The Sister Who Shot Me Got Everything I Had Chapter 04
The Pistol on the Table
Gia’s welcome-home dinner was served at the house.
Mama said she was too fragile for a restaurant. Too much noise. Too many eyes.
The dining room table was loaded with every single dish Gia used to love.
Salt-crusted branzino. Lobster ravioli. Mango panna cotta. Shrimp scampi. A green salad topped with crushed pistachios.
I’m allergic to shellfish and mango and every tree nut on God’s earth.
After my surgery, the trauma specialist warned my parents in writing—allergic reactions spike blood pressure.
Blood pressure can shift the surgical hardware fused into my lumbar spine.
It’s on my chart in red ink.
Mama was too busy shelling shrimp for Gia to remember.
Papa slid the one dish of plain broth in front of Gia.
Matteo took the bowl of simple greens right off my side of the table.
“Gia just got in. Let her have something clean first.”
They parked my chair at the end of the table closest to the door, right by the speaker.
There wasn’t even a clean fork in front of me.
Luca saw it. He started to lift a hand for the housekeeper.
Gia’s eyes filled. “Is Sienna still angry with me?”
“Is that why she doesn’t want to eat with us?”
Luca’s hand stopped mid-air.
In the end, he just slid his own water glass across to me. “Have some water, baby.”
I didn’t touch it.
…
Halfway through dinner, Gia reached under her chair, pulled out an old shoebox tied with twine and pushed it across the table to me like she was approaching a saint at an altar.
“Sienna. This is my apology. It’s late. But I wanted you to have it.”
I opened the lid.
Inside was a scuffed silver rosary. Half the coating rubbed off. The chain kinked. The little crucifix bent at the neck. Cheap and old.
Mama’s eyes went glassy. “It’s the thought that counts, sweetheart.”
Papa nodded. “She just got in. Her cards were frozen for travel. The fact that she thought of you at all—that’s what matters.”
Matteo said, “Doesn’t matter what it cost. Matters that she’s bending the knee.”
Luca leaned down to my ear, low. “Take it, Sienna. Don’t embarrass her in front of the Family.”
Before I could open my mouth, my phone buzzed on my lap.
Bank alert.
The debit card I’d been building—the one holding the down payment for a spinal nerve-regeneration trial in Zurich—just got hit.
“Nine hundred dollars. Debited. Rossi Pawn & Loan. Mulberry Street.”
I looked up at Gia. “You used my money to buy me garbage—and called it an apology?”
Gia went white. The tears dropped instantly. “Sienna, I didn’t know the card was yours—”
I lost it. For the first time in seven years.
“You put a bullet in my spine. You took my surgery. And now you can’t even ask for forgiveness without stealing from me.”
The room stopped breathing.
Gia clutched her chest. “I can’t breathe.” Tears kept coming, perfect and heavy.
Papa slapped me hard. “Sienna, you want to push your sister off a ledge her first night home?”
My head snapped sideways. The old fusion hardware in my lower spine locked. A hot spike of pain shot up my back to the base of my skull.
Mama held Gia and sobbed into her hair.
Matteo stepped between us like a wall.
Luca frowned. “Sienna. Stop provoking her.”
Gia hiccupped, reached under her chair one more time and pulled out something wrapped in black velvet.
She set it on the table between us like a peace offering. “There’s one more thing. I wanted to give it back. To close the wound.”
She unfolded the cloth.
A pistol.
Pearl grip. Chipped at the base. A hairline scratch running diagonal across the slide. A scratch I’d stared at for seven years, in every nightmare I’d ever had.
The pistol from Papa’s study. The one that put the bullet in my spine.
“I kept it,” Gia whispered. “In Sicily. So I’d never forget what I did. I brought it home to give it back to you. So we can put it behind us.”
My blood pressure climbed so fast the edges of the room went white.
My hands were on the wheels before I could think.
I shoved backward. Too hard. The chair caught the edge of the sideboard.
The whole thing tipped.
Dead weight can’t catch itself. I went down sideways into a snowfall of broken crystal.
My palm split open on a shard. The old surgical scar at my waist tore through the silk of my dress. Blood soaked into the pale carpet.
Luca’s body moved. One step toward me.
Gia screamed: “My hand! I’m bleeding—my fingers—”
He froze, turned and shielded her instead.
The last thing I saw before the room grayed out was Papa lifting Gia up like she was the one on the floor.
And that pistol, still sitting on the table, watching me, just like it did seven years ago.