“Enzo, it’s May.” I frowned, ignoring the asshole behind us. “Lent is in March.”
“Nextyear’s Lent,” Enzo clarified. “This year’s done. Might as well enjoy the sex.”
“Everything I know about your sex life, I’ve learned against my will.” I chuckled. “Do I want to
know why you’re doing this?”
“Lost a bet with your brother.”
“What’d you bet on?”
“I said you wouldn’t wear something scandalous today. And he… well, doesn’t have much faith in you.” Enzo’s whiskey eyes trailed down my bare legs.
“Even her brother knows she’s a lost cause.” Achilles tsked from behind me. “I made the mistake of trying to fix her once. Never again.”
That was it. I’d had it with this asshole. I turned around sharply, spearing him with a glare.
“Can you be helpful for once in your life and evacuate your grotesque face from my vicinity?”
“Only because you asked so nicely, Piccola Fiamma.” He stood up, buttoning his blazer with one hand. “As it happens, I do have business to attend to.”
Achilles glided out of the pew with a grace that no hulking, six-four man had any business possessing, disappearing between Roman columns.
My nickname, little flame, wasn’t born out of love. It was born out of hate. A reminder of everything we’d lost and everything we could’ve been if I hadn’t gone and fucked it up.
That was what killed me the most. Knowing it was me who threw it all away. Who managed to take this beautiful, pure lovethis boy had given me and turn it into potent, burning hatred. I’d ruined our lives, and now he was making me suffer for it.
The organist began playing, snapping my attention back to the here and now. The chatter stopped. The priest, a frail white-haired man, stepped forward and began his blessings.
“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo.”
Echoes of muffled screams ricocheted across the church’s walls. Every back in the room straightened. The ominous music grew louder. The priest proceeded, ignoring the cry of panic and pain.
“Padre nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo nome.”
Achilles appeared from behind the altar, holding a thrashing, disheveled man by the back of his neck. His captive’s hair was sweat-drenched, his suit unkempt.
The underboss. The molester.
Lila instinctively pressed Gennaro to her chest. Achilles stopped in front of the baptismal font, pressing the blade of a sharp knife to the man’s main artery.
“Venga il tuo regno, sia fatta la tua volontà, come in cielo così in terra.”
The priest clutched his Roman missal to a point of white knuckles, training his gaze hard on the pages.
“Dacci oggi il nostro pane quotidiano, rimetti a noi i nostri debiti, come noi li rimettiamo ai nostri debitori.”
Achilles slowly ran the blade across the man’s neck above the font, slicing his carotid artery with a surgeon’s precision. Crimson liquid gushed out, pouring into the hollow object. The thrashing and muffled cries stopped. All the while, Achilles stared at me, hatred burning through his pupils.
A river of blood sloshed over the fountain, filling it to the brim. The audience watched in silent shock. Achilles let go of his victim, and the lifeless body crumpled at his feet.
“E non ci indurre in tentazione, ma liberaci dal male. Amen.”
Tiernan scooped Nero from his mother’s arms and brought him to the font.
The priest took a shell, scooping some of the blood, and let it drip down Gennaro’s head. His hair was the same shade as the blood. Nero gurgled happily, fingers reaching for the shell, trying to snatch it from the minister. More blood dripped down the crown of his head and onto his christening gown.
My stomach churned. Even though I grew up in the belly of the underworld, I wasn’t a big fan of blood and murder. Plus, I wasn’t a believer, but slaughtering someone in a church seemed especially sinister, even to me.
