Mafiosa

It was Christmas Eve, and I was spending it with the person I loved, and there was some small joy in that at least.

He pulled me up with him, anchoring me by the waist as we crossed the roof. We climbed back in the window and he shut it after him. He ran his hands along my arms, warming them up. I shuffled into his heat, and his arms came around me as I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent and the perfection of that one small moment.

I lifted my chin and opened my mouth to him, revelling in the sudden softness of his lips, the warmth of his tongue against mine. He grabbed the back of my head, pulling me in, and I gave myself to the kiss, to us. His tongue moved with mine, growing more insistent as he kissed me like it was the last kiss he’d ever have. Heat rushed over us and we came together fiercely, his hands wrapped tightly around me, my fingers lost in his hair, every part of us moulded together until there wasn’t an inch of space between us. Our breaths were short and ragged, the low groans in his throat spurring me on, making me forget every shred of sadness inside me. He was the remedy, and I never wanted to let him go. And then his shirt was off and I was tracing the scar across his chest, trailing my fingernails along his taut muscles, his smooth olive skin, and listening to him catch his breath. I slipped my sweater off, and he tugged it free gently, careful of the wound in my shoulder, of the scars between us, as we came together – skin on skin. And then we were in each other’s arms, wholly, completely, the world around us forgotten, and all the pain inside us burning up in an intensity I had never known, in a love I had never felt.

It was perfect.

It was fleeting.

That night, I fell asleep with Luca’s arms around me, my head against his chest, lulled by the steady sounds of his breathing. For the first time in forever, I had no nightmares. I dreamt happy things – of a life far away from us, from the words ‘Marino’ and ‘Falcone’, from newspaper headlines and funerals, from gunshots and bloodshed, where he and I were the people we were supposed to be – happy, ordinary, in love.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

TASTE

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.’