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No more poetry, no more sheep. It was time to go on the offensive.
Alessio thought he had me trapped. But the reverse was also true. If I couldn’t find a way off this island, then neither could he.
And only one of us would survive.
“To be killed by the Ravazzani heir, it is almost a privilege, no?”
Alessio would soon find out, because I would not die in the middle of nowhere, on this cold remote island away from my family.
I missed them. Four years ago, I’d distanced myself from everyone in my old life to protect them. And since then I never stayed in one place long enough to make new friends.
I rubbed my chest, wishing away the hollow feeling that was almost always there. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
When I left the mafia, I thought Paolo and I would live our best lives together, with parties and friends. Dinners and trips, then marriage and maybe a kid or two. I never thought I would get him killed. I never thought I would live my life on the run, in hiding.
But I had no time for regrets. I would kill Ricci, return to Europe and find Paolo’s killers. Once they were dead, I could finally go to Siderno for more than just a day or two. I could visit my family—a real visit, for weeks. Maybe a month.
I fucking wanted that. No, I needed that.
My last trip had been too short. Rafe turned three in March and I’d gone home for the party. I hadn’t stayed for barely forty-eight hours.
I checked my watch. It was five o’clock here, but Siderno was an hour ahead. Should I call? No doubt she was sick with worry after not hearing from me for so long—and I knew she was already awake.
There was another reason to call. A much darker reason. If Alessio got lucky and succeeded in killing me, I wanted to hear her voice just one more time.
I grabbed one of the burner phones I’d purchased before coming to Canna. It was already charged, so I dialed quickly.
“Pronto,” the raspy voice said.
“Zia, it’s me.”
My great-aunt, who was more like my nonna, gasped. “Is it really you? Oh, ometto. They said—”
She didn’t finish, her voice cracking, and guilt lodged like a bullet under my ribs. Ever since I could remember, she was the only one who ever called me “little man.” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I said, “Va bene, va bene. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
She began reciting a prayer in Latin, so I waited for her to finish. Zia was very religious, a devout Catholic woman. I suspected she had to pray harder on account of being related to Fausto. When she quieted, I heard her blow her nose. “Don’t cry,” I said. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”
“Makeup.” She made a dismissive noise. “You know I never bother.”
Yes, I knew. She said God made her this way and why did she need to look like anyone else? “Come stai?”
“Worried. I worry every day over you. I prayed so hard. I knew you were not dead. I would feel it, no?”
“Perdonami, but I couldn’t call. My phone wasn’t safe.”
“Your father, he has been beside himself with worry, too. When you disappeared, ma dai . . . . He nearly hopped on a plane for Greece.”
Unsurprising, as Fausto was still watching my every move. Or he had been, until I went off the grid here in Canna. “I’m glad someone stopped him.”
“His wife reasoned with him. But he was very unhappy, very worried. This will ease his mind, to learn that you are still alive.”
I didn’t want my father involved. He had two young children now, and Frankie was pregnant with a third. It was better if he stayed in Siderno.
I could handle one assassin—even if he was rumored to be the best. I would outsmart Alessio, beat him at his own game.
I said, “You can’t tell him. Or Frankie for that matter. This has to stay between us, Zia.”
She didn’t respond for a long time, then she sighed. “Why would you keep this a secret from the people who love you best, ometto?”
