Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(82)

Christmas morning was surprisingly calm. There was a sense of peace, of readiness. Murmurs of Buon Natale filled the corridors in the house, brought soft smiles to our faces as we ate breakfast together in the kitchen. There was no food in the oven, no gifts waiting to be unwrapped.

It was almost like we knew we wouldn’t all be coming back.

We didn’t utter the name Marino before we had to. We didn’t acknowledge that we were even leaving the house until we broke up after breakfast, most of us pottering back to opposite ends of the house to shower, to get dressed properly, to arm ourselves.

I stayed in the shower for a long time, where the quiet rush of water drowned out all my thoughts. It quelled the pain in my chest – the ripple of anxiety that had been growing and growing. I sat down and pulled my knees into my chest, throwing my head back to the beads of water and letting them drip down my face and back into my hair. I let memories from last night run through my head, lighting me up, the lingering feeling of our closeness holding me together, keeping me strong. I would come home for him. He would come home for me.

Slowly, slowly, the darkness crept back in. The need for revenge, the thirst for completion. It was time. I was going to use my fear, my anger, my grief. I was going to sharpen them, use them as a weapon and point that weapon right at Donata Marino. I chanted the words to myself and like a cool balm, they eased the cloying sense of fear that was creeping up my spine.

When I got back to my room, there were two things laid out for me on the bed: new rounds of ammunition for my gun, and a bulletproof vest. I didn’t give myself any time to dwell on just how badly I needed it or how relieved I was to have it, or how there are hundreds of other places on your body you can be shot that can cause you to bleed out.

I dressed in sneakers, dark jeans, my new vest, a sweater and a dark jacket. I wound my hair into a bun at the base of my neck, slipped my switchblade into my back pocket. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a soldier. I felt like a soldier. I wore my mother’s necklace and Luca’s bracelet. For bravery. For courage.

I stashed the ammunition in my pocket, and loaded my gun with a fresh round. Dom had the automatic weapons packed up in the car. I had had trouble getting to grips with mine, so I had chosen the handgun. It felt flimsy to me now – light and insubstantial compared to what the others had – but I could shoot it, and I was good.

I ran into Nic in the foyer. We hadn’t said very much to each other since he had caught Luca and me kissing. Valentino had passed away so suddenly that the whole debacle had been swept aside, and what remained was a lingering strangeness between us.

He was dressed in black, his hair already covered by a rolled-up balaclava.

‘Hi,’ I offered.

‘Hi.’ He passed me a balaclava. ‘Are you all set?’

I rolled it on to my head, tugging it down at the back and leaving it folded on to the front of my hair. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m ready.’

‘You look ready now. It suits you.’

I offered him a grim smile. I supposed that was his idea of a compliment. ‘Thanks.’

His smile was easy. A trickle of tension left my body. We were being cordial; we were getting back to the way we were. ‘Look, Nic, I don’t want there to be any hard feelings …’ I trailed off. ‘You know, with everything …’

He released an uneasy laugh, his feet shuffling slightly. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, a little too breezily. ‘I get it, you didn’t want me.’

‘It wasn’t about that,’ I said quietly. ‘I didn’t want anyone.’

‘You wanted him.’

‘In the end, yes,’ I admitted.

Something flitted across his face – too quick to catch, but it twisted his lips. ‘It’s kind of messed-up,’ he said. ‘Because after today, he won’t want you any more.’ He gestured at me, his finger leaving an invisible trail of ice down my front. ‘He only loves you because you’re innocent. He’s fascinated by it.’

‘Nic, let’s not do this.’

He held my gaze. ‘I would have loved you either way.’

I ran my hand across the ridge of the balaclava, trying not to feel self-conscious. ‘You always wanted me like this,’ I pointed out.

‘The way you’re supposed to be.’

‘Can we be civil?’ I pushed away from the topic of Luca. I didn’t want to be mad at Nic today. ‘Can we put everything behind us?’

His laugh was sharp. ‘Why? In case I die?’

‘In case of anything.’

He stuck out his hand. ‘OK. Friends,’ he said, in a low voice. I slipped my hand into his and shook it. He tightened his grip on my wrist and pulled me into his chest – into the hotness of his breath, the smell of his aftershave. ‘Let me promise you this, Sophie.’ He was looking down on me, his eyes blazing with intensity. ‘You and I are getting out of that house alive.’

I pushed against him, and he dropped my hand and stepped back, as if remembering himself. ‘I’m not worried about how we get out,’ I said, schooling my annoyance. ‘I’m worried about how we go in.’

‘We’re fine,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

I took that kernel of forgiveness, and smothered my anger with it. Of course he was still bitter about Luca. Of course he would say those things about him. He didn’t want us to be together. He would prefer me alone than with his brother.