She laughed. Actually laughed. The sound hit me harder than a bullet. Ten minutes later she finally fired. The shot went nowhere near the target. Aurora screamed. I laughed. She screamed louder. Then laughed, too. The sound echoed across the cliffs.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal. No Five Families. No dead brothers. No fathers threat’s. No blood. Just a girl learning how to shoot. And me watching her smile. Then she ruined it. Naturally.
"What was Angelo like?" The question landed hard. The world seemed to tilt. The ocean became louder. The wind colder. "Sorry."
"No." I stared at the target. At the empty horizon beyond it. "He would've liked you. But I would never let him have you."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Aurora blinked.
"He would've liked me? You sure? Your friend back there…"
“Marco?”
“Marco,” she repeated. “He seems to hate me.”
I nodded once. "Unfortunately."
A smile tugged at her lips. "Why unfortunately?"
"Because I hoped he’d like you. He says I need another friend,” I grinned. “Then there'd be two of you."
She laughed. I smiled despite myself. Then the smile faded. Because memories were cruel things. They always arrived carrying knives.
"Angelo was four minutes older." Aurora waited. I kept staring at the ocean. "He never stopped reminding me."
A small laugh escaped her. "He sounds annoying."
"He was." I swallowed. Hard. "He was funny."
That one hurt. More than expected. Funny. God. Angelo had been funny. The kind of person who made rooms brighter without trying. The kind of person who walked into darkness and somehow convinced everyone else it wasn't so bad. Aurora watched me quietly. No jokes. No interruptions. Just watching.
"You miss him." Simple. Three words. No pity. No sympathy. No careful voice. Just the truth. And somehow that was worse. Because nobody ever said it.
They talked about Angelo's death. His murder. His legacy. His funeral. Nobody talked about what came afterward. The hole. The silence. The absence.
I looked away first. "Every day."
Aurora didn't speak. Neither did I. The wind filled the silence. The ocean filled the rest. For once, it wasn't uncomfortable. For once, somebody understood that grief didn't always need fixing. Sometimes it just needed witnessing.
Some time later she went inside. The estate settled into the evening. Then night. I sat alone in my office nursing whiskey and bad decisions. Both were familiar. One was significantly prettier.
A knock sounded. Marco entered. Holding a small package. I was already suspicious. "What's that?"
"It arrived at the gate."
I frowned. The box was plain. Unmarked. Cheap cardboard. Everything about it felt wrong. I set the whiskey down. Opened the package. And froze.
Inside sat a single diamond earring.
Small. Delicate. Familiar. The one I’d given her. My blood turned cold. Marco went very still. Beneath the earring sat a folded note. I unfolded it slowly. The message was short.
So she’s riding your brother’s bike now, wearing your mother’s jewelry?
Silence. Heavy. Violent. Deadly. I stared at the note. Then at the earring. Then back at the note. Something dark and ancient began waking up inside me. Not fear. Not panic. Rage. The kind that arrived quietly. The kind that smiled. The kind that buried bodies.
Marco spoke first. "Santino."
I stood. Slowly. The chair scraped against the floor. The note crumpled in my fist. Somebody had gotten close enough to touch her. Close enough to watch her. Close enough to know exactly how much damage those three words would do.
