Gio nods.

My heart shatters.

He fucking nods, like his father is right, like he’s been right all along, and this has been a fun little fling that we’ve had.

It’s hard to stand upright. If it weren’t for the way this situation is so completely and totally absurd, I’d collapse on the ground right now. As it stands, I can’t. I can’t be another ridiculous scene in the middle of the most ridiculous scene on the planet.

Hot shame burns across my cheeks. I’ve been so gullible. So trusting. What the hell?

How did I let myself fall for him?

How did I let myself fall so hard?

Gio Moretto was always the one I wanted, back in school, back when dreams about boys came easy and there were never any consequences. And even as a man, he’s still the one I want. Fuck. I’ve misjudged this so badly, I can’t believe it. Over the past two weeks I felt myself grow out of the last vestiges of childhood.

But now? Now I feel nineteen going on nine, standing in a room with three men who want me dead.

Every breath is a special kind of agony and ecstasy. Is this one going to be the last? Is this one? Is it going to be sudden? Is Gio really going to do it himself? I can’t stop the thoughts from coming, can’t organize them.

Until there’s movement.

My uncle tenses, standing up straight. He’s not touching the counter anymore. Does he have a gun? I can’t tell. Maybe it’s hidden in a holster. I don’t know where Gio’s gun is, either, but I’m guessing he’s carrying it at his waistband. I haven’t thought about it much since we got to Torch Lake. What possible reason could he have to keep it in sight?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck me, because even now, even watching him nod to his father and take a deep breath, I still love him. I still want him. I want to walk out of this room with him right now and never look back.

The nod is a punch to the gut, but do I believe it? Do I believe it? Until today I believed in him with all my heart, with everything I had. Now that same heart is about to burst from my chest. This is too much. It’s all too much.

Gio folds his hands on the table and peers down at them. Is he revving himself up to kill me? Have we come this far for nothing? I swing wildly between loving him and hating him and wishing this was over and wishing it had never happened and wishing it had always happened, because if this is the way to him, then so be it. So fucking be it.

Gio’s dad is the one to fill the contemplative silence. “If you’re not up to the task...” It makes me sick, all the suggestions hanging in the air. If Gio isn’t up to the task, what is he going to do? Force some gruesome scene between me and my uncle? Do it himself and make Gio watch? I want to say something cutting and awful, something that will sink its claws into Marco Moretto’s heart and never let go, ruining his life if he goes through with this, but I can’t think of anything.

Gio raises both hands in the air, palms up. “It’s an impossible task.”

Marco grins. “I can tell you about impossible tasks. This isn’t one of them. David is highly skilled in—”

“There is no killing the last Ricci,” Gio cuts in. “Because she’s not a Ricci.”

There’s a heavy, ringing silence, and my uncle laughs. “She is. I know who her father is.”

“Jesus.” I can’t help myself. “You wouldn’t even bail me out with a lie?”

David blanches, pressing his lips together.

“No.” I’m tired. I’m bone-tired, it’s the middle of the fucking night, and my uncle is Marco Moretto’s lapdog. “You wouldn’t, would you? At least, if you did this for him, all of the hardship would be over.”

His eyes fill with a sadness so deep I have to look away.

Gio doesn’t react to any of this. He looks his father in the eye, as if they’re talking about next week’s weather. “She’s not a Ricci,” he repeats, and bends down to open his backpack.

David gives himself away.

He reaches for his back waistband.

Marco does nothing. Either he doesn’t have a gun or he’s not as jumpy as my uncle.

Gio pulls his hand out of his backpack. He’s not holding a gun. My uncle relaxes.

He’s holding a little folder, blue and worn at the edges.

“Gio,” Marco says, a hint of irritation showing through. “Your documents are not—”

“She’s not a Ricci,” Gio says again, and laughs, a little noise, the same as his fathers. “Look.” He pulls a paper out of the folder and tosses it toward his father. It lands in the center of the table.

Marco Moretto looks like a man who wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t. He simply picks up the paper and unfolds it.

“She’s not a Ricci,” Gio says as his father’s eyes scan over the paper. “I married her.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s debating a snotty if you’ve been following us, you should know this. “She’s a Moretto now.”

Then he stands up.

Every muscle in my body goes tense, but Gio’s eyes are full of love. He comes to me, there in the kitchen, and wraps his arms around my waist. He lifts my chin with two of his fingers, and the rest of the room flickers away. We might as well be the only two people in the world. “I love you, Sia Moretto,” he says, and my heart expands to fill my chest. Then he raises his voice so there’s no chance they miss his words. “If you want to kill the last Ricci, you’ll have to kill your daughter-in-law, too.”