Twisted Hearts (The Camorra Chronicles 5)

“You chose Savio, knowing who he was. It’s a burden every woman has to carry, accepting their husband’s mistakes. Women make marriages work. It’s what we do.”

“We aren’t married yet and if it’s up to Savio, that won’t change until I’m old and wrinkly.” Besides, I had absolutely no intention to be the only one who was going to make a marriage work. That wasn’t a one-man—or rather one woman show.

Nonna clucked again. “He’ll marry you. Your father is going to put pressure on him.”

We both knew that Dad’s hands were bound. If Savio wasn’t a Falcone, then he could have done something, but as it was, we could do nothing but wait.

It was the summer after I’d finished high school. Toni and I had both been accepted to the University of Nevada, if only because Savio had a hand in it. He still hadn’t given any indication that he wanted to marry me anytime soon, but I was done playing woe is me. I hadn’t seen him since his birthday, had done my best to avoid any place where he could cross my way. Diego had stopped bringing him to our house, after a talk to Mom.

I’d spent the two weeks since the end of school with Toni, making plans for college, or working in the Amalfi, helping Dad with his insane workload. It was strange thinking of going to college, because it had never been part of my life plan.

I had chosen Romanic languages as a major with a minor in Gender and Sexuality Studies as a subtle form of protest—Toni’s amazing idea. She was majoring in Entrepreneurship in preparation to take over the Arena in the distant future.

Even though college had never been my dream, it now became the distraction I needed. I had something to look forward to.

“Gemma, pay attention. The tomato sauce is going to burn,” Nonna said, clucking her tongue.

I quickly stirred the red sauce in the ginormous saucepan. It was the only workout I’d been getting in, except for the occasional round of sit-ups or push-ups in the morning. Still, after a day of carrying dishes and stirring sauces, my arms ached all the same. Nonna and I worked in the restaurant from ten in the morning until eleven at night every day, except for Mondays. Dad stayed even longer, brooding over bills. Sometimes Mom helped as well, but Carlotta had been spending more time in the hospital these last couple of months with check-ups and tests to determine if she was strong enough for a transplant.

Male voices rang out. The restaurant was still closed. It would open for lunch in thirty minutes.

A bang sounded.

“Bratva! Lock the back!” Dad screamed before the first shots rang out.

I dropped the spoon, completely frozen.

Nonna rushed toward the backdoor and quickly locked it. Seconds later, someone kicked against the massive door. My heart pounded in my chest.

Shots and screams rang out in the restaurant. Dad was there with two waiters. Nonna grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip and opened the door of the kitchen cupboard. “Get in there.”

I shook my head. “Nonna, no. Let me fight.”

“These men have guns! Now climb in there, Gemma.” She kissed my forehead and practically shoved me down on my knees.

“Nonna,” I whispered.

She gave me a stern look. “Now.”

I crawled into the cupboard and pressed my legs against my chest.

“Swear not to come out, not to make a single sound, no matter what happens.”

Then Nonna closed the door. Not a second too soon. A bang sounded as the kitchen door flung inward and two men came inside. Through a tiny gap, I could see Nonna move toward them.

One of the men screamed something in Russian and then he pointed the gun at Nonna and… pulled the trigger. I jerked. Everything seemed to suddenly move slowly.

Nonna sank to the floor behind the kitchen island, out of my line of sight.

I couldn’t breathe.

The Russians said something else, then one of them left. The other moved toward where Nonna had been and whatever he did to her, it made her hand move so I saw it. Unmoving. Lifeless. Was she… was she dead?

A sob slipped out of me. The man straightened and he looked straight at me. I tensed as he stalked toward me and ripped open the door. He leered. “Ahhh, what have we here?” he said in a strong Russian accent.

Kneeling before me, he grasped my ankle and tried to pull me out. I kicked upward, thrusting my heel into his chest. He stumbled backward with a string of what sounded like curses.

I quickly scrambled out to get in a better fighting position, but before I could brace myself, he gripped my hair and ripped hard. I bit my lip, stifling a cry. If I made a sound, the other men would come running, and my opponent obviously didn’t want to call for help against a girl. He dragged me toward the door and past Nonna who stared at me with wide, lifeless eyes.