Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)

by Catherine Doyle

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

  ‘Can I stay with you?’ I asked, suddenly feeling this crushing sense of finality between us. The words fell out before I had time to temper them, but I didn’t care. I wanted it so badly, it was clenching around my heart. This could be the last time we ever sat together or kissed or laughed with one another. This could be our last night. Dom’s words had bound themselves to my consciousness. It was like Valentino had said: those who have the most to live for are the hardest to kill. ‘I want to fall asleep next to you. I want to wake up in your arms …’ I lifted my gaze to his, the meaning implicit. ‘I want to be with you tonight.’

  Luca swallowed hard. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’ I was so sure it ached. ‘Can I stay here with you tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a little breathless. ‘Yes, stay with me.’

  There was something in his words that felt a little bit like goodbye. I could sense his grief in them. It broke my heart that I couldn’t take it away, but I could be in it with him, at least for now, for tonight. We could be in it with each other. We could harness a little spark of happiness and keep it warm, just between us. Tomorrow was a different story. Tomorrow would change everything.

  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.’

  ‘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 ches
t – 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.

  Felice strode downstairs. He was dressed in a shiny silver suit, his balaclava clenched tightly in one hand. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’ he called over the banister. ‘Has she realized the error of her ways yet, Nicoli?’

  Nic rolled his eyes.

  Felice’s shoes tapped the stairs on the way down. ‘It was a joke,’ he said, noticing my scowl.

  ‘Next time you tell a joke you should try and make it funny, so there’s no confusion.’

  He reached the bottom and sniffed the air. ‘It feels like a good day to kill a Marino, doesn’t it?’ he said, leering at me.

  I sniffed the air, too, my fingers curling on the gun inside my jacket pocket. ‘It feels like a good day to die, doesn’t it, Felice?’

  He arched one perfect silver brow. ‘I’m sure our boss would agree with you.’

  I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Your family loyalty needs a lot of work.’

  His thin lips spread wide, his mouth curving into a shark’s grin. ‘Not as much as yours does, Marino.’

  ‘It’s Falcone,’ I corrected him.

  His smile was a cruel, twisting thing. ‘For now.’

  Like a swarm, the others began to assemble, until we were one big black mass, armed to the teeth, embracing in the hallway, whispering last words, offering careful smiles. And then we left, one by one, fingers unrolling balaclavas as we climbed into the fleet of cars poised to storm Donata Marino’s mansion.

  Luca and I were the last ones to leave. He turned around, one full 360-degree turn as he took in the empty foyer. He stopped, and regarded me in silence for a moment. A long, lingering look.

  ‘What?’ I asked, feeling my throat dry up.

  ‘Would you stay?’ he said, taking a step towards me. ‘Would you stay here?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not a chance.’

  He ran his hands from my shoulders down to my arms, his fingers trailing along my sleeves. He looked away, rueful.

  ‘Don’t be worried,’ I said, shuffling closer. ‘We’ll go in together, we’ll come out together.’

  He opened his mouth, but the words caught on his tongue. He swallowed them with a sigh and before I could utter some other empty words of encouragement, he was pulling me towards him and kissing me.

  It tasted of desperation, of loss.

  It tasted like goodbye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MILLIONAIRES’ ROW

  Donata lived in a gated community made up of eleven mansions. Perched on the top of a winding hill, they formed a sprawling semi-circle. Each one looked out on to a park full of exotic-looking trees and vibrant bursts of flowers. In the middle, waterfalls tumbled into a fresh lagoon. It was like something out of a fairytale, a haven nestled away from the dusty streets of the city, far removed from the bright lights of Eden.

  It was called Millionaires’ Row.

  And every single house on Millionaires’ Row belonged to a member of the Marino crime family.

  The sixth house – the one right in the middle of the other houses – was the largest. It was more like a museum or a parliament building than a house. It was pure white, with balconies spilling out from every angle and huge floor-to-ceiling windows sucking in every possible fleck of sunlight.

  It was the house my father and my uncle grew up in.

  It was the house Donata Marino now lived in.

  In a convoy of three cars – all black, identical, and unplated – we pulled up to the security booth. I had to crane my neck to see all the way to the front of the line. Felice got out and shot the security man once in the head. Dom dragged his body back inside the booth. Paulie destroyed the entrance cameras, and all within the space of twenty seconds, the black gates to Millionaires’ Row swung open, and the Falcone family drove inside.

  I didn’t look back.

  I didn’t glance at the body – the edge of a shoe, the glint of a belt buckle in my periphery.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, and gripped my gun inside my jacket pocket.

  There was no going back now.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  BUON NATALE

  Luca and Paulie kicked in the front door on their third attempt. We ran in after them, double file, across a wide foyer that led to engraved wooden doors inlaid with glass panes.

  Nic was out in front by then, his automatic gun nestled across his chest. He shot the glass out from the window and slammed the heel of his foot into the doors at the same time. They swung open to the sound of Donata Marino’s screams.

  They were sitting around a long narrow table. My uncle still had the carving knife in his hand. The turkey, huge and crispy brown, sat undivided in the middle, a gaping bullet hole inside it. A man was slumped forwards on the table, his blood dribbling across the white tablecloth, a wound in the back of his neck where Nic had shot him through the glass pane.

  There was a painful split second of nothingness where the smell of blood rose up between us all, and the horror of the moment froze everyone in place. Then Marco Marino sprung to his feet at the end of the table and stumbled in front of his mother.

  Felice shouted ‘Buon Natale!’ and shot him right in the chest. By the time he fell backwards, clutching at his torso, Donata was scarpering past the pantry and out on to the patio, and the rest of the Marinos were closing rank, shooting right back at us.

  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.