His mouth twisted. He shook his head at me. ‘You really are something else.’
I lowered my gun and came towards him. I knelt down and gripped the knife in his arm. ‘Hold still.’ He groaned as I pulled it out. I grabbed a cloth napkin from the table and wrapped it around his arm twice, tying it tight, just above the wound. I was kneeling in a pool of Felice Falcone’s blood, a hair’s breadth from his lifeless body and surrounded by a host of dead Marinos – most of whom I was related to – and I was entirely focused on Luca and that wound. On what needed to be done. On what was still left.
I was in soldier mode, and it had come upon me so quickly I hadn’t even noticed. I was a soldato.
‘Thank you,’ he said, rotating his wrist, clenching and unclenching his fingers. I could tell he was in pain – his face was twisted up and his breathing was ragged.
‘You can’t shoot like that,’ I said. ‘You have to see a doctor. You need to get to Vita.’
He shook his head. ‘My family is here.’
I grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m not leaving.’
‘You’ll get killed.’ Desperation rose in my voice. ‘Please, Luca. Don’t be stubborn. Not now, not like this.’
He got up, half of him already bloodstained. He offered me his good hand and pulled me to my feet.
‘It’s almost over,’ he said, sliding past me, and striding towards the open patio doors. ‘I need to finish this.’
‘Luca.’ I ran after him. He pulled me against him, around the side of the house, as we tracked the sound of bullets – of shouts and faraway curses, our feet sinking into the snow. I could see Nic at the other end of the garden, standing over a lifeless body. A white shirt, blue jeans – a Marino. A pool of snowy blood halo-ing him. Dom and Gino were further on, moving into a cluster of trees. Two more bodies littered the lawn. I couldn’t make out who they were. We kept moving towards the others, keeping our backs to the wall as we went, the purposeful crunch of our footsteps filling the silence.
Another gunshot pealed through the air, and in the distance, CJ went down. A shout rose up. ‘Jack!’ Luca hissed. I couldn’t see well enough – they were too far away. ‘Stay here,’ he called over his shoulder as he took off running.
A thud from the kitchen startled me out of my pursuit. I turned around, my gun raised. A shadow slipped by the patio doors and around the side of the kitchen, away from view. I shuffled forward, suddenly conscious of just how alone I was.
The sound of a chair scraping backwards. They could see me through any of the windows. I had no cover, just snow and nothingness. I was a sitting duck out on the patio. I pressed myself against the wall of the house between the window and the door. ‘Who’s there?’ I called over my shoulder. ‘I’m armed. Show yourself!’
‘Sophie?’ I snapped my head forward, my attention splitting in two. Jack was coming around the side of the house. The left side of his shirt was covered in blood.
I pointed my gun at him. ‘Don’t. Move.’
He straightened, just a little, his gun still by his side. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said, cautious, afraid. Good.
I was not afraid any more.
A fresh surge of adrenalin bolted through me. My cheeks flooded with warmth. I tried to concentrate. I tried to press my finger against the trigger. Come on. Do it. Do it or he’ll kill you.
‘Wouldn’t I?’ I said, as coolly as I could make myself sound.
‘I’m your blood.’
‘You killed my mother,’ I hissed.
His smile was patronizing, his gold filling glinting at me in the frigid sunlight. ‘She was in my way. In fact, she was always in my way.’
‘Any last words before I kill you?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, stepping towards me. ‘I hope we meet in hell.’
I smiled at him. ‘Save me a seat.’
I pulled the trigger.
It clicked, but the bullet jammed. I pulled it again. Nothing.
Jack started laughing. He looked at his gun, and then at me. ‘Looks like you’ll get there before me, Persephone.’
There was nowhere to run. He was going to kill me. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my fear. I would not cower before him. I was stronger than that. I was stronger than them.
I took a deep breath.
The snow crunched as he came towards me.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
BROTHER
‘Jack.’ That voice. Cautious. Near. ‘Stop.’
I snapped my eyes open. My father stepped out of Donata Marino’s kitchen, and my knees nearly went from under me.
Jack stopped walking. ‘Mickey?’ he said, the word sucked into an inhale. ‘Where the fuck have you been? We’ve sent word out for you!’
My father stepped in front of me. I faltered backwards, using the shield, trying to calm myself. ‘In hiding,’ he told Jack.
‘Just not with your family?’ Jack replied, distrust starting to seep into his voice. His gun was still half-raised. I scanned my father. His hair was scruffy, his clothes a bit too big for him. He had a gun, too. ‘You know we have the resources to hide you, Mickey. You should have come here first.’
‘I’m coming to you now,’ my father said evenly.
There was something between them – something cold and dark. It wasn’t camaraderie.
‘Good,’ Jack grunted. ‘It’s about time.’ He lowered his gun.
My father raised his, just a fraction. ‘Were you about to shoot my daughter?’
‘No!’ Jack spluttered. ‘She was about to shoot me! I was just going to immobilize her.’
‘And what about my wife, Jack?’ My father’s words were acid on his tongue. I could feel his anger in my bloodstream. ‘What about Celine?’
Understanding dawned across Jack’s face. ‘An accident,’ he said quickly. But my father was already pointing the gun at him.
‘Liar.’
‘What are you doing?’ Jack said, his voice frantic. ‘Mickey, what the hell are you doing?’
My father took one final step towards his brother. ‘Killing you.’
He shot him, right there on the Marino lawn, in the house they both grew up in another lifetime ago. Jack careened backwards, falling heavily, like a beached starfish, his face turned towards the afternoon sky. And my father, who I had once thought kind and gentle and good, didn’t even flinch. He looked at the body of his dead brother for no more than three seconds, then he turned around to me.
His shoulders slumped, the gun dangling uselessly at his side.
I just stood there, a mixture of horror and relief, a half-painted grimace plastered across my face. ‘Dad.’
He kept the distance. Perhaps he thought I was scared. Perhaps I was scared. ‘It had to be me, Sophie. Do you understand?’ he said. ‘I had to do it.’
‘That’s why you came out,’ I realized. ‘To get to him.’
My father nodded. ‘And now it’s done.’
‘I was going to do it.’
‘Better me than you,’ he said.
‘He’s gone.’ I looked at Jack’s lifeless body, half-sunk in the snow, and tried to process what that really meant. ‘He’s finally gone.’