Chapter 9: The Boathouse

I took the back stairs two at a time, which my body made me pay for before I reached the lawn.

By the time I got to the dock I was gray and shaking and holding my side.

The boathouse door stood open.

Inside, the light fell in long bars across the boards, and Bianca had both arms around Ciro's neck.

Her mouth was at his ear.

Her red dress was pressed against him.

He had her by the wrists.

He was pulling her hands off him, not gently, not roughly.

"Take your hands off me," he said. "Now."

"You don't have to pretend," Bianca whispered.

"I'm not pretending."

"She told me I could."

"I heard what she told you." He peeled the last of her fingers off his collar and stepped back. "Stop."

Bianca's face changed.

I had never seen it do that, not once in seventeen years.

Something went across it, and the warm, soft girl was gone.

Then her eyes found me in the doorway.

I watched her understand that I had seen it.

She turned back to Ciro, and she took the strap of her red dress in her fist and ripped it.

"Carlo!" she screamed. "Carlo, help me! He grabbed me! Help!"

Her voice carried all the way up the lawn.

Boots hit the dock in under a minute.

Carlo came through the door with six of his men behind him and his gun already out.

He took in the torn dress and Bianca's tears all at once.

"I'll kill you," he said.

"Carlo, wait," I said.

He didn't hear me.

He put the muzzle under Ciro's jaw and drove him back against the wall.

"Carlo."

I stepped in front of the gun.

The barrel was an inch from my chest.

My brother stared at me with his face white and his pupils wide.

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