his phone as I step into the tunnel, knowing exactly which way we’re going to go and where we’ll end up. I know about this tunnel because it was meant to be the route Mila and I would’ve taken after Father Luke married us on our eighteenth birthday.
He gave me the drawing and made me promise to memorise it before burning it, so there was no trace left to be found.
I would’ve carried her every mile just to keep her shoes clean, but we never got that far.
I don’t doubt she would’ve had someone waiting for us as we stepped out of the church today. I pushed her too far with the priest, and she’s teetering on the point of snapping.
“What I want to know is, how many times have you met with her exactly?”
This shit is getting old real fast.
“Only the once,” I say, hoping it shuts him up. “I told you that.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s so much more you’re not telling me? I know there was something between you as kids. Hell, you nearly killed yourself when you thought she was dead.”
Cristian always knew something was going on with Mila and I, but I told him after the first time he questioned me over her not to do it again. Back then, he actually listened. The less people who knew about us, the more chance we had of making our moves. I don’t believe Cristian would’ve given us up if questioned by my father, but I never wanted to put him in that position in the first place. And him hearing the answers to his questions now doesn’t help him or me. As far as we’re both concerned, she’s a Camarco and I’m a Marocchi. The two heads of the longest running war in history.
“Stop with the questions, or I’ll leave you down here to find your own way out.”
Twenty minutes later, Cristian and I both have to push our weight against the drain door until it opens. We fall to the ground when it does, and quickly right ourselves, dusting off the dirt from our suits.
“What about the car?”
We’re a mile and a half away, and I have no desire to walk the streets just to go back and get it when we went to all this trouble just to get away.
“Leave it. It’s probably wired to blow, anyway. We’re not far from home, so we’ll walk the rest of the way.”
His eyes widen at the idea of walking, making me laugh.
“Before you ask what our next move is, we’re going to wait and see how she strikes back.”
“Why the fuck would we do that?”
Because I want to see how far she’ll go to get to me, and how far I can push back before she breaks completely.
“Because I said so.”
He drops it.
No doubt I’ll hear about it again later, but for now, I pull out my pack of smokes and light a cigarette, tipping my head back and exhaling the smoke toward the sky.
“Raphe?”
I sigh. “Yes, Cris?”
“Given the opportunity, could you kill Jamila and finally be done with this war?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times over the years, and each time, I’ve never given myself an answer. But today? Today must be different, because I tell him, “Without a doubt.”
I’ve come to the conclusion that, with her engagement to Alexander, as well as her closeness to Trey and the priest, if I can’t have her, nobody can.
I would rather her be dead and buried in her family crypt than married to another man, or in another man’s bed, seeking pleasure she used to get from me. I’d rather kill her myself than any other fucker take her down. The devil in me wants my face, the face she once peppered with her soft kisses, to be the last one she sees before the last breath flows from between her lips.
Chapter Sixteen
Jamila
The midmorning sun offers no warmth today. Pulling my scarf tighter around my neck, I ignore my phone ringing in my purse and continue into the church, taking a seat in my usual spot. It’ll be Alexander. He’s called seven times this morning and left five voice messages. He wants me to come to the mayor’s mansion so we can talk. But he’s the last person I wish to see, and I have no desire to put up false pretences today. The streets of Vita are quiet and have been since Antonio’s funeral. My men said they waited till sunset