Alessia Ricci lives in a modest one-story ranch at the end of a street riddled with one-story ranches.

It’s not what I expected.

In my mind, the Riccis are notorious villains. They’re the kind of people who’d inhabit decrepit mansions, everything calculated to keep people away. They’d have to be, if they wanted to survive.

I shift in the front seat of my car. No idea why I had that impression. They obviously didn’t have a super-secure mansion, because every one of them is dead.

All except Alessia.

She lives with an uncle. That’s what my father said, his lip curling dismissively. “The uncle isn’t a Ricci. The both of them, that’d be too suspicious. Keep it to the girl.”

Keep it to the girl.

Simple. Direct.

There’s even a timeline. She’s leaving the country in a matter of days. There’s no time to waste, no time to lose, which is why I’m sitting by the curb in my car, waiting for her to come home.

I’d rather be doing anything else with my Friday night—the first Friday I’m old enough to go to the decent bars with my friend—but a vicious pride swells in my chest when I think of how fucking pleased my father will be. When Alessia is dead, our family will be the most powerful family in all of Chicago. No—we already are the most powerful family in Chicago. This isn’t about defeating a rival, it’s about enacting revenge.

It’s well-deserved revenge, too. I don’t remember my mother. All I know of her are the stories my father tells. He talks about her quietly, in a voice that’s different from his own. At Christmas, he goes to midnight mass and comes home smelling like incense, her name on his tongue like a holy wafer. Alessia’s family took that from us.

An eye for an eye.

I can’t fuck this up.

The uncle drove away a couple of hours ago, then came back. One by one, all the lights in the house went off.

The longer I sit, the more time I have to go over the details of this plan.

It should be simple.

Grab her.

Cover her mouth.

Haul her outside.

I’ll need to go somewhere secluded—there’s a garage overlooking an empty lot that should be fine.

Shoot her with the gun that’s in the glovebox.

Shoot her outside like that?

I run my hands over the steering wheel. It’s probably not the best idea, in a quiet neighborhood like this. Too many people would come running at the sound of the gunshot. My father will laugh when I tell him about all this debate. He put the decision entirely in my hands. I’m going to pass this test, damn it, and I’m going to do it with flying colors.

I twist in the seat, scanning for any sign of headlights. There are none. The street is lined with streetlights, the whole lot of them casting a yellow glow in pools at their own feet. I count to ten and wait for movement.

Nothing. I pop the glove compartment and slip the gun into a holster at my waist.

Then I get out of the car.

Best to look like I belong here. I walk slowly, and halfway to the house I toss my head back in silent laughter. From a distance, it’ll look like I have one of those Bluetooth pieces. Close to the front of the house, I take a sharp right, ducking down behind some manicured shrubbery, and stealthily make my way around to the shadowed side.

I saw where the uncle went. This place can’t have more than a few bedrooms, so I pick the first window. It’s not very high off the ground, and the white curtains inside are gapped enough to see inside.

Found it.

This is a girl’s room if I’ve ever seen one. The light coming through the window is dim enough that it’s leached all the color from the walls, but I bet in broad daylight this room is painted some stupidly sunny yellow or, God forbid, pink. The bedspread is a light color—white?—and it’s one of those woven numbers that matches the throw pillows. One of the throw pillows is in the center of the floor. The bed is hidden by a deeper shadow, but she’s there. I can see her outline.

I hold my breath and pop the screen out, setting it carefully against the side of the house. At some point, I’ll replace it.

The window isn’t locked.

Jesus, this is too easy.

I push it up with both hands, a few inches, and listen.

There’s no noise from inside, not even a rustle.

I push it up another few inches.

Still nothing.

I shove it up the rest of the way. Girl sleeps like the dead. Maybe this will be even easier than I thought.

Another pause. There’s no reason to rush, no reason to fuck this up because I let adrenaline get the best of me. I wait until my heart rate slows. I listen to everything. Even the suburbs are full of sound. Crickets singing their nighttime song. The distant rush of trucks on the freeway. Two houses over, someone’s television is fucking blaring, the assholes.

There is no noise coming from inside the house. Not so much as a creak from a floorboard.

With one motion, I lift myself up and through the window, holding at the peak. It’s silent, so I drop in, my pants brushing against the corner of her desk.

My blood sings with the proximity of this moment.

This is the last calm before the rest of my life.

After this, I won’t be little Gio. Not anymore. I’ll be a full-fledged member of the family my father—and his father, and his father before that—fought to keep alive. Fought to keep in power. Someday, my son will do the same.

Alessia Ricci doesn’t know it yet, but she’s my key to that future. She doesn’t know anything, because she’s peacefully asleep in her bed, silent under those woven covers, the sheets, wrapped around her body, innocent in her dreams, at least—

—wait.

Fuck.

I approach the side of the bed, my footfalls heavy on the carpet, my pulse pounding in my ears.

A shadow.

That’s all it was.

Her bed is empty.

Alessia Ricci isn’t in the fucking bed. She’s not in the room. She’s probably not in the house.

The gun presses heavily against my side, and I force myself into a semblance of calm.

She’s not here, but I am.

If I have to wait here for days, so be it. A flash of irritation clouds my vision and then it disappears.

The clock is ticking for Alessia Ricci.