look up at Father Antonio, standing behind his podium as he inhales deeply after finishing his daily sermon. The mid-morning sun pours through the stained-glass windows, casting shadows over his face. This is my favourite time of day when in the house of the Lord. The sanctuary feels like a warm, comforting blanket of safety, as if God himself is resting his hands on my shoulders.
The choir begins their song. Resting my back against the front pew, I close my eyes, enjoying their pure, sweet, innocent voices.
Not only do they help relax me, but the melodies bring me strength. Being in the church has always brought me a level of peace and stability. I needed it even more after my father was killed, as it left me to step up and take his place. Though I knew some of what he did, he hadn’t educated me in the ways of his world. But I quickly learned that hatred was what fuelled the conflict. I also learned the men who fought for my father not only fought for him, but for the Camarco name. With what little knowledge I had, my father’s closest advisors built on that and taught me everything I needed to know, and I learned fast because I had to survive, and survive I have.
During the closing hymn, the congregation files out of the room, and the Father walks over, taking a seat behind me.
“How are you feeling this morning, Mila?” he asks, his voice soft, just as it always is.
He’s the only one I’ve ever felt comfortable sharing my personal thoughts with, and in my world, that’s a rarity.
“I’m tired.”
“Did you not sleep well last night?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes and watch the young boys sing in perfect unity.
“I was thinking of the prophecy, which a part of me still believes. I mean, how can you not when two babies are born on the exact date, at the exact same time to families such as ours?”
“But?”
“But we vow to kill each other at every opportunity.” Just like last night.
“I don’t pretend to understand the path the Lord leads us down. However, I do believe our fates were written a long time ago, and what will be, will be.”
The choir finishes their hymn and shuffles out through the side door.
“Our contact in Dermalen has yet to return my calls. It’s making me nervous,” he says now that we’re alone. “I’ve sent two of my men to get answers.”
Father Antonio DeLuca is not only my confidant, but my go-between with our contacts outside of the city.
Standing, I straighten my pant suit and bow my head toward the cross.
“Let me know what you find.”
I’m halfway down the aisle when he calls out, “Be careful out there. The streets are mean this morning.”
They always are.
I find Trey leaning against the stone pillar, smoking a cigarette as I step outside. The forlorn look on his face tells me he has news to share. News I won’t like.
He keeps quiet and follows me to the car, opening the door for me. I slide in and across the back seat, with him following behind me, slamming the door shut.
“What is it?”
“Two of our men were found dead in the market square just after seven this morning.”
“Who?”
“The Guidice brothers. A couple of witnesses say they were arguing with Marocchi’s men shortly before.”
Raphael wasted no time in following through with his threat.
The car rolls by the market square where business is carrying on as usual regardless of the murders, seeing as the people are so used to it.
“Make sure their families are compensated.”
Men die in my name—for me—so it’s the least I can do with all the money at my disposal.
“How do you want to handle this?” he questions, just as his phone rings from inside his jacket pocket.
Leaving my answer for when he’s done, I watch the streets pass by from my window while I wait. Trey learned long ago to take a call without giving anything away, so I don’t bother listening in. He’ll relay the conversation to me if necessary.
“Five of Marocchi’s men were just found dead by the north river with bullet holes in their heads.”
Frowning, I swing my gaze from the streets to him. “Five?”
He nods while typing something on his phone’s keyboard.
“I didn’t give permission for any slayings this morning. Whoever did this acted of their own volition.”
The car drives through the gates of my estate, and my frustration builds.