Page 3 of The Madman and his broken Princess
An oversized limousine pulled up the driveway and disappeared from our view. A couple of minutes later, a group of scantily clad women teetered on high heels across the pathway below our balcony.
“I reckon that’s the entertainment for after my induction,” he said, a sarcastic twist to his lips.
I grimaced. It was a disgusting tradition for boys to lose their innocence with professionals.
Nestore glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Almost time.”
Screams shrilled inside the mansion. The little hairs at the nape of my neck rose in response as I flattened myself against the balustrade, my heart jumping in my chest. What was going on? I shot Nestore a fearful look, but he appeared as shocked as I was. He pulled a knife from a holster at his calf and straightened with the gleaming blade in his fist, then he motioned for me to stay behind him.
He stepped toward the door and peered inside. More screams echoed through the house, reaching a crescendo when the doors on the patio below us slammed open, and a group of guests burst outside. Shots rang out, and one person after another went down.
I pressed up against the wall, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Stay where you are,” Nestore ordered before he ducked into the corridor, disappearing from view. Someone was killing offpeople. Who was betraying whom? Was this a ploy to overthrow Benedetto Falcone, and if that was the case, who was behind it?
Knife clutched in my hand, I followed the sounds of terror to the ballroom, staying close to the wall in case I had to duck for cover. When I arrived at the door and peered inside, my heart sank at the sight that greeted me.
My father knelt on the ground beside my bleeding and motionless uncle. Several bullet wounds littered his torso. My father’s and uncle’s loyal men lay dead on the ground around them, and the rats who’d betrayed him stood beside Achille Lamorgese. That fucking traitor. Behind them with a glass of red wine in his hand, Benedetto Falcone surveilled the scene with sadistic eagerness. Whatever hope I had left slid out of me. If the Capo approved of the coup, then the chances of my father’s survival were low at best, and mine were hardly better.
Fuck, would I die on my birthday? The fingers around the knife handle tightened further. I wouldn’t go down without afight. I’d take as many of these traitorous bastards down with me as I could. I squashed the embers of fear blazing up in me. My father had spent most of my life preparing me for this, for a life of violence, though I doubted even his paranoid mind had seen this coming. Benedetto Falcone was notorious for killing off his men whenever he felt like they might pose a risk to his reign or simply when he felt like it, period.
I couldn’t see Niccolo anywhere. I had to hope that he’d managed to escape and would be clever enough to hide until Benedetto Falcone was dead. His eldest son was rumored to be as insane as his father, but I had never met Remo Falcone or his brothers. They had spent the past few years in a boarding school in England.
I took a deep breath. A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I whirled around to kill whoever restrained me but stopped myself when I came face-to-face with my bodyguard, Eduardo. A tiny piece of quail egg had gotten stuck in his gray-streaked beard. “Don’t be stupid, Nestore. Inside this room, only death awaits. You can’t save your father. Save yourself so one day you can return and get revenge.”
He was right. If I stormed the ballroom, I’d die. My father wasn’t a good man and deserved to die. But so did most of the people in my life. I should let him die for everything he’d done to our family, but some twisted part of me couldn’t abandon him for the simple fact that he was my father. Fuck.
I slowly shook my head. “I won’t run.”
Eduardo sighed, the lines in his tanned, weathered face deepening. “You are too loyal to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Shock sliced through me. Eduardo had never talked about my father like that. He wouldn’t have lived to see the next day.
“I implore you to leave.”
I ripped away from his hold. “This is my home, my territory, and I won’t run.” I stormed into the ballroom. I would take down as many as I could. All eyes in the room latched onto me, and Benedetto actually laughed and raised his glass as if to mock toast me. Rage bubbled up inside me.
My father watched without a flicker of emotion. He had resigned himself to whatever was to come.
Lamorgese sneered at me as if I were not worth his attention. I switched the knife from my right hand to my left, gripping the blade, feeling the familiar burn of it against my skin. Then I threw it at Lamorgese. He hadn’t expected the throw, nor had the men by his side. The blade impaled itself in his left side, below his rib cage. The distance had been too great, and the switch to my left, slightly less skilled hand, had been a mistake. This injury would hurt but not kill him. He gasped, clasping the knife. Two men came to hold him up as his legs were about to buckle.
An arm clamped around my throat, jerking me to a stop. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes began to water.
“Should I kill him?”
I froze and twisted my head until I could peer over my shoulder at my attacker. Eduardo. The man who had just been imploring me not to enter the room. Bile filled my mouth. Was that the taste of betrayal? I’d never tasted anything more vile. I glared up at him with all the hatred I could muster.
He looked away and focused on Lamorgese, who was still busy breathing through the pain. I had hit him hard. I would have smiled if lack of oxygen hadn’t made my vision turn dark at the edges.
“It’s the Capo’s decision,” he pressed out as a doctor rushed his way. My knees grew weak, and I would have toppled over if Eduardo’s iron grip hadn’t kept me upright.
“Death would be too easy, don’t you think?” Falcone drawled. He took a sip of his wine, then hit me with a cruel smile.
Eduardo loosened his hold enough so I could breathe, but not enough that I could escape.
After the doctor had given him an injection, Lamorgese straightened and pushed the doctor away, his eyes full of feverish hatred as they settled on me. “You’ll spend the rest of your miserable life regretting this.” He motioned at the knife sticking out of his side. He turned to my father, who scowled up at him.
“There’s a special place in hell for traitors,” my father spat.
