Backing out of the driveway without Ettore’s children was my first clue that something was wrong. That small red flag did not stop waving the entire ride over.

Wherever we were driving to was farther away than I assumed it would be. I took note at twenty minutes, then thirty and when we reached an hour on the road, I sat anxiously in my seat thinking the worst.

The first sign we passed said Fort Salonga, and the next said Northport.

It was a residential area, but the moment I looked out of my window and saw water shimmering in the distance, I blanched.

Not good. Definitely not good.

Yeah. I was sure of it then and my gut sank.

Ettore had brought me out here to kill me.

The dread in my stomach twisted and turned until I felt ill, but outwardly, I remained unmoved. If this was going to happen, it was going to happen. Nothing I could say or do would change things.

In this world, an eye for an eye was the most common form of retaliation and I had a feeling that when Ettore lined up his shot and pulled the trigger, he would not miss.

Right then, I had many regrets, but my biggest would be not saying goodbye to my sister.

Vincenza was… difficult. She was strict, severe and unforgiving. Often times, she could be unknowingly cruel. But she did the best she could with a broken heart and an equally broken mind. Although she didn’t always give me what I needed, like a loving family with a sister who was kind and affectionate, I had to appreciate how hard it had been on her.

She was there that night. When it happened. And Vincenza witnessed it unfold.

Our father’s untimely death was seared into her brain and I could still smell the burning flesh whenever I was in her presence.

There were conflicting reports of what had happened that night, but one thing that wasn’t ever in question was who pulled the trigger. I glanced over at the striking man I had taken as my husband and my heart screamed out to know why.

Why did he do it?

He didn’t seem like a wholly unreasonable man. But then the mottled bruises circling my throat offered a difference of opinion.

Our father’s death was a cloud that followed us everywhere we went. I could see it. That day, at the church, how many of his men looked at me like I was scum. As if I were lower than dirt. Their eyes blazed with the question. How could I do it? How could I marry the man who killed my father?

As if I’d had the choice.