Hope Bonnarro

Present Day

Black waits for me outside the family’s black armored SUV. It’s been thirty minutes since class ended, and I had to stay late to ask the human anatomy professor some questions. The more I study cadavers and examine a body’s ligaments, the more I want to ask my father to let me use one of his enemies’ corpses for study.

I’m going to sound out Black to see what he thinks of the idea—if he agrees, I’ll have a better chance of convincing my father. There must be one or two bodies I could study before they’re dumped. The two bodyguards assigned to stay in class with me follow me like hawks. My classmates think I’m the daughter of a politician, a high-ranking military officer, or even someone from the FBI, CIA, or Pentagon. After a while, they stopped asking why I always have guards on campus.

"Why’d you take so long?" Black opens the car door, and I climb in as he settles beside me.

"I was observing the structure of a ligament inflamed by infection—it’s just beautiful how it turns red and swollen." I buckle my seatbelt and laugh at the face Black makes.

"Sometimes I wonder if you’re a girl or a little monster." He pokes my stomach.

"Only you guys are allowed to enjoy looking inside a body?" I raise an eyebrow, letting my sarcasm show.

"It’s not fun—it’s torture." The car starts moving.

"And I’m studying." I drum my fingers on the leather seat. "In fact, I was thinking—next time you kill someone without blowing them to bits, can I examine the corpse?"

"What the hell!?" The coffee in his mouth flies forward in shock.

"You’re going to throw it away anyway, I could make better use of it," I say with a pout, knowing that being cutesy usually gets me what I want from him.

"Hope, you don’t get involved in family matters—we’ve talked about this." He wipes the coffee off his pants. Luckily it was iced. I don’t know how Black even likes the suffocatingly strong flavor of that stuff.

"Studying a corpse you guys killed isn’t getting involved—it’s just giving a dead body some use." I shrug, realizing from Black’s skeptical look that I’m not winning this argument.

"No. And don’t even think about asking Dad."

"Buzzkill." I huff, crossing my arms.

"Your med school is for women’s health—not to be a forensic pathologist. Remember the agreement we made with the Boss. Stay in line, or it all ends."

"Whatever."

I start tapping my foot furiously against the floor, irritated by this stupid restriction. When I convinced my father to let me study medicine, I used the excuse that I wanted to be the gynecologist for the women in the famiglia. I just wanted a reason to go back to school. After I finished high school, I felt trapped at home, with nothing to do besides the few family activities I participated in with my mom.

I needed air—to breathe outside the walls of the compound where the Bonnarro family lives. The mansion became a prison that sent me into a depression triggered by the anxiety attacks I’ve had since adolescence. When my father realized I was dying inside, he agreed to the classes. But first, we needed approval from the Bianchi Mafia Boss. I don’t know what was given in exchange, but he got permission. If I break one of the rules, I could lose my hard-earned freedom—and be punished in ways that make me shudder just thinking about it.

The Bonnarros control Nevada territory and are the primary money launderers, responsible for alliances formed in the casinos, entertainment for politicians, and favors during negotiations. My family is one of the most important, and it’s rare for the Boss to deny one of our requests.

Back then, I just wanted a little freedom—to interact with other people. I never imagined I would fall in love with the study of the human body and want to explore it further, especially discovering causes of death. Becoming a forensic doctor became a secret desire—it brings no benefit to the famiglia, and the Boss would never allow it. I have to settle for what I’ve been given.

We leave the university campus and drive down Interstate 95—a trip that takes about an hour and a half. The helicopter I normally use to go back and forth from school is in maintenance, so we’ll be making the trip to our compound in the Las Vegas desert by car. A long drive, locked in with Black, while I feel like bashing his head in for not helping me.

His thick eyelashes cast shadows over his face, like Bartolomeu’s. Both have similar tall builds, strong shoulders, and square jaws. His stubbly beard, the same color as his hair, covers his cheeks. Thick eyebrows. My brother is handsome—I love him. Even though he’s serious when he needs to be, Black always tries to make my days better. It’s comforting to know I have him.

Steve loves to tease me. He’s more playful and full of ideas that drive our dad crazy. Since he’s the one who stays home most often, responsible for my mother’s and my security, I’ve learned a lot of self-defense and how to shoot from Steve. My father and Black supervise our training whenever they can, and when Black’s absent, it’s Steve who ensures my safety on the way to and from college.

Steve is more careful in a fight than Black or my father—those two only fight to win and are terrible teachers with no patience. I like training with my middle brother and the way we talk—I have a sibling bond with Steve based on mutual care. Black will always protect me, but I don’t feel like I can do the same for him.

The fact that I’ve trained in self-defense and know how to shoot is kept secret. Not even my mother knows—she’d freak out at the idea of me getting hurt or killed by a stray bullet from my own weapon. Mafia girls are born to marry and have children—not to fight. I fall asleep ten minutes into the drive.

The car jerks sideways. My head hits the window, jolting me awake. Black has an M&P10 rifle in his hands and lowers the window, leaning halfway out of the car. The sound of bullets being fired in rapid succession explodes inside the vehicle.

I turn in time to see a car behind us bursting into flames, and three more vehicles speeding up from behind it. Black dives back inside as we’re struck by a hail of bullets. Up ahead, the escort cars are hit and explode.

"What the hell happened?" I ask, curling into the seat.

"We’re under attack." Black reloads the rifle. "Stay down."

"Car four is down, sir," Scott—my bodyguard—informs Black. He’s driving fast, jerking the car to dodge the bullets aimed at our tires. Beside him, Ulisses, Black’s head of security, leans out and starts firing at the cars ahead.

"How did they know our route?" I ask, tightening my seatbelt and curling up, face between my knees.

"I don’t know," Black replies before leaning out again, firing at our pursuers.

He returns as enemy fire intensifies, grabs a Glock from his belt, and hands it to me. The brutal exchange of gunfire continues between our convoy and the attackers trying to kill us.

The sky darkens. A loud boom at the back of the car chills my blood. I watch my brother—kneeling, ready to lean out again—get thrown sideways into the door, his head slamming into the window.

The vehicle flips several times. I crash into something and briefly lose consciousness. Hanging upside down, I see Black twisted with his head bleeding on the car’s ceiling, now resting on the ground. Glass is embedded in his arms, and his eyes are shut.

"Black," I call, pain radiating through every cell in my body.

No one answers me. I can’t see Scott or Ulisses in the vehicle—they weren’t wearing seatbelts. The windshield is shattered, and a body is halfway through it, bleeding, guts spilling out. The door beside me is forced open. I see a pair of boots outside, and then hands cut my seatbelt, throwing me to the ground.

I try to find the gun Black gave me—it fell near his head. I stretch out my arm, barely brushing the handle with my fingertips. I scream as I’m yanked outside, blinking, trying to shake off the numbness clouding my senses. A man with a wicked smile grabs my shoulders, pulling me toward him.

I faint.