Page 123 of Broken Honor

His laugh is slow, dry. “Turns out Nonna runs a cute little café. Closed now though. Wonder why.” He studies my face. “Bummer, right?”

“Get out,” I answer.

He raises both hands, mock surrender. “Why so tense? It’s been days. Can’t brothers bond anymore? Now this might just be me being old-fashioned, but a good Catholic girl—raised in the faith, you know—she wouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not spread out on your rug. Cause let’s face it—we’re gonna rot in hell. She wouldn’t choose this.” His eyes narrow. “Unless you didn’t give her a choice. Unless you stole her.”

The room flashes red.

“And I know Don Tavano isn’t stealing girls just to fuck them like cheap whores.”

I rush to him and my fist connects with his face. Bone crunches.

Riccardo slams into the bookshelf behind him. A few hardbacks tumble to the floor. One lands by his boot.

He’s laughing through blood.

“There it is,” he chokes. “The brother I know.”

I grab his collar and shove him against the wall, pinning him with a forearm across his chest. His nose is bleeding, dripping onto his shirt, but his grin won’t quit.

“What are you hiding, Vieri?”

He stumbles, catches himself on the desk, wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’ll get you back for this brother. I fucking promise,” he says. He straightens his shirt and he leaves the study.

The door closes behind Riccardo, and fear wraps around me like wire.

I stand in the center of the study, blood thrumming behind my eyes, fists clenched, breath sharp. I cross the room and swing my fist into the wall beside the bookshelf. The jolt runs up my forearm into my shoulder.

I hit it again. And again.

Each strike sends a sharper jolt through bone. My knuckles split on the third hit. Skin tears on the fourth. On the fifth, a hairline crack blooms across the plaster.

My hand throbs. Blood trails down my wrist. Pain is better than guilt. Pain at least makes sense.

I strike the wall a final time, harder, until the surface splinters. My breath drags through my teeth. My arms hang by my sides. My body is shaking.

I stare at the damage, planted to the spot. Then I walk to the desk, and yank the drawer open.

Inside, resting where I left it, is her rosary.

The beads lie in a loose coil, untouched. The silver cross rests at the top, slightly askew.

I pick it up with my bloodied fingers.

The beads feel light in my palm. I hold it in front of me, staring at the cross.

"Do you listen to men like me?" I stare harder. "Do you?"

Nothing answers. Of course not. I don’t even know why I asked.

"Then tell me how to do this." My fingers tighten around the beads. "Tell me how to let her go. How to look her in the eye and tell her I came here to kill her."

The room stays still. I stare at the cross for another long second. Then I force myself to drop the rosary back into the drawer. It clinks against the wood as it lands. I shut the drawer and reach for my phone.

My thumb smears blood across the screen as I unlock it. I pull up Bugatti’s number and press call.

He picks up quickly.

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