But Bastian’s seen it too, and Sonny, still dazed, only manages to nick his jaw before Bastian jerks away. Sonny is slower than he might be otherwise, giving Bastian time to draw his arm back and punch Sonny so hard that he goes down sideways while still gripping the weapon.

“What do you think?” I ask him as I step on his wrist and crouch to take the knife. Bastian sets his knee on Sonny’s windpipe. “Do you want to find out what twelve men can do to a woman at their mercy?” he asks, pressing.

“It… wasn’t me. I’m telling you,” Sonny chokes out. “Her… brother.”

Just before Sonny passes out, Bastian shifts his weight off his knee. Sonny gasps for breath. Bastian takes the knife from me and brings it to Sonny’s jaw, to the same spot Sonny got him. It’s a surface wound, but what he does to Sonny isn’t. Sonny’s hands fist, and I know it takes all he has not to cry like a fucking baby as blood gushes from his face.

“You crossed a line, Uncle,” Bastian says, standing. He drops the switchblade a few feet away.

I stand too, studying Sonny. He holds my gaze as he manages to sit up, his back to the couch. His forehead and the side of his face are already swollen, a bruise forming around his eye, and he’s got his hand over the cut Bastian made, but his rage and hate still burn hot in his gaze.

“This was a warning. You stay the fuck away from what is ours.” I turn to my brother. “Let’s go.”

He nods, and we walk to the door.

“Amadeo,” Sonny calls out when we get to it. Bastian pulls the door open, and I turn back. “You have many enemies. Watch your back,” he says through gritted teeth.

8

VITTORIA

What happened to you?

I wake with a start. Bastian’s words haunted me throughout a restless sleep. A sleep I couldn’t wake from. The nightmare repeated, yet I can’t remember anything but the sick feeling it leaves behind. The weight in my stomach. The sweat. The fear. The way it has me turning my hands over again and again searching for something, but I don’t know what. And along the edges, when I’d manage to come close to consciousness, were their words. Their question.

What happened to you?

I don’t know.

Sitting up, I wipe the sweat off my forehead. I search the room, expecting to find one of them here, but it’s empty, the light from behind the curtains gone. A glance at the clock tells me it’s a little after eight at night. My stomach growls as if realizing just from the time it’s missed dinner. I am hungry. Famished.