In my last life, my husband cut me open and threw me to the sea—on the same night he was waltzing with another woman. It was only after every woman and child on the island had been violated and slaughtered by the Morettis that the men finally believed me. The raid was real. Bodies were scattered across the courtyard like broken dolls. The men stood frozen in the blood. And then, all at once, they snapped. "Boss, didn't you tell us Wren was just a jealous wife throwing a tantrum? That she was lying so we'd focus on Celeste's birthday? Then tell me—why is my son dead? Why is my wife gone?" Lucien's face turned to chalk. I looked at the slaughter at our feet, and the tears came. That night, when the Morettis had hit the island, my husband—the heir of the Vitale family—had taken every armed man out to sea. To throw a birthday party for his childhood sweetheart. Pregnant, I had crawled out through the sewers to find him. Dragged every man back to save what was left of our people. But his precious Celeste had been caught by a stray Moretti. Violated. Killed. Lucien handled the men responsible without a word. And then, on the day I gave birth to our daughter— He broke my legs. Cut me open. Threw me into the deep waters off the Sicilian coast, for the fish to feed on. "It was your fault. You dragged the Morettis here to kill her? Then you'll die the way she did." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the raid. If he wanted to save his childhood sweetheart this time, let him try. * * * I stood at the window and watched the black speedboats cut toward the shore. A cold shiver crawled up my spine. I didn't hesitate. I hit the alarm. The siren tore through Isola Nera. But the yacht—the one that could carry every woman and child off the island—was already gone. Anita Russo stumbled into the hall, her voice breaking. "Wren—the Morettis are coming. Where are the men? Where's the yacht? What are we supposed to do?" Anita was Marco Russo's wife. Marco was Lucien's right hand—the man set to become the Vitales' Underboss. And Anita was the only woman in this family who had ever treated me like a sister. Before I could answer, the others crowded in around me. Faces pale. Eyes pleading. I was the only one who knew. So I told them. Lucien had taken every man and every weapon out to international waters. To throw Celeste's birthday party. Lucien's mother, Donna Isabella, let out a string of curses sharp enough to draw blood. "Has he lost his goddamn mind? He knows the Morettis hit this rock every chance they get—and he took every fucking man with him?" "That conniving bitch Celeste—I warned him from day one. Playing the fragile little angel. Now look. She's going to get us all killed." Her fury was a match to dry grass. The other women caught flame. Curses for Celeste. Curses for the men who'd followed her perfume off this island. Outside, the speedboats were almost at the shore. The panic was rising. I forced my voice steady and told them all to move. Now. To the tunnels. Our island sat far off the mainland. The Vitales had been building these tunnels for generations—to outlast exactly this kind of raid. * * * The narrow passage filled fast. Women clutching children. Children clutching anything they could. From above us came the laughter of the Moretti men, hunting for women. Fear spread through that tunnel like a sickness. Then the next blow came. The smuggler's passage—the one that ran beneath the cliffs to the sea cave—had been blown. The collapse was fresh. The air still stank of powder. Donna Isabella's face went hard. "They've known about this passage for a long time." Anita and I looked at each other. The same name surfaced behind both our eyes. Celeste. The only way out now was the old sewer line that fed into the tunnel. Crawl through it. Find the speedboat. Bring help back. Donna Isabella seized my hand. Her grip was iron. "Wren. You can drive a boat. Go find Lucien. Make him bring the men back." I gave her a tired, bitter smile and told her the truth. Even if I found him, Lucien wouldn't come back for me. The tunnel went silent. Three months ago, Lucien had brought Celeste home from somewhere in Naples, claiming he owed her his life as a boy. Since then, he'd been glued to her side. Training together. Riding out together. Sleeping under the same roof under the polite fiction of "protection." Half the soldati already joked the two of them looked more married than we did. When the jokes got back to him, he didn't put distance between them. He pulled her closer. I'd screamed at him about it more times than I could count. Asked him point-blank who his goddamn wife was. He'd called me jealous. Petty. A nuisance. Whatever we'd had between us had quietly died the day she walked through our gates. The silence in the tunnel stretched. Then Mia Vitale, Lucien's little sister, stepped forward. "Let me go. I know the soldati. And Wren's pregnant—if something happens to her, I'd never be able to face my brother." She didn't wait for permission. She dropped into the sewer and was gone. I knew what was waiting for her at the other end. I had lived through it once already.
We crouched in the tunnel. Prayed not to be heard. But the prayer didn't take. "There's a steel door down here!" a voice shouted above us. "I'd bet my fucking life the women are behind it!" "I knew it. No way an island this big runs out of women." "Six months at sea, boys. I've been dreaming about this." They started smashing at the door. The women went white. Some of them started shaking. All they could do was pray the men would get back in time. Half an hour later, Mia came scrambling back up through the sewer. Filthy. Trembling. A few of the women cried out in relief, certain she'd brought the men. Then they saw her face. She wiped her eyes, voice small. "I'm sorry. They wouldn't come." Donna Isabella's voice cracked. "What do you mean they wouldn't come? Their wives are down here. Their children are down here." Mia's tears spilled over. "My brother said I was lying. He said the Morettis would never hit our family out of nowhere. He said Wren and I were running some scheme together." She lifted a shaky hand to her cheek. "And he slapped me." The handprint was livid against her skin. The women erupted again. Curses for that conniving bitch. Curses for Lucien, who'd left his post for the sake of one woman. Then came the explosions. The Morettis had brought charges. The steel door wouldn't hold another hour. * * * I gathered my voice and told them. Pelle Island was twenty minutes out. The Lombardis ran it. They still owed the Vitales a favor. I could go to them. Donna Isabella seized my arm. Her palm was cold with sweat. "Wren. Every woman, every child in this tunnel—it's on you now. You bring help back." She pressed something into my hand. A silver crucifix on a tarnished chain. Three generations of Vitale women had worn it. She'd never taken it off, not once that I'd seen. Then a small oilcloth packet. Heavier than it had any right to be. "I've been watching Celeste for two years," she said, quiet. "Photographs. Recordings. Every contact she ever made with the Morettis." "I was waiting for my idiot son to open his eyes." She let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "My stupid boy." She looked at me then. Something in her gaze went soft and strange. "If I don't make it out—give these to Mia. Tell her to learn from Wren. Not from her brother." I nodded. I couldn't trust myself with words. * * * Anita caught me before I climbed up. She pressed a small pistol into my palm. "Marco's been keeping a backup speedboat under the western cliffs. He never told Lucien. Keys are in the ignition." She smiled. The same smile she'd worn on my wedding day. "And tell that bastard husband of mine—" "His wife is down here in a tunnel." "Waiting for him to come bring her home."
I dragged myself out through the sewer at last. Belly heavy. Lungs burning. The stink of it clinging to my skin. I climbed onto the speedboat, kicked the engine alive, and tore east for Pelle Island. When the hull scraped onto the beach, my heart lifted for one stupid second. Armed men were waiting at the dock. Then I saw who was at the front. Marco Russo. He shouldn't have been here. He was supposed to be at sea with Lucien. I didn't have time to think. I stumbled toward him, the words tumbling out—the raid, the tunnel, the steel door— He caught my arm and yanked me clean off the boat. His face was carved with disgust. "Wren Costa. I don't know how a woman can be this disgusting." * * * I stared at him, lost. I didn't understand what he meant. "The boss told me to wait here for you." "He said you'd cooked up some scheme with Mia—running to another family's island to spread fairy tales about a Moretti attack. Just to ruin Celeste's birthday party." The words hit me like ice water. Lucien was a cold bastard. He'd planted his own man on the only route I could take for help. I told Marco the raid was real. The Morettis had already landed. I wasn't spreading rumors—I was begging for backup. If we didn't move within the hour, every woman and child in that tunnel was dead. He saw the look on my face. Something flickered behind his eyes. Just for a second. His wife was on that island. His mother. His kids. Marco reached for his radio to call Lucien. Then a young soldato leaned in close and murmured, "Boss, come on. If the Morettis were really hitting us, you really think the boss wouldn't know first?" The kid's face was full of that quiet, religious faith. Lucien had been a soldier once. He had the instincts and the command of a man who'd survived a dozen wars. He'd led the Vitales through dozens of raids without losing the island. Marco was silent for less than a second. Then he laughed out loud. "Wren. You should've been an actress. You almost had me." "I know Lucien better than anyone. He's the goddamn boss of the Vitales. You think a man like that misses something like this?" The mockery cut deeper than the slap on the beach. Tears burned at the edge of my vision. I held them. Every second wasted was another second the women in that tunnel were closer to dying. I tried to push past him, ready to run back to the boat and go anywhere—anywhere—that might still listen. Marco caught me before I'd taken two steps. He pulled out a length of rope. "Not today, Wren. You're not going anywhere." He bound my wrists tight. His face was hard. He threw me into the back of his speedboat like a sack of cargo. The engine roared. The hull cut through the waves. I lay on my side, watching Pelle Island shrink. The one shore that could have saved them—slipping further away by the second. I closed my eyes. Not in despair. In my last life, I had closed my eyes at this exact moment because I'd given up. This time, I closed them to carve Marco Russo's face into my memory. To add him to the list I was just beginning to write.
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