Page 28 of My Solemn Vow
“Then that will be God’s will and not yours,” I reply.
That earns me a head shake, a withering glare, and an expression so pinched that you’d think he smelled rotten cheese. Finally, Uncle Gregorio storms past me, heading in the opposite direction of my normal course through the house.
Gregorio thinks he can control everything and everyone, but he can’t claim to be a man of God and be omniscient. It’s a fact he doesn’t like to be remindedof.
I’m not even halfway to my room when Berto finds me. Walking down the hallway with me, he asks, “You didn’t happen to bring that gun back, did you?”
With a massive eye roll, I reach into my purse and retrieve the handgun. I spin it in my hand and offer him the grip while holding it by the barrel. “Yes, I brought your precious gun home. I knew it was one of your favorites, so I narrowly stopped myself from tossing it into the river on my way home.”
Taking the gun with a soft smile, Berto sighs. “You know, Antonella, it didn’t have to go this way.”
“Save the lecture. We’ve had our piece of the argument.” I give him a soft smile.
I’m nicer to him than Gregorio because Berto doesn’t know how to handle it when people are nice to him.
“Well.” He shrugs, backing down. “We’ll see how that ends for you.”
The reminder of the uncertainty of my future sets my heart hammering in my chest for the second time today when he walks away from me.
My fingers shake as I unlock my bedroom door and step inside. Under normal circumstances, in a normal family, I’d be a hero. I’d have saved a child’s life.
But the drug-smuggling, gun-running, money-laundering, information-brokering D’Medicis are the original Italian Mafia dating back to the fifteenth century. The name may have suffered a variation, the business undergone a dozen or more transformations, but the blood is the same. So are the traditions.
Until me.
I toss my purse down on my bed and strip out of my work clothes. Normally, I’d hang them up to wear another day, maybe next week even, but they feel dirty, the corruption of today staining the fabric. I toss them in the wash.
I have two hours before dinner, and I want a long, hot shower and a half hour to stare at the ceiling, disassociating, butI know that’ll be too much to ask. I put on my robe and head into the bathroom.
After showering quickly and drying my hair, I pull on a wrap dress for dinner. While I’m tying the fabric, the door to my room opens. I go straight to my nightstand drawer and draw my gun. As I point it toward the door, my thumb naturally rolls over the safety.
Leticia, who was sneaking into my room, screeches and quickly covers her mouth to muffle the sound.
She steps inside and, after closing the door, hisses, “Antonella. What on earth? Why did you pull a gun?”
“Because my door opened unannounced,” I answer logically. I put the gun back in the drawer and groan. “Please, by all means, let yourself in.”
“What happened today? All Berto would tell me is that you’re getting married.” Leticia climbs onto the bed and flops down on her side, looking at me. “I don’t see a ring.”
“They really don’t tell you anything.” I sigh and wave for her to move over.
Leticia rolls onto her back, leaving me room on the queen-size bed to climb on beside her. We lie there, looking up at the ceiling, in silence for a bit.
When I can stomach the answer, it comes out. “I called the truce today.”
“Oh. My. God.” She raises her head and looks over at me. “The truce, as in, if they can’t come to an agreement, you’ll end up dead. There needs to be two funerals and a wedding?” Eyes wide, she draws a deep breath. “The truce where you had to pull a weapon on one of our people and make a solemn vow to protect a member of the other family with your life. That truce?”
I nod. “That truce.”
She pales and falls back down to the bed, her body stiff as a board next to me. “I’ll pray so hardfor you.”
“Thanks.” I look at the stucco on the blank ceiling.
“My dad will kill you,” she groans.
She’s being metaphorical because despite Leticia being the daughter of the head of the family, she has zero exposure beyond what I tell her of the family business.
“Well, not if the Cavanaghs kill me first.” I hold my hands up in a demonstration of weighing the options.
