Twisted Hearts (The Camorra Chronicles #5)(71)

“Nino and I are on our way.”

“What about Gemma?”

Diego rose from his chair, paling.

“We don’t know anything,” Remo said.

I pushed to my feet, staring at Diego. “The Bratva.” I didn’t need to say more. The Amalfi had been attacked before. In the fifties and sixties, it had been a Russian restaurant, run by the Bratva, before the Camorra had taken it from them. We ran toward my car, jumped in and I floored the gas, my heart beating in my fucking throat.

Diego clutched his phone against his ear, but no one was picking up in the restaurant.

“Call Gemma. She always has her phone with her to talk to Toni!”

He tried—nothing.

Diego gripped his hair. “If…if…fuck.”

“Nothing will happen to anyone.”

Nothing would happen to Gemma.

Diego called home, reaching his mom who was taking care of Carlotta.

I slammed on the brakes in front of the restaurant and shot out of the car. Remo’s SUV was already parked in the front. Pulling out guns, Diego and I stormed into the restaurant.

Remo whirled around, pointing his guns at us then pointed them back at the kitchen doors, approaching them slowly. Nino knelt beside a body. Diego rushed toward them.

His father lay in a pool of his blood. Bullet wounds littered his body. His eyes stared unseeingly up at the ceiling. Diego made a small choked sound. Two dead assholes lay near the bar, dead. Russians, no doubt. The waiters next to the bar were dead as well.

“Where’s Gemma?” I asked.

“We arrived shortly before you,” Nino said. “We didn’t have time to check the kitchen yet. There wasn’t a sound though.”

Which meant everyone still around was dead. Whoever had done this would be gone by now.

“Gemma and Nonna were supposed to be here,” Diego said tonelessly.

Remo motioned for us to follow and together we went toward the kitchen. Raising our guns, Remo shoved open the swing door and we all rushed inside. Like Nino had said, nobody inside the kitchen was capable of making a sound.

Diego’s nonna lay on the floor, a bullet hole in her forehead. Dread settled in my bones and my heart slammed against my ribcage. Diego pushed past me and Remo, and stormed toward his grandmother, then he looked at something to his right.

He let out a hoarse cry, his face scrunching up with despair and he dropped his gun. “No!”

He rushed forward and I followed after him. Then I saw Gemma on the floor in a pool of blood. A tall man lay half on top of her. I froze and everything seemed to stand still.

My breath lodged itself in my throat. My fingers around my gun loosened.

Remo grasped my shoulder, looking at me. “Get a grip!”

I gripped the handle of my gun, even if I hardly felt my fingers or any other part of my body.

Diego fell to his knees beside Gemma. “No,” he roared then softer, “No, God, please.” I staggered toward him and helped him shove the Bratva asshole off Gemma. At least, she was still dressed. She wasn’t raped before they killed her. That was the only consolation. She didn’t have to suffer.

My eyes prickled and I swallowed. The sensation was foreign, one I hadn’t felt since I was a little boy—a heavy pressure in the back of my throat and in my chest. Diego pressed his forehead to Gemma’s stomach and began to cry.

With a shaking hand, I touched his back. Remo appeared beside us.

I looked up at him and for some reason he was blurry. I couldn’t stand the look on his face and so I looked back to Gemma. Fuck. The last words I’d said to her flitted through my head, the horrible things I’d told her, how badly I’d treated her. As if she was nothing but a sex toy for me, nothing important when she was the only girl who’d ever been a friend, the only girl I’d ever wanted for more than sex. Yet, I hadn’t shown her. I had clung to my freedom, because the rush of those meaningless flings and party nights had brightened the darkness that so often filled my insides. It hadn’t worked, not for long. Like a flash that broke through the night for only an instant, the thrill of my flings hadn’t banished that darkness for long.

I bent over Gemma’s head, cupping her bloody cheek and kissed the tip of her nose. She was even still warm. She couldn’t have been dead for long and that realization made this even harder. If we’d been quicker, maybe we could have saved her. Regret over the past is wasted time—that was Nino’s credo. The fuck did he know?

Stroking her blood-covered face, I leaned down to her ear. “I was an asshole. I’m so fucking sorry, Gem, so fucking sorry. I’ll miss you so fucking much, every annoying little thing. You are the only girl I ever truly wanted, and I fucked it up.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. My fingers traced her throat, so soft. So fucking gorgeous even in death. I’d thought I’d have time, that we’d have time to be together, had taken it for granted. The speared watch on my forearm taunted me as I stroked Gemma’s skin. Outsmarting time, what a stupid thing to think.

A gentle pulse throbbed against my fingertips. I jerked my head up, staring at Gemma.

“What is it?” Remo asked immediately. Diego lifted his tear-stained face.

I dug my fingertips into her throat. A pulse. A fucking pulse. For a moment, I didn’t dare believe it. “Remo,” I got out. He knelt beside me and shoved my hand aside, then he pressed his fingers against her pulse point. “Nino!” he roared.