It was an ominous day.
Palermo smelled like rain and memory.
The sky was overcast, the kind of gray that matched the quiet pulse running through my veins.
Everything had been arranged hours before I arrived. The vineyard had been cleared, the chapel was lit and the men were stationed exactly where they needed to be. I had gone over the plan a hundred times, but I still walked the perimeter myself. I never trusted anyone else to do it perfectly. There was no room for mistakes.
The soil here had once been stained with blood. My father's blood. His enemies'. Our enemies'. The list was endless.
It was a battleground of some sort. Symbolic for all the gory memories it held. And it was poetic, in a grim sort of way, that this was where I chose to finish it for Ricardo.
The car stopped at the edge of the estate. I stepped out into the wind, adjusting my cuffs as Tomas approached.
