don’t handle this soon, I’ll send Donal to finish it.
My breath hitches. My brother, Donal, who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t miss. If he comes, Matteo won’t get another day.
My fingers clench tight around the phone, so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. For a split second, I imagine telling my father the truth, that I’m hesitating, that I can’t reconcile the target with the boy who once held my face like it was fragile glass. But that truth would be the end of me. Of both of us.
I force the lie through gritted teeth.
Me:No need. I can handle it.
Handle it. Kill him. Bury what’s left of me in the process.
The phone goes silent. My father believes me. For now.
I shove the cell onto the nightstand, collapsing back onto the mattress in Sean Murphy’s sterile guest apartment. The ceiling stares down at me, blank and white, as if daring me to crack.
But I don’t. I can’t.
Because if I falter now, Matteo Rossi isn’t the only one who’ll end up in the ground.
The city hums with restless energy as I step onto the streets again, my hood pulled low and my stride steady. My plan is simple: find Matteo, watch him, and learn more. This time, I’ll pick up where I left off. Study the patterns, the people around him, the guards he doesn’t think I notice. Every detail brings me closer.
To killing him.
The dark voice roars across the back of my mind, each word like a knife to the heart. Shoving the traitorous sensations down, I quicken my pace, determined in my mission. But halfway down Sixth Avenue, the hairs at the back of my neck rise. A whisper of footsteps, just a breath too consistent follow behind me.
I slip my phone from my pocket and angle it like I’m checking a text, the black screen reflecting the blur of movement just behind my shoulder. Broad frame. Leather jacket. Purpose in his walk.
Shite.
Not Rossi men. Not yet.
Sean Murphy.
