Nicky Tangorello—or Nina as I've called her most recently—stands by the French doors.

She's flanked by two twin boys, about her age, but trying their hardest to pass for grown-ass men. Gang tattoos mar their brown skin all the way to their eyes; the guns are too obvious, and stoic demeanor barely covers up their twitchiness.

Who the fuck entrusted Irene with their sons when her daughter is a headcase? But I forget the boys' plight when the sun strikes Nicky's necklace. The reflected rainbow turns into a red ray in my crap one-sided vision.

I see the red I missed since the vineyard. The red of the diamond on my engagement ring. The gem is synthetic, because I didn't want to wear anything mined and hurting Earth, let alone blood diamonds. It's red, because Matteo likes blood-red things.

"Glad you like my engagement ring, but I want this back." Not screaming at her is as much dignity as I can master. I shake from head to toe with indignation, though.

Nicky clasps her hand over my ring, eyes flung in pretend horror. "Suck it up, Buttercup. Finders' keepers!"

"Lead us to your mother," Matteo says. It's like he speaks from the bottom of some well, deep-deep underground. A shiver crawls down my spine, because I know this voice. It doesn't bode well, so I limit myself to a glare. A childish bitch-slap fest will have to wait until the guns are done talking.

Nicky's too stupid to get it. She thinks she won this round. Her giggles charge the air with an almost comically evil energy. She even fucking curtsies to Matteo, while her eyes flash a speculative glance at Ilya. "Come along, honored visitors!"

Following her and the boys, the three of us cut through the outer wing, then the courtyard. Matteo precedes me, Ilya brings up the rear. I should be safe, but hair stands at the nape of my neck, as if caught in the dangerous electrical field created by the two men. Because of it, I feel like walking in a straight line, keeping my eyes on the middle of Matteo's wide back for comfort. It makes it difficult to observe my environment.

When I finally get over my heebie-jeebies, I catch enough to decide that the building doesn't look abandoned, despite Romero's permits being revoked. Rather, the place gives off the vibe of a resort during the offseason. The only sign of permanent closure is the courtyard pool. Instead of rippling water invitingly, the wind rolls dust across the tiles. They should be azure and gold, but look dull yellow and washed-out blue denim.

The marbles in the reception are unaffected, gleaming in expectations of the tourists who won't be coming. Once past the lobby, the two boys throw open giant carved doors on Nicky's command. But we don't walk through immediately. She pauses in the middle of the grand arch and licks her smiling lips. "I—"

"Nicky!" Irene snaps from the giant space beyond the door. The acoustics of that room—a banquet hall, I suppose—hollows her voice, but also expands it, to fill every corner.

Nicky doesn't give up on her speech completely. "Welcome to our humble abode!" the brat says, then shimmies her flat chest to make my ring bounce across her plunging neckline. Only after this boast, she scoots inside.

Matteo steps in, and I try to follow, but Ilya brushes past me, not rudely, but decisively. He links his shoulder to Matteo's. Only then I can follow them, and I try to stick as close to their back as possible. I even grab Matteo's elbow, as if I'm completely blind. That touch, however small, lifts the weight from my chest, and I can breathe freely.

The two boys shut the doors behind us, and remain by the entrance, like some lackeys.

The deeper we advance, the more puzzled I am. There are no tables, no white tablecloth, not a single piece of furniture with exception of an extra-large leather couch. With no carpets to dampen the sound, our footfalls echo off the wood boards of the floor, despite all of us wearing soft-soled footwear. I'm pretty sure that Matteo, at least, does it on purpose. He can walk completely silently.

Kassan Mallet, my old acquaintance, sprawls on the couch to look nonchalant. He fails miserably at it, for his sparse hair curls wildly around the sweaty dome of his balding head and his equally wild eyes scan around.

Unlike her beau, Irene appears as blank as the empty walls surrounding her. She stands next to Kassan, stick-straight, dressed in a pantsuit.

My fashion stint into the world of wedding dresses was too short to tell one couturier from another. All I know is that this is a one-of-a-kind frock. The stark lines of black on its brilliant white; the striped black-and-red silk bow sitting in a perfect place testify to that.

Yup, Irene's look is tragically unaffordable for an average woman, and what a pity that is!

Surreptitiously, I tug down my oversized t-shirt to conceal how the top of my sweatpants flops around my waistline. A totally useless gesture, because the way Irene wears expensive clothes reminds me how Matteo wears his Brioni suits. Like they sleep in this attire to attain the effortless elegance when clothed in it. I would never emulate this, even when I wear my goldenrod and cream wedding dress. Really, it's for the best she won't be at our wedding.

Grace is not the only thing about Irene that reminds me of Matteo. She has this dark, dangerous beauty, groomed by age into something that has facets, edges and character. Years will make Matteo look like that, and my heart skips a bit in anticipation of watching it happen. We'll be together... gosh! Despite Irene's interference, we'll actually age together!

For a second, I gulp air in a kind of dizzy, happy fit, before I push my golden-hued dreams aside.

Save for Irene and Kassan, there's nobody else in the banquet hall.

Where are Irene's underlings? The score of vile men armed to the teeth? Butch women with swords or whatever?

I twist my neck—in vain.

We're too close to the couch for anyone to crouch behind it unseen. The windows are large and clear. No blinds, no curtains, not even a potted plant can provide cover for a squad of hitmen. Judging by the glimpses I stole at the rest of the hotel, it's unlikely that the decorators initially had this important room bare! So, whatever it once held, was removed specifically for our meeting.

"Irene." Matteo's greeting nod is brusque. He doesn't acknowledge Kassan at all, as it should be: la famiglia is talking the family business. Kassan is nothing. "If you wanted to bring a grievance forward, you could have called me. Hurting my woman, la innocente, was not acceptable."

"You have no right to speak about family honor, Matty!" Irene's aquiline face distorts, but she composes herself quickly. "Yes, I could have called. We could have chatted. Then I could have kissed your ring--the don's ring. The one that should have been my husband's by rights."

"I harbored no ill will toward Sal. He attacked me, so his death was his own doing." Matteo's calm is frightening.

"No ill will... no ill will!" When Irene laughs, it has nothing in common with her daughter's unhinged giggling. It's a controlled, pissed, throaty sound. She aims to eviscerate you with her laughter. "Of course, it wasn't personal. But you always wanted to steal Sal's place. He recognized your designs the moment you crawled from the dump."

"If that's what he thought, that's on him. I gave him no reason to question my loyalty to la famiglia."

"Why lie now?" Irene sounds so incredulous, a suspicion claws at my heart. Matteo had always said he climbed the ranks to keep us safe. But before we met, was he really satisfied with his slow elevation and the glass ceiling because of his questionable parentage? He was the mob boss' son, but illegitimate, born to a prostitute.

I glance at Matteo's profile. It might as well be carved from stone, it shows so little emotion. He makes no audible reply against Irene's accusations.

"There will be no better moment to be honest, Matty," Irene wheedles. "So, be honest. You know it wouldn't go beyond these walls."

"Honest?" It's Matteo's turn to sound incredulous. "You want me to be honest?"

"You've picked off your rivals one by one, while the old fools who call themselves dons saw you as an upright man, wronged by others. Don't deny it." Flat and final, hundred percent sure—this bitch has it for Matteo.

"Because I am upright. Your husband stepped on me and he involved la innocente into the business that should have stayed between us. He hurt my girl." Matteo's jowl works. "So did you, Irene."

"La innocente, this cunt?" Irene chuckles, pointing directly at me, peeking between Matteo's and Ilya's heads. "You better pray she isn't an innocent bystander, because your lies and our way will destroy her otherwise."

A small choking sound escapes my throat. "I'm right here! Right fucking here!"

Irene acknowledges my scream with a tiny dip of her chin. "Do you believe everything Matty says, Bryn?"

"About Sal? I don't have to take it on faith, because I was there. I know the truth."

"Take it from someone who was born into the mafia and who was married to the mafia don for twenty years—you never know the whole truth."

"Whatever, Karen." Maybe if we had this girls' talk before she tried to impale me, I'd listen. But now? I don't need her pity, let alone her condescension.

My hand slips down Matteo's forearm hand to slip my fingers into his fist. He relaxes it to let them in, then squeezes lightly in a wordless exchange.

I love you.

Me too.

"Go ahead, tell us the truth, Matteo." Jeez, this woman just doesn't know when to let go! "I'll carry it to my grave, and Bryn—"

"Mother!"

I jump up when Nicky wails, releasing Matteo's hand.

It's like our teen monster has just woken up to the fact that the banquet hall is empty, and things aren't going her way, and that she's royally screwed.

Her scream rattles me so much, I also clue-in. I understand what this is, and why Matteo is so patient with Irene, letting her say whatever she wants. Why aren't the bullets flying yet.

This is a surrender.

The five men on the helipad were all the forces Irene had kept back at her stronghold, not counting the two boys who now grip Nicky tightly. It takes both of them to keep her in place. Whoever those boys are, one thing they are not—a credible threat to the likes of Ilya and Matteo. Even to the likes of Irene. Hence, they hold Nicky tight, as they, no doubt, were secretly ordered.

And that's why Irene is defenseless. She might accuse Matteo of schemes, but she's relying on his honor to keep these three kids alive. Nicky, her daughter. And these two boys... they also must be important, somehow. She needs them to live.

Matteo accepted the deal. Children are innocent, period, even Nicky. Once Irene stops talking, with what she has done to us, her outcome is decided already.

My gut turns, as Nicky keeps screaming, kicking and biting the two boys, like her struggle could make any difference. She's so fierce, the boys almost let go of her, but Irene commands them in a rapid-fire Spanish. I don't understand the words, but it's unnecessary to know what she wants.

The boys redouble their efforts to restrain Nicky and drag her toward the room's exit.

"Do you guarantee her safety?" Irene asks Matteo.

Ilya, who was silent so far, though tense, absorbing every word, steps forward. "I do."

How come I haven't noticed a sinister aspect of his lazy grin before? It's so obvious...

"I'm taking Nicky for safekeeping to smooth away any doubts in the family that Matteo is the Tangorello's future."

"Mother! No!" Nicky wails. "Don't let the fucking Russians take me as a fucking hostage!"

Irene studies Ilya from under her hooded eyelids. "If this brings peace..."

"Are you...! Nuts!" Nicky finally breaks free, sprinting for her immovable mother.

Matteo intercepts her. He grabs her by the shoulders—not too gently—and tosses her right back to her inept bodyguards. Not before yanking a thin chain from her neck, though. The gold links break, spilling charms and a curly golden N on the floor.

"Easy with my property, pal," Ilya drawls.

Matteo doesn't reply. He squeezes my ring between his thumb and forefinger, then lifts it up so the light catches in the red-red stone. "This belongs to us, Miss."

Nicky is beyond forming words. She sputters at him, before the boys drag her through the door. It shuts with a loud bang, hiding the trio, dampening the shrieks.

In the relative silence, Matteo crosses the space separating us in two strides and goes to his knee. He takes a few tries to slide the ring into its rightful place, because of how much our hands tremble. Love shines out of his eyes, feeling my chest and stomach with bubbles. I'm like a giant bathtub foaming with rainbows. And...

"You should have... let her... keep it," I say through chattering teeth. Why didn't I keep my big mouth shut back there, on the lawn? This is scary, really scary, and romantic and I want to cry.

Matteo kisses my hair, then slips a spare gun into my hand. God, my man has spare guns hidden about his person, like other men have... I dunno... gum? cigarettes?

"Take the children someplace safe, honey," he says. "Please. The boys will obey you."

"But what if they don't speak English?" As far as I know, gen Z doesn't react positively to millennials waving a gun at them. It's not just a teen thing, it's generational conflict. God, why do people even have children?

"They speak English." Matteo's caught me again as I've been spinning out. Just the firmness of his voice is enough to stop my mind from zig-zagging... It's totally magic.

I look into his eyes, count to ten, don't even ask how he knows about the boys, and stumble on. Tears finally spill to veil my sight. One foot in front of another, that's how we do it... Wait! There's something else.

I stop.

"M-matteo?" Yes, I have to ask now, or I might regret not raising my voice later.

"Sweetheart?" The ring of impatience is barely detectable. Matteo loves me, but he wants to finish this unpleasant business without further delays and without witnesses. And Kassan is a maggot. A maggot with whom we've once bonded over how ruinously expensive Starbucks has become. Who sat across the meeting room tables from me, discussing technical stuff...

So, I swallow my doubts. "What about Kassan? Are you going to..." I trail off, since all the words they use in mafia movies for execution suddenly seem too cheesy for this reality.

"We'll see." Matteo nudges me toward the door through which Nicky and her guards has just left. "The children, Bryn."

"Right." I roll my shoulders. My task is to secure the children. "The kids... I'll watch the kids. Okay."

I follow my charges out of the cavernous banquet room, my right hand weighed by the gun like an anchor. If I didn't have it, I'd stick my fingers into my ears and dash after Nicky and her companions. Luckily, she still fights them, so I don't have to hurry to keep them in my sights.