Page 4 of Bratva Sacrifice

“Basta, Francesca,” Giulio barks. There is a sheen of sweat on his brow, and I think whatever he uses to color his greying hair must not be waterproof. “Nicky. He was our son. We loved him. But sometimes, the children—they do not listen to their elders, eh?”

“A good boy,” Francesca says in a bitter whisper. Her knuckles are white. For a moment I wonder if perhaps I have more to worry about from her than her husband. But the Italians don’t usually arm their women.

“I understand my Nicky caused you some trouble,” Giulio says. “Of course, this is a debt of honor. His family will settle it on his behalf.”

I snort. “Honor? I do not think Nicky knew this word.” And he paid for it with his life.

Francesca gives a little gasp of offense, and Giulio stiffens. I do not care about delivering an insult to them. I know they will not respond.

“To have honor, this is a good thing,” I say. “But your son, he stole from me and from your famiglia besides. This is either because he was without honor—or because he was stupid. Perhaps both.” I shrug, as if either matters not very much to me. “The end result is the same. An example had to be made.” The Russos deal with thieves the same way. This is just business. “Still, I expect to be made whole.”

“How much?” It’s a rough question, and one that Francesca takes exception to. She feels her son’s life was too much to take. That I ask for more is an insult too far.

“I don’t want your money, Russo.” I pat my pocket, retrieve a photograph. It is one of the ones from Anatoli’s folder. There weren’t so very many of them, so I took my time, deciding which one I could bear to part with. Which one I would sacrifice in the name of this demand. In this one, the girl is looking away from the camera, in profile as she accepts her diploma on a stage, in her cap and gown. It is fuzzy, a bit grainy. But still, there is that smile that presses a dimple into her cheek. “I understand you have a daughter.”

There is a moment of stunned silence. Giulio goes pale, and then red, his face mottling like a spoiled berry growing fluffy white mold.

“You are mistaken,” Francesca says with a lift of her chin. “Nicola—my Nicky—was our only child.”

“Yours, maybe, signora,” I say as Giulio flushes redder still. “Is this not so, Russo? She is pretty. She must get it from her mother.” Because Giulio is not, himself, particularly handsome.

Francesca’s eyes narrow on the picture, her gaze so hot that it is a wonder it does not burst into flame beneath my fingertips. “Giulio?” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. Maybe she does love him, after all. That makes her as much a fool as him.

“Basta.” Giulio hisses the word, and his hands clench into fists.

“Catalina,” I say. “It is a nice name. Close to the Russian.” Ekaterina. “Her mama chose it?” It is a taunt to both of them.

Giulio clears his throat. “My daughter,” he says, and Francesca gives a little sob, “she is…not like us. You understand?”

Of course I do. I can see it in the pictures. “I don’t give a fuck, Russo.”

“She is—”

“Mine.” I tap the picture, right over that sweet dimple. “She is my price, Russo.”

He smothers a curse with his palm, while his wife swallows her sniffles, swaying in her seat. “She is betrothed,” he says, but his eyes drift away, and I know it is a lie. Still, he thinks he can save his daughter for something better. He thinks he can placate me with less than I demand. “Promised to a Mancini. You understand how it is, eh?” A shrug, as if this cannot be helped.

“I don’t give a fuck if she is married with six children.” I polish off the last of my carbonara. “But I know how it must be. Your wife may have lost one child, but you must lose both.” Francesca gives a little wail. “You have one week to say your goodbyes and deliver her to me.”

“Stronzo, she is a Russo! She could make a better marriage.” Giulio’s fist pounds the table, and his sobbing wife jumps, flinches.

“You misunderstand. I do not offer her marriage.” A casual flick of my fingers. “Maybe you can find someone to take her. But only when I am done with her.” I slide my chair back. “One week, Giulio. Or the rest of the famiglia Russo learns who else good boy Nicky was stealing from.”

And I can see the guilt flash along his face, and I know Nicky learned his honor from his papa. I have made him an offer he cannot afford refuse.

In one week, Catalina is mine.

Chapter Two

Catalina

I didn’t learn what line of work my father was in until recently. I knew he was married, and not to my mother. I knew he had a son, just a few months older than me. But I didn’t know he was mafia.

I thought he was just my distant, overprotective Italian Papa who loved me, even if he didn’t always know how to show it. Even if he never came to a single birthday party, he always sent a gift. He paid for my prestigious girls’ school on the Washington coast. He paid for my undergraduate degree, and my master’s.

I knew he was wealthy. I just didn’t know how that money was made. I wonder if Nicky knew all along. And then I think…he had to have known.

But I didn’t. And it was easy to keep it secret, because I was never around. Because he was never around.