5

After Sunday Mass, I hurry to the tables where everyone gathers for tea and coffee and quickly switch on the urns.

It’s been two weeks since the incident at Piccola Sicilia. Giorgio seems to be on edge about the money he owes Mr. Rizzo and has taken his stress out on me. He even tried to get me to sign a document stating he would be my beneficiary should I die.

Shaking my head, I still can’t believe he thinks I’m so stupid that I’d sign my own death warrant. I know the moment I sign that document, he’ll get rid of me. Giorgio wants my money, and he’ll kill to get it.

With the danger increasing by the day, I’m not sure I can hold out for another two years, but I don’t know what else to do.

If I go to Aunt Maria, Giorgio will find me there. It will place her in a horrible position because she and the rest of my family are bound to the laws of the Cosa Nostra.

Even if I ask her for money so I can run away, she will get in trouble for aiding me. Nothing happens without the Cosa Nostra knowing about it.

Feeling miserable, I let out a sigh.

“Did you bring three pies?” Rosa asks as she joins me behind the tables.

I force a friendly smile to my face. “Yes, but there seems to be more people than usual.”

“Keep a slice for Father Parisi.”

Nodding, I take the pies from their containers and place a slice on a plate. Rosa prepares a cup of tea, and while she takes the beverage and pie to Father Parisi, I begin to help the parishioners who are already milling around the table.

I keep smiling and greeting everyone, and soon, the rush passes, and I’m able to pour myself a cup of coffee.

My head is lowered when I hear a voice rumble, “Morning, Vittoria.”

My eyes snap up, and I accidentally pour hot water over my hand. “Ouch!”

“Are you okay?” Rosa asks while Mr. Rizzo, who’s scared the living hell out of me, rushes around the table.

When he gets close to me, my mouth instantly goes dry, and my heart sets off at a wild pace. Rosa darts to the end of the table to get away from us and cautiously watches Mr. Rizzo.

Not a single soul here will dare go against Angelo Rizzo.

He grabs a dishcloth from the table, and taking hold of my hand, he pats my skin dry before inspecting the red spot.

My eyebrows fly up, and my lips part in shock.

His voice is still a low rumble as he mutters, “It doesn’t look too bad. You need to be more careful when working with boiling water.”

With eyes as wide as the saucers on the table, I stare at Angelo Rizzo as if he’s lost his mind.

Does he actually care about me burning my hand?

His gaze snaps to mine, and just like before, I feel the punch of his brutal gaze.

I pull my hand free from his, and swallowing hard, I ask, “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

His eyes narrow on me for an unnerving moment before he slowly shakes his head. “Come with me.” What?

Feeling nervous as hell, my tongue darts out to wet my lips. “Where?”

Without answering, he turns around and proceeds to leave the building with Tiny and Big Ricky right behind him.

I’ve never seen Mr. Rizzo at Mass before, so this can’t be good.

I can feel the other parishioners' eyes on me, but I know none of them will step in to help me. Confused and scared, I reluctantly follow after the man.

There are overgrown gardens at the front and sides of the cathedral, and at the back is a very old cemetery.

My stomach turns to lead as I follow the three men to the back, but I keep a safe distance as Mr. Rizzo looks at the weather-worn tombstones.

I wrap my arms around myself, and as the silence stretches, my body begins to tremble.

Father, don’t let this man kill me on holy ground.

Actually, don’t let him kill me at all.

After the longest minutes of my life, Mr. Rizzo tips his head at Tiny and Big Ricky. My fear multiplies when his two guard dogs wander off to give us some privacy.

A breeze picks up, making the fabric of my dress billow around my legs. My hands slap down against my sides, and I quickly grab fistfuls of the fabric to keep it in place.

When he still doesn’t say anything, I ask with a quivering voice, “Why did you want me to come with you?”

With one hand in a pocket and the other lifting to rub over his jaw, his eyes narrow on me again.

Jesus, I’m going to die of a nervous breakdown if he doesn’t speak soon.

A frown forms on his forehead then he says, “You look tired.” Wow, what a way to say I look terrible.

Feeling self-conscious after his comment, I give him a frown of my own while shaking my head. “Honestly, this is nerve-wracking. Can you please tell me why you want to speak to me?” Keep your mouth shut, Tori!

Maybe it’s because I feel so trapped and scared all the time that I’m starting to slip up.

I must imagine it, but the corner of his mouth almost lifts in a smile before returning to the usual grim line. It was only for a split second.

Mr. Rizzo steps closer to me, his body moving like a wolf that’s stalking his prey. Intense fear ripples through me, and my breathing speeds up.

When he stops in front of me, he tilts his head and locks eyes with me.

“Your brother paid me a visit yesterday.” “Stepbrother,” I correct him.

I hate it when people refer to Giorgio as my brother.

Mr. Rizzo’s right eyebrow lifts, and I quickly apologize, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, sir.”

“You can call me Angelo.”

I’ve never heard anyone call him by his first name.

Caught off guard, I blink at him.

He folds his arms over his chest and looks downright terrifying as he stares at me.

“Giorgio has informed me you’re untouched.” What. The. Hell?

I continue to blink at him as my face goes up in flames, and embarrassment sets my insides on fire.

I can’t get offended because the capos of the Cosa Nostra have a right to know the status of any woman who’s of marrying age. In most cases, they must give their blessing when a marriage is arranged, which means this conversation is nothing out of the ordinary for Angelo.

Feeling red from my toes to my hair, I nod.

Please, please, please, Father. Don’t let this man arrange a marriage for me. Then I’ll never get away from Giorgio. Angelo’s eyes narrow again. “You’re a virgin?” Oh, geez.

I nod again.

“You’ve never dated?”

More heat pours into my cheeks as I nod for the third time.

When he suddenly moves his hand to my hair, I instinctively flinch from the years of abuse I’ve suffered from Giorgio.

Crap.

Angelo pauses for a moment, his gaze sharpening on my face before he twirls a curl of my hair around his finger.

“You flinch as if you think I’m going to hit you.”

His comment makes my insides turn to ice, and the tremble in my body grows.

Unable to tell a lie on holy ground, I admit, “You scare me.”

He lets go of my curl and murmurs, “I don’t find pleasure in hitting women.”

His words don’t make me feel any better.