I stumbled. Pain lanced through my ankle as my knee cracked against the stone step. I caught myself on the iron railing, knuckles white, and looked up at the girl who had done it. She didn't even bother to hide her smirk.
"Stronza," I spat through clenched teeth.
She flinched. Good.
I pulled myself upright, testing my weight on the ankle. It held, barely. I limped forward, jaw tight, refusing to let the pain show on my face. Genovese women did not limp. Genovese women walked through fire and called it a warm evening.
When I rounded the corner at the base of the stairwell, I heard them before I saw them.
Rosalia's voice drifted from the alcove near the courtyard doors, soft and carefully pitched. The tone of a woman who had perfected the art of the poisoned whisper. She stood between Giancarlo and Salvatore, her dark eyes wide with manufactured innocence, her hands clasped in front of her like a saint at prayer.