“Two birds, one stone, and all that shit.”

I checked the date on that recording. It was the twenty-third of December. Not a full twenty-four hours before Mateo had disappeared.

Victor Scava killed Mateo because he was a snitch, but he used Mateo’s death to start a war. A war within the Benedetti family. He wanted Roman out.

Well, I guess that was one thing he and I could agree on.

With Roman out and no more Benedetti sons to take over, Victor Scava could move into Benedetti territory. Take it over. Hell, maybe he’d overthrow his own uncle in the process.

But if he thought I’d stand by and watch, he had another thing coming.

14

Gia

I sat in my room, waiting out Dominic’s anger, figuring it was smart to just stay out of his way, at least for now. I picked through Lucia’s closet, feeling like some sort of criminal to be looking through her things, snooping almost. She had a lot of books. I could read for a while.

I chose one from her shelf and sat on the bed, flipping it open. I didn’t get very far, though. Not past the first blank page, where she’d made a sketch she’d then crossed out in angry lines. I recognized the drawing, but it took me a minute to realize why I knew it. I stared at it for a long time, knowing it was a drawing of the mark on my hip. I read the words Benedetti Killers she’d written beneath the drawing. I wondered about her. Those weren’t the words of a wife in love. Had Dominic lied to me about that? Was Lucia as much a victim as I?

I didn’t need to compare the sketch to my mark. I’d studied it. Hell, I’d memorized it. I knew it was the same. I just needed to figure out the connection.

Growing up, my father had shielded me from his work, but being the daughter of a foot soldier, there was only so much you could keep from your family. We were kids, Mateo and I, but we had eyes. We saw.

Mateo’s introduction to the world our father lived in came on his eighteenth birthday. My family had a big birthday party for him, a gathering for extended family and friends we hadn’t seen in years. There must have been three hundred people at our house that day with Franco Benedetti at the top of the guest list. In fact, he’d taken the opportunity to meet with several men, including my father, during the party.

I obviously hadn’t been invited to the meeting, not only for the fact of my gender, but I was only seven. My father introduced Mateo to Franco Benedetti that day. Mateo had been given his first-ever job; something small, thank goodness. I remember how proud he’d been. How excited.