Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

The man on the stage jolts, while a line of blood trails out of a red hole in the middle of his forehead. He slumps backward, sprawling on the wooden platform. Some of the people in the crowd drop to the ground the instant they realize what happened, while the rest are scrambling away in hysterics. Several men have pulled out weapons and are rushing for the cover of tables.

As typical with the human species, the urge to save themselves is stronger than the need to help others. I’ve seen it countless times before and I found it quite interesting to watch. But now, I’m not looking at the people running like a mindless horde. My scope is fixed on the blonde woman climbing onto the stage. What the fuck is my tiger cub doing there? She has lost her red scarf, and her hair falls loose down her back and around her shoulders as she drops to her knees next to my target.

My stomach plummets as I watch her grab the front of the dead man’s jacket, frantically shaking him. I adjust the scope to zoom in on her face. Tears slide down her cheeks while she screams, pain and grief etched into her features. I zoom in again, focusing on her mouth, and the rifle nearly slips from my hold.I’m too far away to hear her cries of anguish, but I can still feel them echo through my ears and bounce within my chest, shredding me on the inside. My lungs contract; I’m gasping for air, but there is no air to draw in. I’ve been sucked into a vacuum, suddenly frozen in a fraction of a second, the moment I’ve deciphered what she’s been saying.

Dad!

Chapter 22

For some reason, I expected it to be raining on the day of my father’s funeral. Like it did when we buried Elmo. And Mom. It’s strange to be standing at the cemetery, watching the casket being lowered into the ground on such a beautiful sunny day.

Zara is next to me, clutching my hand in hers so hard, I fear she’ll break my fingers. She and our father never had a good relationship, but his death shook her more than I could have anticipated. Thank God I sent her home before everything went down that night.

As I lift my eyes off the casket, my gaze falls on the man in a prison uniform standing across from me on the other side of the grave. Two guards flank him, even though his hands are cuffed in front. I haven’t seen our stepbrother in over a decade, and if I passed him on the street, I’m not certain I would have recognized him.

The Massimo I remember had wavy dark hair that brushed his nape, with a few untamed stands that would always manage to fall over his cleanly shaven face. He was tall and athletic, but not overly muscular. Mom once told me that the girls who hung around him often joked that he should leave Cosa Nostra and become a model, gracing billboards and the covers of fashion magazines.

The man who returns my stare has nothing in common with the young man I remember. His outfit has short sleeves, revealing a multitude of dark tattoos covering his arms, hands, and even his fingers. The first two buttons on his shirt are undone, and I can see that, in addition to his neck, his chest is inked, as well. His hair is completely shaven off, but stubble covers the lower part of his jaw. And, since I last saw him, he nearly doubled his body weight—all pure muscle. If it wasn’t for his eyes—black and calculating, just as I remember—I’d think they brought the wrong inmate.

I didn’t expect him to be here today. When Mom died, he wasn’t allowed to attend her funeral, so I assumed he wouldn’t be coming to Dad’s, either. Strange, how I always think of Laura as our “Mom,” never a stepmother. But I don’t have that many memories of Massimo, and he’s always remained a “stepbrother” to me.

When the cemetery caretakers start pouring the soil over the casket, Massimo approaches, keeping his eyes firmly locked on me. His guards closely follow in his wake.

“Munchkin,” he says as he stops in front of me. Even his voice is different—deeper, gruff.

I bite my lower lip, unsure if I want to hug him or take a step back. The last time I saw him, I was five, and even back then he seemed formidable and somehow distant. It’s been so long, I’m not certain if I know who he is anymore. He cocks his head to the side, and a corner of his lips tilts upward, just like it did when he would catch me sneaking into the kitchen when I was a kid. It’s one of the few clear memories I have of him.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure, then take a step and wrap my arms around him. “Hello, Massimo.”

“Let’s go, Spada,” one of the security guards barks, tugging on Massimo’s arm.

Our stepbrother takes a backward step, out of my arms. “We need to talk.”

I nod. “We’ll come tomorrow.”

“Just you, Nera,” Massimo says, then his gaze moves over to Zara.

My sister has been standing motionless this entire time, her eyes glued to the ground, avoiding looking at our stepbrother. She must be unsettled seeing Massimo for the first time. Zara was not even four when he was sent to prison, so she probably feels as if she’s meeting a stranger.

Massimo lifts his handcuffed hands and lightly brushes Zara’s cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Hello, Zahara.” His voice is strange as he says it. Softer. Almost like it was before.

My sister just keeps staring at the ground, her body stiff. Her knuckles look nearly white as she grips the hem of her blouse. Massimo’s hands fall from Zara’s face, and then he walks away with the security guards trailing after him.

“Zahara?” I lift an eyebrow.

No one calls my sister by her full name. When she was little, she couldn’t pronounce it, so she kept referring to herself as Zara, and it kind of stuck. I doubt anyone in the Family even remembers her actual name.

She takes a deep breath and lifts her head, her gaze slicing directly to the large figure in an inmate’s uniform getting into the prison transport van.

“What’s going on?” As far as I know, she didn’t have any contact with Massimo for nearly fifteen years, but both of their actions say otherwise.

“Nothing,” she chokes out and quickly strides in the opposite direction.

As I follow behind my sister, faint tingles run down my spine. I stop, my eyes search the crowd of mourners heading toward the parking lot, but I don’t see my demon among them. He did mention that he’ll be back in about a week, but it’s been only four days since he left. Taking a look around one more time, I hurry after Zara. I’ve probably just imagined that I felt him. God knows I wish he was here with me.

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