Page 5

Some phantom feeling that could have been a woman’s intuition.

Or an animal’s instinctual response to fear.

I resisted Dario’s tug at my hand to push me into the car and looked up at the door to the cathedral to catch sight of Papà, flanked by Ricco and Beppe. Niccolo and his father, Felipe, stood to the other side of the doors from them, watching me just as intently.

Without thinking about the repercussions, I wrenched away from Dario’s hand and scrambled back up the steps. Entirely rude, wholly undignified.

But I was only twenty, and I was suddenly hyperaware that within a few hours I would no longer be on this small island with the only people I’d ever known but in an entirely new country of strangers.

And I needed in that moment to feel my father’s strong arms around me, holding me together in the chaos.

So I ran up the stairs, looking like I was running away from my new husband to all who had gathered to witness.

I didn’t care.

I flung myself at my father and almost choked on my sob of relief when his arms closed around me, and he squeezed me tightly.

“Fiammetta,” he murmured, his hand going to the back of my head. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” I assured him, even though I didn’t pull away. “I’ll just miss you.”

“And I, you,” he echoed, gently but firmly moving me away so he held me by the shoulders. “But it appears your new husband misses you now.”

I peeped over my shoulder to see Dario powering up the steps to me, his face twisted with frustration and anger.

Oh no.

I’d been married five minutes and already enraged my husband.

I bit my lip but decided I might as well be in for a penny, in for a pound.

So I moved to Ricco and hugged him too.

He chuckled but embraced me back.

I threw myself at Beppe next, who was only one year older than me and still gangly with youth. He hugged me back so tightly I couldn’t breathe.

“We will love you no matter where you are,” he assured me in a whisper before breaking our embrace.

Emotions burned in my throat.

“Same,” I whispered thickly just as someone took my hand in a punishing grip.

“Fiammetta—” Dario started in a terse, vicious tone.

But before he could say anything else, a curiously loud crack echoed across the piazza.

I wondered if someone cheeky had set off a firecracker to celebrate.

But then there was something wet on my face, and I lifted my hand to wipe it off, confused because it was a clear summer day.

When my hand came away, it was stained red.

I opened my mouth to say something—to this day, I do not know what—when the first screams rent the air.

A second later, I found myself thrown to the marble floor, a heavy weight crushing the breath from my lungs.

“Get down!” Dario shouted in Italian from above me.