The limousine smelled like funeral lilies and regret.
Serena Lombardo's knees trembled as the driver yanked her out onto the cracked cobblestones, his grip biting into her arm like a shackle. Palermo's midday sun glared down, bleaching the sky to a sickly white. The *Chiesa di Sangue* rose ahead, its stone walls pockmarked with bullet holes, the iron cross above the door rusted into claws. A stray cat hissed from the gutter, its mangled tail twitching as it fled.
Inside, the air tasted of damp incense and old blood.
Her heels clicked too loudly against the marble floor, the sound echoing like a countdown. At the altar stood a man, his back to her, a shadow cut from the darkness between stars. His tailored suit absorbed the light, the fabric whispering of knives sheathed in silk. When he turned, the scar came first—a jagged lightning bolt carved from eyebrow to jawline, pale and vicious against his olive skin.
*Vittorio Marchetti.*
His eyes were winter lakes, frozen and depthless. They raked over her, lingering on the way her borrowed dress—too tight, too red—slipped off one shoulder. She crossed her arms, but her hands shook, the lace gloves scratching her skin like spiderwebs.
"Late." His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet. "Do you mock tradition, *piccola colomba*?"
She opened her mouth, but her throat closed. The chapel's stained glass cast fractured light over his ring: a lion with ruby eyes. It glinted as he lifted a hand, and two men dragged her brother into the aisle.
*Luca.*
His left eye was swollen shut, his lip split like overripe fruit. He crumpled to his knees, a wet cough rattling his chest. Serena lurched forward, but Vittorio's men blocked her, their cigarette-tainted breath hot on her neck.
"The debt," Vittorio said, pulling a knife from his jacket. The blade caught the light, sharp enough to slice the air. "Your brother's hands for his sins… or your vows for his life."
Luca whimpered, snot and blood dripping onto the floor.
Serena's lungs burned. She'd never held a gun, never stolen more than bread, never done *anything* but stitch wounds and beg for mercy. The locket around her neck—her mother's—dig into her collarbone, its tiny hinge loose. A cyanide pill nestled inside, but her fingers were too numb to reach it.
Vittorio pressed the knife to Luca's thumb. "Choose."
"Stop!" The word tore from her, raw and too loud.
He paused, tilting his head like a wolf studying prey.
"I'll… I'll do it." Her voice cracked. "The vows."
He smiled. It didn't touch his eyes.
The priest shuffled forward, his cassock reeking of mildew. He muttered Latin verses, his yellowed fingernails trembling as he held the Bible. Vittorio's men forced her to the altar, their hands bruising her elbows.
"Repeat," Vittorio said, his breath cold against her ear.
She flinched. The Latin words blurred—*in sickness, in war, until death*—but she parroted them, her tongue clumsy. When he slid the ring onto her finger, the metal seared her skin.
"Kiss the bride," the priest croaked.
Vittorio gripped her chin, his calloused fingers digging into her jaw. She froze, her pulse thrashing like a caged bird. His lips were a brand, claiming, cruel. She tasted blood—*his* or hers, she didn't know—and her stomach lurched.
A gunshot shattered the silence.
Vittorio shoved her to the floor as glass rained down. She landed hard, her palms scraping marble. Through the broken window, a motorcycle roared away, its rider's jacket emblazoned with a rose dipped in blood.
"Get up." Vittorio hauled her to her feet, his grip bruising.
She stumbled, her legs jelly. Luca was gone, dragged out by the men. Only a smear of blood remained.
The limousine idled outside, its engine a growl. Vittorio pushed her into the backseat, his knee trapping her legs. The door slammed, trapping her in the reek of his cologne—bergamot and gunpowder.
"Look at me."
She couldn't. Her gaze snagged on the seat beside him: a Polaroid photo, face-down.
He flipped it over.
Her breath stopped.
Her brother knelt in a concrete room, a gun pressed to his temple. Scrawled on the back in smeared ink: *"He dies at midnight. Find the ledger."*
Vittorio tilted the photo, watching her face. "Your father's little black book. Where is it?"
"I-I don't—"
He backhanded her.
The blow snapped her head sideways, her cheekbone exploding in white-hot pain. She choked, tears blurring the photo.
"Wrong answer." He tucked the Polaroid into her bodice, his fingers lingering too long. "You have twelve hours, *moglie*. Pray you're cleverer than you look."
The engine roared. As Palermo blurred past, Serena pressed her swollen cheek to the window. Her reflection stared back: a ghost in a red dress, her new wedding ring glinting like a shackle.
Somewhere, Luca was screaming.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
And deep in the pit of her hollow chest, something brittle began to *crack*.