the wall, joining him. The Lord knows we need every prayer answered right now. Finishing up, I make the sign of Christ over my chest and whisper, “Amen.” Opening my eyes, I find Raphael standing before me.
“What happened to your mother?”
He motions for me to walk with him, and as I do, he confesses, “After I killed my father, my mother couldn’t handle it. I didn’t expect her to grieve him as she did, and she tried taking her own life. I’ve been keeping her alive all these years, praying for a miracle.”
Freezing, I grab onto his arm, demanding to know, “You killed your father?”
That can’t be right. The night his father was found dead, the Marocchi’s fought furiously in his honour, coming after any Camarco they could point their guns at. Angelo Detorri claimed the kill, and I rewarded him generously because of it. He died four years ago, a liar. This doesn’t make sense.
“Yes, for what he made me think I’d done. We had our plan to take down our fathers, but never our mothers.”
I’m stunned speechless. Words fail me as I follow him into his office. Pouring us both a drink,
I accept the glass he offers filled with clear liquid. I don’t usually partake in vodka, but anything hard will do right now.
“Why did you never tell me? You let me believe one of my men had killed him.”
He snorts. “You didn’t want to hear it. Hell, you wouldn’t even see me. Do you forget you shot me?”
I could never forget that. Some nights I regretted it, but most nights, I wished I had shot him in the heart for breaking mine. Eye for an eye, heart for a heart.
“Then the fighting began between us, and we changed.”
I throw back the vodka and cough around the burn spreading across my chest.
“He was sitting in that chair.” Pointing to the chair behind the desk, I try to picture the mean man sitting there. “And I used the blade you gave me. I still have his blood dried and crusted around the hilt if you wish to see it.”
I don’t wish to see it; I believe him. All these years have not only been full of secrets, they’ve been full of lies.
“After you wouldn’t hear me out, I came straight here and killed him. My men found your Camarco blade stuck in his chest, and I allowed them to believe you’d had him killed.”
“I would’ve listened if I knew you had killed him. I know I would have.”
“Would you, Mila? You believed every lie my father told you over the phone. You no longer trusted me, but you trusted him, a man you despised. I was angry. I wanted you to hurt like I was.”
Pouring myself another drink, I’m careful to keep it a short and turn back to him.
“You think I wasn’t hurting? My heart broke that day, and it’s never mended.”
He looks down at his drink. “Like you say, it’s all in the past now. We have the here and now to concentrate on and the future to plan for.”
“Tell me, why are you so caught up about what I said about blue eyes weeping?”
Brushing up next to me, he tops his glass with more vodka, but doesn’t make a move to put distance between us.
“I was sitting with my mom one night, drifting off to sleep when the machines started going off. She woke up—she moved—and clung to me, saying, “Fire and burning bones. The people of Vita wearing black. Blue eyes weeping.” She repeated it three times before she fell back on the bed, returning to the state she’s in now. Nothing’s happened since. And then, you say those very same words.”
Father Luke shared his vision and fell into a comatose state. Giana Marocchi was already in a coma and awoke from it to share the vision, only to fall back into it. Father Luke said his vision would change if I choose another path. I did so, and I don’t have to worry about my bones being burned any longer.
“It was Father Luke who told me the words, having the exact same vision as your mom. He told me months ago if I didn’t change course, I would die. The day of the car bomb seemed like the perfect opportunity to go into hiding and finally figure out a way to get to you.”