Page 149 of Stricken

Next to me, Chiara seems frozen mid-breath. Silence presses down, almost tangible. It's like being submerged under thick water.

My pulse thrums violently in my ears—a brutal drumbeat—woosh, woosh.

The man's imposing frame blocks any path forward. He's built like a fort and always packing heat. As he steps closer, the air in the room grows claustrophobic.

"I think you misunderstand the situation," the man says. "Your uncle can see from his grave." A hand disappears into the folds of his coat. "And he gave clear orders. No faggots in the family. And yet, here you are."

Rage bursts through my bloodstream. Best defense is always attack. So I do just that. I take a step forward, locking my eyes with the Sicilian's. "I'm not afraid of you, or of my uncle's ghost."

Something cold presses to my cheek and then I realize it's the barrel of a gun.

A sickening cocktail of confusion and fear swirls inside me. Old man even thought this through.

Fuck.

The safety clicks and the sound reverberates through my ear like an earthquake. I know with certainty that talking myself out of this situation is useless. If this man's order is to kill me, then he will do so without hesitation.

"Any last words,Padrino?" he asks grimly.

Before I can react, there's a sound. A thud. The Sicilian's face slacks like a deflated doll, and he drops to my feet. The gun clatters across the floor.

I'm so struck by this sudden change of dynamics that I fail to register what's in front of me for another second or two until my vision and my brain are finally in agreement.

Aunt Chiara is standing in there, hands slightly outstretched, a heavy vase in her grip.

I blink, shift my gaze to the body below, then back at her.

But Chiara doesn't stop. She drops to her knees and with a primal scream brings the vase down on the man's head.

"You. Will. Not. Speak. To. My. Nephew. That. Way."

She rains blow after blow, the broken shards of glass cutting into her hands, leaving crimson streaks on the pristine white tiles.

I watch in shock. I don't recognize this woman as my aunt anymore. The gentle, nurturing presence in my life. Or maybe she always had this rage. She just hid it well. Maybe that's where Salvatore gets his anger from.

"Zia." I crouch in front of the body, reaching out to her. "Stop. He's dead now."

She jerks from my touch at first.

"It's me,Zia. It's okay. He's dead."

She lifts her gaze to me and whispers, "Now, no one except Tony and me knows what his orders were. And Tony is dead." She takes a shuddering breath. "And I don't care whom you have in your heart, Nico. Go see him now."

"We need to clean this up." I motion at the body on the floor as I help her stand up.

"You don't think I've learned how to clean up this kind of mess in all of the years I've been married to your uncle?"

"I think there are a lot of things I apparently don't know about you,Zia."

"Go. See him. I'll take care of this,tesoro."

For a moment, I hesitate, torn between the need to get rid of the bloody apocalypse in the living room and the desperate desire to see Vlad, to try and get some answers from him or anyone in his circle.

But the resolve in Chiara's eyes propels me forward. Something tells me she doesn't need my help.

I nod, my throat tight with emotion. "Thank you,Zia. For everything."

And then I'm running, my stupid heart leading the way outside and to the car where Costa is waiting.

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