As I approached the gagged man, I saw four other figures. A woman and three small children, one of whom could barely walk.
I stopped.
“Who are they?” I managed to say, and the old man with the silver cane I had seen moments ago approached.
“The famiglia of that man you see there,” he replied, gesturing with his cane toward the man who shot Camillo. “His name is Antonio Palumbo.”
Antonio Palumbo. I hated the sound of it instantly.
But nothing else mattered.
I looked to my left, at the ground stained with Camillo’s blood.
He came for me.
I squeezed the peridot ring.
“Luca.” I called, turning my face back to look at Antonio Palumbo. “Tell them to take the gag off the man.”
“Signorina Parker, why—?”
“Because I said so, Luca.”
Luca spoke in Italian to the soldati, and I noticed the old man with the cane gesturing with his hand. Suddenly, the dozens of men surrounding us began to disperse, and the sound of car engines created a dreadful symphony.
“Signorina Parker, isn’t it?” asked the hoarse voice.
I didn’t know who the old man with the cane was, nor did I care. “That’s right.” I simply said, without turning around, without taking my eyes off the man kneeling in front of me. I wanted to memorize that square face, those bloodshot eyes.
“Benvenuta a Calabria.” The old man said only that.
The cars sped off, leaving only me, Luca, and our soldiers, and, of course, the prisoners.
“What do you want from me,puttana?” Antonio Palumbo spat, far too brave. “Huh?”
I didn’t take my eyes off his.
“You have nothing to offer. Everything I’ve ever had has been taken from me my entire life. Over and over again. My father. My Lester. My happiness. Yet, I’ve always tried to remain kind. To be understanding. To repress the hatred within.” I hissed, holding that bastard's gaze. “But now, once again, something has been stolen from me. Camillo. You’re the one who took him.”
Palumbo laughed. “I’ll make sure to send flowers to his funeral,vedovina.”
A smirk of disdain curled my lips. “Dead men send no flowers.”
“But you haven’t killed me yet.”
I leaned over, enough to smell his foul breath over the scent of blood coating my skin. “Because death is an act of mercy for a piece of shit like you. First, I want to see you squeal like a dirty little pig.” I spat and backed away. “Luca. Bring me the youngest child.” At that moment, the woman, also gagged, shrieked in horror, and Antonio Palumbo’s eyes bulged.
Luca approached me, his hands on my cold shoulders. His voice shaking. “Madonna mia, Signorina, what are you intending to do?”
“Luca. Now.”
Luca Condello walked away and I followed his movements, holding the pistol tight in my hand. He then dragged a little boy in diapers, his little hands bound, his short brown hair styled in a bowl cut, and brought him to me.
The child kneeled at my feet, his brown eyes pleading.
“What—what are you doing?!” Antonio Palumbo yelled.
I twirled the peridot ring between my fingers, returning it to its proper position, and adjusted the gun in my hand, pressing it against that baby’s head. But just touching the ring—and only the ring—was enough to make Antonio Palumbo turn white as a sheet.
