Chapter 37 · A Door or a Target

"Where did you get it?"

My voice came out flat. My hands didn't. The barrel shook against Enzo's forehead, my knuckles still gray with gunpowder. My uncle's blood was drying stiff on my wrist.

Enzo didn't flinch. A split across his hairline dripped into his collar. The signet ring sat on his open palm, solid gold, the Ferrara crest rubbed slick from years under Dante's thumb.

"Off his finger, signora. In the car, right after the first slug caught him."

"Bullshit. Dante doesn't take that off. He'd lose the bone first."

"He said that too." Enzo's mouth twitched. "He was choking on his own blood and still dragged it off. Told me if he went out, it goes to you. Not Marco. Not the capos. You."

Behind me, Katia hissed, "Lucia. Clock."

She had both palms buried in Dante's chest, gauze turning black under her grip. The field monitor gave an ugly, dragged-out beep. Slow. Shaky. But ticking.

"He's leaking out," she said. "Execute the kid later."

I kept the muzzle level. "How many left out there?"

"Eleven dropped on the lawn. Two of your uncle's shooters in the boathouse, maybe more creeping the causeway. Phones are dead.