The Grab

Candice's P.O.V.

We took commercial to L.A.--first, but still commercial. No airplane caravan, no armored train. The instructions of Sanna: low profile at the last moment.

Mantovani hated it. He was sitting next to me throughout the flight time, and his mouth was tight, and his hand was holding mine as though the plane was about to be boarded by storms. Conti sat across the aisle and was pretending to read a magazine as he scanned every passenger. Mom had left me at the villa--somebody must hold the fort, I tell you, Mom, said the hugging.

We landed at dusk.

It was a big, palm-filled hillside campus of a school- rich kids, trimmed lawns, smelled of money and privilege. The Lacrosse practice by Ryan Harlow concluded at 7.15pm every Wednesday. He had a silver Audi A5 parked in the same distant part of the lot, as it was nearest to the field exit.

We had practised it a dozen times.

I was the bait.

Not because I wanted to be but because it was this face that Ryan never ran away. Two days of battle--Mantovani pacing, cursing, even to the extent of raising his voice--was given to that issue, and a single glance by Sanna put a stop to that vocal effort.

She is the one that he will approach without doubt, Sanna had told him. And she has proved that she can take care of herself.

Mantovani had stormed out. An hour later returned, brought me into our room, and embraced me as though he thought I should run away.

I hate this, I hate this," he murmured on my hair.

"I know," I'd answered. "But it ends this faster."

And when I was now standing in the sodium light of the parking lot lights in my old school uniform (which I had borrowed, on loan, but which had belonged to the niece of one of the capos who graduated last year), I felt the burden of it all.

Fifty yards away, with its engine going, was Conti in the van. Mantovani was nearer--in the shadow between two SUVs, which were close enough to reach me in seconds.

I leanted against Ryan Audi as though I belonged to it, holding a phone as I was scrolling.

7:18 p.m.

Footsteps. Cleats on asphalt.

Ryan came in, tall, blond, all-American grin, duffel on one shoulder. He slowed when he saw me.

Hey," he cautiously yet inquiringly said. "Do I know you?"

I rose and smiled at him--shy, old-fashioned.

"You're Ryan Harlow, right? I am new--came over a month ago. I've seen you at assembly."

He relaxed a fraction. Wealthy children never overlooked their identity.

"Yeah, that's me." He fished for his keys. "You waiting for someone?"

"Sort of." I advanced, and I heartened, but not my voice. "Actually... I have a message for you."

His brow furrowed. "From who?"

"From your brother."

The transformation was immediate--the pulling back of shoulders, the narrowing of eyes. He dropped the duffel.

What is it you know about my brother?

I held his gaze. I know he dropped a bomb on my old school so that he can get a point across. I know he's losing. And I just know he will listen with you telling him to back off.

I did not know whether it was a phone or a weapon, but his hand was reaching out to his pocket.

That was Mantovani's cue.

He appeared behind Ryan in the form of a shadow--a snake of an arm round the throat of the boy, a needle in the lamplight. A quick jab to the neck. Ryan slumped immediately, holding his breath suspended on tranquilizing influences.

Mantovani grabbed him before he fell, and settled him in the back seat of the Audi just like a drunken friend.

He looked up at me, eyes fierce.

"You okay?"

I shook my head, heart racing.

Conti situated the van next to it. We had shifted Ryan within less than thirty seconds- zip ties, hood, gag. Professional. Clean.

Mantovani was the last to pull me into the van door sliding shut we rolled out of the lot like we were never there.

I leaned against him trembling now that it was over.

He pressed a kiss to my temple.

"Phase one done," he murmured.

Glancing over his shoulder, Conti was sitting in the driving-seat. "He'll wake up in four hours. Ample time to drive him to the safe house.

I saw Ryan lying in a fainted body on the ground.

"He's just a kid," I said quietly.

Mantovani's voice was steel. So had the three brothers we buried last month. He chose to make his decision when he chose to save a monster.

I nodded. He was right.

However, when we got out on to the freeway, and the city lights were blurring, I still could not get rid of the image of the face of Ryan, when he realized that this was no longer a game.

War wasn't clean.

We were fighting now, however, on family grounds.

And we intended to win.