The ring from my brother's wine glass faded off. Tony's dark gaze centered on the man. "Don't think I caught the joke, Russo."
Stefan shook his head. "Just got better things to do than watch a bunch of Angels miss targets."
"Uh-oh," Gianna said under her breath.
I closed my eyes. The day my brother let this go without a fight would be the day the sky fell.
"Tony, don't . . ." Benito warned from his seat beside my brother. He was always the voice of reason in that duo. But Tony didn't even glance at his cousin—instead, he smiled at Stefan Russo and it wasn't nice at all.
My chest tightened, and I looked down the table to get Papä's attention, but he was in conversation with Steve and my uncles.
"Not sure what you're talking about," Tony drawled. "I didn't miss—what was his name? Ah, yes, Piero . . .?" My brother's eyes flickered with dark enjoyment. "Hit the bullseye on that one."
Tony's amusement faded into a deathly quiet that even the family and guests at the head of the table noticed. Everything went static, like a still-shot in a magazine.
I never saw it coming.
My pulse leapt into my throat as an arm clamped around my waist, pulling me to my feet. My head was forced to the side as a cold barrel pressed against my temple.
Shouting rang out in Italian. Chairs fell backward to the patio as everyone jumped to their feet. Guns rose in every direction.
I heard my papà ordering commands, but my heart drowned out his voice. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. The beat resounded beneath a cold sheen of fear.
I hadn't lived a picturesque life, no matter what my red front door and golden knocker conveyed. I'd seen my papà cut off a man's finger when I was seven. I'd watched my uncle shoot a man in the head, his face sideways on the bloodstained carpet, eyes open. I'd seen knife wounds, bullet wounds, so much red. But through all that, I'd never had a gun pressed to my head. Never felt cold metal against my temple. Never felt as if my life could be gone, just like that.
The cold in my veins froze to ice.
Steve's voice cut through the drumming of blood in my ears. It was low and smooth, and I grabbed onto it like a life raft. "Put it down, Stefan."
"He was the one who killed Piero!" The barrel shook against my head, and my lungs constricted, but I didn't move a muscle as I stared at the hedges lining the iron fence.
"Tony!" my papà snapped. "Don't."
I glanced at my brother, only to stare at the end of a barrel. He was going to shoot the Russo behind me, but with my heels on the man didn't have much height on me.
"'You're a poor fucking shot, Tony. We all know you'll hit the favored little Angel!" Stefan's heated voice vibrated against my back.
"Put. It. Down." Steve's words carried a calmness with a hint of animosity, like the ocean before a storm.
One second, two seconds. Stefan was hesitating—
Bang.
Something warm and wet hit my face. My ears rang as the voices around me sank underwater. The man's arm fell from me, and a dull thunk sounded as he hit the ground.
The newscaster's voice replayed in my mind, murder spilling from red lips, again, and again. Numbness flooded me. Sounds rushed in, pulled out of water with heavy chains, dripping wet.
"Sit the fuck down! Now!" my father's voice rang out. "We're going to finish this lunch, goddammit!"
It took a moment for his words to process and to realize that everyone sat stiffly in their chairs but him and Steve. My future brother-in-law's heavy, unreadable gaze touched my skin as I stared at the gun in one of his hands.
"Anastasia! Sit!" Papà snapped.
I dropped into my chair.
The warmth of blood dripped down my cheek. Red had splattered across my chair and part of the white tablecloth. A dead Russo's feet touched my own.
I sat there, pulling my gaze from a staring Gianna to Tony, who ate his dessert with relish.
"Anastasia." The small warning came from my papà, and because I was told to, I put a forkful of tiramisu in my mouth and chewed.
Placing my hand on the back of my hat, I glanced up at the clear blue sky.
Circumstances aside, it really was a beautiful day.
THE GUNSHOT ECHOED IN THE air, and the tension was louder than silverware against porcelain plates. The Angels cast me cautious glances, while my family kept their eyes downcast on their desserts, stiffer than the chairs they sat on.
Leaning back, I rested a forearm on the table and focused my gaze on the cigarette I rolled between my fingers. The anger Was strong enough I had to choke it down. It burned in my throat, in my chest, and marred my vision with a red mist.
My eyes skimmed up an inch to find Luca, my underboss and only reliable cousin, wiping a hand across his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his amusement. My gaze darkened, conveying I might just go for shooting two cousins today. He sat back in his chair, his humor fading.
He'd just won a bet that we couldn't get away without any altercations today. And won double because anything involving the Sweet Angel had been a bonus. My family gambled On everything—everything. Any possible chance to gain a buck, they exploited it.
I owed him five fucking grand. And I was putting the blame on a little black-haired prima donna, because if I thought about her brother right now I'd end up putting a bullet in his goddamn head.
There are some relatives you don't like—ones you might shoot on your own terms if given the chance. But being forced into it . . . that rubbed me the wrong way, like the lash of a horsewhip. My jaw tightened as venom crawled through my veins.
My papà had a fondness for kicking me in the ribs when I acted without thinking.
My mamma used to smoke at the kitchen table in her nightgown after she and my father would scream the house down.
With my ribs burning and the cigarette in my hand, it wasn't lost on me that the apple really doesn't fall that fucking far from the tree. And I'd guess that those who'd known Antonio Russo—even my own family—would be hesitant to think of that as anything but unfortunate.
I was a mold my father and the Cosa Nostra created. As bad a combo as a barrel of gun-powder and a little flame. Where my papà had lacked in my rearing, my mamma tried to fill in the cracks. She tried, through dilated pupils and frequent bloody noses. The late Caterina Russo did her best to teach her only child to respect women. Truthfully, it had never really stuck. It was hard to respect a mamma you had to pick up off the floor some nights. Not to mention, I'd had most things I'd wanted handed to me since I was old enough to ask for them. I didn't need charm and respect to get women my impending wealth and position had done that for me since I was thirteen years old.
Luca's mamma was the first to man up and shoot me the tiniest scowl. My family could be as pissed as they wanted, but I'd appreciate at least one fucking thank-you for stopping a bloodbath from ruining a perfectly good Sunday.
Jesus. It was just Stefan anyway.
Nobody liked Stefan.
The truth was, not every man could handle being a Russo. My nonna used to say our blood ran hotter than most. Though maybe that had just been an excuse to justify why all of her male offspring were entitled, greedy, and possessive of things that weren't theirs. A Russo wanted what he wanted, and once he did it was practically his. Most likely through a variety of illegal ventures. But maybe she was onto something, because it fucking felt hotter than it should.
I'll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday filled the spacious backyard, the soft piano notes invading a tense atmosphere full of clearing throats and shifting gazes. I rolled the cigarette between my fingers, trying to quell the itch. I only smoked when I was too pissed off to see straight, or the rare occasion—unsettled.
Salvatore left the table to send the servants home. They all knew who employed them and were connected to the Cosa Nostra in some way—but it was a sure bet the dead man lying on the patio, his blood running through the divots in the bricks, was too much for some of them.
I'd only caught part of the conversation that set this in motion, but it was clear Tony had been gloating over killing Piero, another idiotic cousin of mine. I hadn't known Tony was the one to do it, but I was hardly surprised. Hardly moved either. I'd addressed Piero's death like I would a Zanetti's: with two fingers of whiskey. You do stupid shit, you get killed. That's how the world works, and my cousin had done more than enough.
In all honesty, I thought Stefan was going to put the gun down. But at that point I hadn't cared. A flash of anger had pulsed in my chest from my cousin's disrespect, and, oddly enough, burned even hotter at the fact he was threatening the Sweet Angel. The annoying feeling rushed over me that only I could threaten her—so I fucking shot him and watched the blood splatter against Anastasia's white dress.
Tony had had a hard-on for seeing me dead ever since his friend Joe Zanetti saw the end of my .45 enough years ago I thought it was irrelevant now. I'd assumed Tony and I would have some issues, but I'd underestimated what a fucking idiot he was and that he'd bring them to lunch. I guessed the idea that I'd be fucking his sister was chafing him a bit more than my usual presence would.
I tapped my cigarette on the table, and before I could stop myself I glanced to where the Sweet Angel sat. My eyes narrowed. I'd only owe Luca twenty-five if it weren't for her.
Blood dripped down her olive skin, yet she ate her dessert because her papà had told her to. I wasn't usually a sadist, but Jesus, it was kind of hot. A reluctant rush of heat ran to my groin.
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