Chapter 5

I’m feeling good when I get home from La Colombe. I had a nice run-in with Brody and I’m already inserting myself into his life even though the first time we met, he looked at me like I was a venereal disease. But I meant it when I told him that I like doing people favors.

It makes me feel useful. That’s sort of pathetic, but it’s true. I’m a rich girl from an obscenely wealthy family, I didn’t go to college, and I’ve never had an actual job before. My whole life has been handed to me and I’m painfully aware of all the gobs of privilege oozing from all my pores. It’s great, being rich and having comfort, but it also means that I need to try twice as hard to make myself feel useful, because it’s not like I need to work to earn my living.

Which is why I love doing favors. When I’m helping someone, I’m actually a worthwhile human being for a little bit. And it’s obvious Brody needs me, since Omar Ali is a real pain in the ass, and there’s no way Omar’s ever going to like Brody, at least not without my intervention.

I’m drinking coffee and going for a little stroll when a car turns down onto the oasis, driving fast.

I freeze. Fear whips into me. A dozen or more guns are trained on the truck, and I flash back to the attack: armed and armored men flooding my home, shooting everyone, destroying whatever they got their hands on, making a mess and trying to ruin everything I love in the world.

Except that’s not happening now. The truck slams to a stop and Emilio jumps out. He’s Davide’s top lieutenant, and I feel myself moving before I even realize it, the coffee tossed aside and forgotten.

“How bad?” I ask as Emilio drags Davide out of the back. His leg is bleeding and he’s cursing like the proper use of fuck might get him into the kingdom of heaven.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” Emilio says and I help him get Davide inside. I snap at a nearby guard to go get the family doctor. “Got him right in the thigh.”

“It fucking hurts,” Davide growls as we get him down on a sofa.

“Where’s Stefania?” I look around the kitchen and grab a towel to put pressure on the wound.

“Working,” Emilio says. “She’s at the restaurant.”

“Okay, sweetie, hold on now,” I say, pushing against the bullet hole. It’s bleeding, but it’s not gushing or spurting, which is a good sign. He’ll be in some pain for a while, but this isn’t going to kill him. “Dr. Kim’s on the way and she’ll get you filled with painkillers and stitched up.”

“I’m going to fucking murder every single goddamn piece-of-shit motherfucking cocksucking cunt-ass bitch motherfuckers—” Davide’s not exactly rational at the moment and I let him rant and curse until the real doctor arrives to take over.

I step aside with Emilio. Blood stains my shirt. I wash my hands and the water runs red. Poor Emilio looks exhausted and he slumps down onto the couch, watching nervously as the doctor gets Davide cleaned and stitched.

“Tell me what happened,” I press, and Emilio runs through the story. They were out on a routine patrol when they spotted a crew of Santoro street thugs harassing a deli associated with the Famiglia, so they rolled up to chase them off. But a gun got pulled, and shots were fired, and now one of the thugs is dead and Davide’s got a hole in his leg.

“You did the right thing,” I tell him because I can’t help but try to take care of him too. Even though Emilio’s not blood, he’s still a member of this Famiglia. I get him water and make sure he’s okay.

Then I find Simon and fill him in.

“You need to get Davide off the streets,” I tell him as Simon paces across his office. He shakes his head at that.

“Can’t do it. Davide’s my best soldier.”

“He’s also your brother and he’s going to get killed.”

Simon’s jaw works. “I know, Elena, but he’s not going to listen.”

That’s a fair point. Getting shot is only going to piss him off even more, and there’s no way he’s going to back down from hunting Santoro soldiers anytime soon.

“I’ll talk to him then, or I’ll get Stefania to convince him. Just for a little while⁠—”

“Elena, this isn’t your fight,” Simon says, tone hard.

I give him a look. “Go to hell, idiot, of course it’s my fight. You’d all be dead a thousand times over if it weren’t for me.” I glare at him and he glares right back, and for a second we’re not adults anymore, we’re kids on the playground sizing each other up.

But he breaks the tension first and stops pacing. “Did you talk to Brody today?”

I look up at the ceiling. “Of course, you knew already.”

“He made sure I was good with the plan. Help him out, okay? Make sure he’s happy.”

“You know I’m going to.” I get to my feet and brush my hands off on my pants, feeling sick, tired, and worried. “It’s in my nature, right?”

“Elena—”

“It’s fine. I’m still going to talk to Davide, even if it won’t help, and I’ll do what I can for Brody too. You’ll get what you need, Don Bianco.”

I don’t love the look on his face as I leave his office and guilt swarms me. I shouldn’t have lashed out at him like that. It’s just that I’m tired and stressed, and I don’t want to watch my brothers die, but sometimes it feels like that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Our family has suffered enough—I just don’t want to lose anyone else.