Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(28)

‘Good,’ he murmured, sitting up and squaring his body up to mine. ‘That’s the spirit, Sophie.’ He put his hands on my shoulders, dug them in until they started to sting. I ignored it, using the pain as fuel as he poured his strength into me. ‘You need to get fired up about this, Sophie. You need to feel determined and angry, and, most of all, you should feel excited. This is your time to fight back. Don’t you want to fight back?’ That smile again, full and white and dazzling. ‘Don’t you want to take from her what she took from you?’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’ I nodded, siphoning off some of that unbridled optimism, keeping it for myself. ‘I want her to pay, Nic. I’m going to make her pay.’

‘And I’m going to help you.’ He was nodding along with me, his fingers digging harder into my shoulders, but I didn’t care. We were in this together. I didn’t have to do it alone. ‘I’ll stand by your side until there’s no one left. Until Donata begs for mercy at your feet. I’ll be there right until the end.’

A well of gratitude sprung up inside me. This was what I needed: strength, belief, support.

‘Thank you,’ I told him in earnest. ‘Thank you for helping me. I really needed this.’

‘You really want to thank me?’ He cocked his head, a slow smile curling on his lips. For a second I thought he was going to lean in and kiss me, but instead, he dropped his hands, made the shape of a gun with his fingers and pressed it against my forehead. ‘Thank me by putting a bullet in Libero Marino’s head this weekend.’ He winked at me. ‘Thank me in Marino blood.’





CHAPTER TWELVE


MY SOUL




When I got home from school the following afternoon and made my way to the library, there was a piece of paper with my name on it waiting for me on the coffee table. It was sitting on top of a book of poems I hadn’t seen before. I recognized the handwriting on the note as Luca’s.

So Nic really had told him about my assignment, and Luca had decided to help me. I tried not to wonder why, tried not to imagine him poring over this poetry book, thinking about me. It would only drive me insane.

I unfolded the piece of paper, unbearably curious to find out what poem Luca would think relevant to me, and whether I would consider it an insult or a compliment.

‘Invictus’ by William Ernest Henley. The poem wasn’t familiar to me, but then again, few were. Luca had handwritten the words in small black script. It felt … personal. I shook the thought away and read the first line aloud.



Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.



By the time I reached the final verse, my arms were covered in goosebumps.



It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.



I read the poem three times, Evelina Falcone’s oil painting hanging over me, her gaze on the back of my neck. Another one of my father’s victims, another blot on his soul.

In my hands, the words seemed to grow bigger and bigger.

I understood.

I understood then why Luca had chosen this poem the day after Valentino had handed me my first official target.

Subtle, Luca. Real subtle.

That night, as I drifted off, those words swam around in my head, beside visions of dark eyes and gold teeth.

I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

Five days.

Five days and everything would change.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


WHEREABOUTS




I was attempting to instil my artistic flourish on a sketch of the humble mitochondrion when the familiar beep of the school intercom sounded. The flurried scratching ceased as twenty pencils disengaged from their diagrams.

‘Can Sophie Gracewell please report to the principal’s office immediately.’

I could feel the colour draining from my face, the stares of my classmates. A small chorus of oooohs came from the back of the room.

Ms Henderson, my biology teacher, glared at me over her glasses. ‘You’d better go, Sophie.’

I rolled my shoulders back and pushed my chair from the desk, trying not to appear worried. I walked, a lot slower than I could have, out the door and down the corridor to the principal’s office, praying that whatever was bringing me there was something minor.

The secretary was already on her feet, ushering me into the office, her cheeks flushed bright pink as she muttered her own chorus of ‘Come on, come on, hurry up now,’ her hands flapping around me as if the slight breeze would move me faster.

‘Ms Gracewell, we meet again.’

Oh, God, kill me now.

‘Detective Medina. Detective Comisky.’ I nodded curtly to each of them, keeping my smile tight, all the panic inside me corseting me in. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Is it?’ said Comisky, his eyes slitting. He was leaning back against the desk. His suit was the colour of vomit. He gestured for me to sit. I sidled around Medina, who was hunched by a disused bookcase, and did as I was told, all too aware that by having the detectives standing above me, I was giving up vital higher ground.