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Instead, she focuses on every detail - the way the candlelight flickers on the intruders' faces, the shadow of the man’s figure as he stands over her cowering figure and the haunting melody of the lullaby that still plays in the background.
"Search the place," one of the other men orders.
The men begin to shuffle, and the uncle pulls his niece closer towards the back of the fireplace wall. Just then, a gunshot pierces the air. The child’s eyes widen as her mother’s lifeless body is barraged with bullets.
“Just making sure,” the assailant explains, reloading his weapon now that the round of chambers is empty.
The blood. There’s so much blood. A little trail of the crimson liquid flows through the cracks on the floor, like a river, towards the fireplace and the child. The child wants to reach out and touch it and keep it in a container. Her mother’s blood is reaching for her.
The lump in her throat is so painful she forces herself to stop breathing. How long can she go without breath, she wonders. She begins counting, but her vision turns to stars at twenty-five. She breathes again, slowly. She wants to go where her mother is. Where is Mummy, the three-year-old wonders. Asleep? Why isn’t she waking?
The men turn the place upside down. One walks closer to the fireplace and touches the metal. The soot dirties his white rabbit-furred glove. He flicks it off and walks on, cursing under his breath.
“All clear,” he declares. The man who spoke to her mother, then beat her and shot her, walks out. Some follow suit, while a few stay back.
"Boss wants this place wiped clean," one of the men says, his voice gravelly and sinister as he looks around the cabin and grimaces like it’s beneath him to be here. He grabs a container of oil and begins pouring it on the floor, the viscous liquid pooling around the mother's body. The child’s stomach churns at the sight, bile rising in her throat.
"Light it up," another commands, tossing a matchbook to the first man. The uncle and child watch, paralyzed with fear, as he strikes a match and tosses it onto the oil-soaked ground. The flames catch instantly, spreading hungrily across the wooden floor, dancing and taunting the hidden, mocking the frailty of their lives.
The child squirms as the flames inch closer, and from the corner of her eyes, she sees her uncle's eyes wide with terror. The fire is closing in, devouring everything in its path, and soon, there will be no escape.
"Stay close," her uncle whispers, his breath warm against her skin. "We'll find a way out."
As the murderers walk out of the cottage, leaving destruction in their wake, the child takes a deep breath and gathers all the courage she can muster. She wonders, if she stays, will she join her mother? That won't be too bad, would it?
They wait, the blaze inching closer and closer. At last the man removes his hand from her mouth. She gasps for air but begins coughing. The flames are loud, roaring, and the men are gone. To her, the danger left with the men, not understanding the gravity of the situation.
"Can you hold your breath?" the man asks, his words almost drowned out by the roar of the flames.
She nods weakly, bracing herself for what comes next. He counts down from three, and when he reaches one, they both take a deep breath and hold it. Together, they move through the cottage, dodging the flames and falling debris.
But, instead of running for the door, the girl pulls out of her uncle’s grip and runs towards her mother's body, falling over it, crying and trying to shake her mother awake.
The uncle struggles to breathe, not sure if from sorrow or from the smoke he just inhaled. He desperately wishes he could give more time to let his niece grieve, but if he allows that, they could die here.
After everything his sister has sacrificed, he can't let her death be in vain. The child must survive.
"Fuck," the man shouts, running towards his niece just as a falling beam threatens to crush the pair on the ground. He manages to ward it off, placing himself in harm’s way.
"Shit," he moans, lying on the floor and holding out his arm, an ugly red welt, the shape of a honeybee comb appearing on his skin.
The heat is unbearable. "We need to keep moving," he mutters while rising. He begins pulling her, dragging her along as fast as he can with his good arm. Her comfort doesn't matter. Her survival does.
Clutching his precious cargo to his chest with his good arm he makes a desperate attempt to reach the exit before the fire does. Just then, on the table, he notices the small frame. There, nestled between decorative shells from Italy, sit mother and daughter, staring back at him.
With seconds to spare, he grabs the frame, and dashes out the door, the cabin crumbling down behind them in one fell swoop.
Chapter 1
Philippe
The smoke hangs thick in the air. Its gentle patterns swirl under the dim light shining from the sole chandelier that hangs above the long mahogany table. My father sits at the head, puffing on a cigar, steel-cold eyes surveying the men seated around him.
I take a sip of whiskey, the burn sliding down my throat, and wait for him to begin.
The heavy door swings open, and two men enter, their eyes cast downwards in deference. They approach my father and kneel before him, taking his hand and kissing his ring.
"Giovanni, Giacomo," my father rumbles. "You are late."
