Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(84)

They were armed, even at dinner.

They were no match for us.

Three of them fell in the first thirty seconds, and as many others scrambled towards the back of the house, and out into the fresh snow. The boys followed them, an army of balaclava-ed assassins, shooting straight as they marched. Elena led the way, shouting her sister’s name as she went. My gun was still cold in my hand, my finger poised on the trigger.

I sprinted past the pantry, following CJ. Felice and Luca were still behind me, casing the remainder of the kitchen. The sound of a grunt stopped me at the doorframe. I backed up, slipping into the pantry, my attention trained on the kitchen, the gun ready in my hand. Jack sprang up from under the table, and flung his carving knife right at Felice’s head. Felice lunged to the side, and the blade sliced into Luca’s shooting arm. He fell to his knees, and Jack sprinted across the kitchen and through the open patio door. I hopped out after him, but my bullet lodged in the doorframe a foot above his head.

Move. Go after him. But my feet had stopped working. Luca was hurt. And if I left he would be alone with Felice. I wheeled around, watching Felice as he circled his nephew across the room.

The sound of shooting was at a distance now, the others trekking through the garden after the scattered Marinos, tracks of blood already soaking into the snow.

Luca was doubled over on one side of the table. He raised his head, his eyes glassy as he stared at Felice. The knife was two inches deep in his forearm. He held it out, supported by the other one. His gun was on the ground beside him.

‘Pull the knife, Felice,’ Luca heaved. ‘I can’t get it.’

Felice cocked his head. His gun was dangling by his side.

‘Come on,’ Luca urged, pain vibrating in his voice. ‘Before the others get away.’

Felice didn’t move.

‘Felice!’ Luca said.

Felice took a step backwards. ‘No.’

I took a careful step forwards as horror twisted in my stomach.

‘No?’ Luca repeated.

‘Why would I help you when I didn’t bother to help your father?’ Felice asked, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. ‘What makes you so special?’

There was a heavy beat of silence as understanding bloomed across Luca’s face, drained the colour from his cheeks. ‘You let him die,’ he said. ‘You stood there and did nothing.’

It was a statement, not a question.

I crept closer, my fingers shaking around my gun.

Felice shrugged. The movement was rigid and forced; here was a man not made to shrug. ‘Angelo let himself die. I just didn’t get in the way of it. Much like how he didn’t get in the way of my wife leaving me. Much like how he didn’t get in the way of his incompetent offspring clambering to the top of this family.’

I froze, a breath bound up inside me. I could see it all unfolding in my mind, could hear the ticking of the clock in my head. Felice was unravelling, and Luca was going to suffer for it.

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Luca gritted out.

Felice waved the interruption away. ‘Valentino’s demise was not unlike your father’s, you know.’ I could hear the smile in his voice, the slimy satisfaction of it, when he said, ‘In the end, the Marinos did the hard work for me. There’s a lot to be gained from simply looking the other way at the opportune moment.’

I swallowed the scream building inside me. So it was true. Felice was a traitor, all this time, vying for a position at the top and willing to crawl over the dead bodies of his family to get it.

Luca’s expression turned feral, hatred twisting his mouth, pouring venom from his lips. ‘You heartless son of a bitch.’

Felice raised his gun and pointed it at Luca’s head. His laugh was low and hard. ‘Beware the fury of a patient man, nephew.’

The shot seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

Felice collapsed in a heap, sliding against the table until he tumbled backwards, a collection of limbs all giving up at once. He crumpled right in front of Luca, unseeing eyes staring towards the underside of the table, the bullet wound in the back of his head, hidden. A pool of crimson spilt out beneath him, creeping underneath the table.

The gun was molten hot in my hand. Still raised, at the space where Felice had just been. Adrenalin surged up my arm – hammered in my heart, dissolved the moisture from my mouth. My breathing was quick and shallow, my cheeks uncomfortably warm.

Luca was staring at me.

I stared right back, my heart climbing up my throat. ‘It was him or you.’

‘Sophie.’ One word. Surprise. Relief. And something else. Something I couldn’t place.

I kept my chin up, tried to squash down the urge to vomit. My teeth were chattering. ‘There was no redemption for him, Luca.’

His mouth twisted. He shook his head at me. ‘You really are something else.’

I lowered my gun and came towards him. I knelt down and gripped the knife in his arm. ‘Hold still.’ He groaned as I pulled it out. I grabbed a cloth napkin from the table and wrapped it around his arm twice, tying it tight, just above the wound. I was kneeling in a pool of Felice Falcone’s blood, a hair’s breadth from his lifeless body and surrounded by a host of dead Marinos – most of whom I was related to – and I was entirely focused on Luca and that wound. On what needed to be done. On what was still left.