Niccolò watched Vincenzo carefully, not allowing a single flicker of emotion to betray him. The Fiero looked manic, his tanned skin tinged grey with fear; his eyes darted from side to side nervously.

"Let me go or I shoot," the Italian demanded, his grip tightening around Camilla's neck; a bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. Slowly, Niccolò pushed his hands deep into his pockets, the picture of relaxed control. His nonchalance disarmed Vincenzo, whose hands were shaking now.

"You want to leave this place alive, no?" Niccolò almost rolled his eyes, looking out the window as if he were examining the car park - in actuality, he was ensuring that his men were surrounding the front doors in case the Fiero made a break for it.

"Yes." Vincenzo's voice was weak, pathetic; Niccolò disliked men who orchestrated their own deaths and then begged for mercy.

"This was a trap." Niccolò kept his tone conversational; it was if they were two strangers meeting in a coffee shop for the first time, rather than a Mafia Don against an armed madman. Vincenzo's arm trembled. He took that as a yes. "But not for me."

Slowly, Vincenzo nodded, his grip relaxing slightly on his niece; Niccolò noticed.

"For young Leo, sí?" Behind Vincenzo, still held by Romano's men, Leo struggled furiously, shouting something rapid in Italian; Vincenzo tensed visibly, his hold tightening around Camilla's neck. "You want to take over the business."

Leo fell silent, subdued by Niccolò's men; he was thinking rapidly, trying to work out the easiest way of separating Vincenzo and Camilla.

"I respect power," Niccolò said finally, turning his gaze away from the window and towards the Fiero. "But you will not leave this warehouse alive with Camilla."

"TRAITOR!" Leo had broken free from Romano's men, was throwing himself at Vincenzo, a murderous expression on his face.

That was all it took. The moment Vincenzo lost focus on his prisoner to defend himself from Leo, Niccolò jerked his head to the side: a signal he and Elias had perfected over the years - it meant instant death. Before Vincenzo turned his head to look back at the Romano Don, Elias had fired.

Elias was a perfect shot; he trained to be the best, to kill the best - this was no exception.

The bullet struck Vincenzo through his temple, with a small entry wound and a significantly larger exit wound, blowing blood and brains across the concrete directly behind him; Elias had aimed so that the bullet would pass through Vincenzo and would miss the two men restraining Leo Fiero by passing more than a metre to the right of where they stood, skimming Leo's upper arm.

He died instantly.

Camilla screamed, she felt Vincenzo's grip loosen around her neck; she fell to her knees, a small spray of blood misted over her right cheek. The body fell next to her, no longer moving.

She felt arms around her, her brother's familiar voice - but it was blurred, like he was standing at the other end of a long tunnel.

"Caterina." She heard her own voice say her sister's name.

Niccolò watched as Leo Fiero tried to comfort his sister, her face oddly blank. "Caterina," she spoke hoarsely, unfocused, barely there. Before he could think, he was crouching in front of her, watching silently as she began to cry, throwing herself away from him; he caught her, holding her struggling arms by her sides effortlessly. As soon as she realised who it was, Camilla had thrown her arms around his neck, curving her back to press herself against him as tightly as she could; he was her support. Niccolò pressed a hand against her lower back, ignoring the confused look from the Fiero boy.

She was mumbling something, over and over; he listened for a second, holding her shaking body close. "Caterina," she moaned softly, heartbreakingly, "get Caterina." Niccolò looked over his shoulder, nodding towards Elias; the man moved forward, helping Camilla to her feet as Niccolò stepped over her uncle's body.

He walked towards the room at the end of the corridor, opening the door as Camilla was taken away, downstairs. The room was still, almost completely dark; a small body was curled in the centre of the room, a larger body - the size of a man's - slumped across the floor.

Niccolò moved forward abruptly, realising there were small, shaky movements of the child breathing sharply. Carefully, he wrapped his arms underneath her neck and her knees, cradling her closer; she looked so much like her sister.

"Caterina?" he whispered. "Can you hear me?" The little girl's eyes were open, but she couldn't focus them on his. As he rolled her slightly, so that she was facing the ceiling rather than lying on her side, he noticed the pool of blood on the floor.

Dark, crimson blood - so warm - spilled over his fingers as he pressed his hand down on her stomach, trying to stem the flow. She let out a small cry of pain, shaking her head.

Finally, she turned her head, just a fraction, to lock eyes with Niccolò. Tears were running down her small face. She was in too much pain for someone so young.

"Make it stop," she cried weakly, struggling against him; he let go. She'd lost too much blood already - there was so much for such a small body. The little girl curled around her wound, holding herself, tears running down her face silently; she tried to open her mouth, to say something else.

"Caterina?" he asked softly, leaning in close, listening intently. She struggled for another second, her eyes wide with fear; he bent even closer, desperately trying to hear her last words.

He heard a soft exhale.

Slowly, so slowly, her head tipped back, exhausted.

Niccolò stayed, frozen in place for another minute. There was no miraculous recover, no sudden moment where her heart began beating again.

People die in wars; children die across the sea every day - and yet to witness it, to see an innocent suffer -

It was not the first child Niccolò had seen die; it wouldn't be the last.

Silently, he scooped her up, ignoring the warmth that was still in her body. Words are for the living; silence is for the dead. He walked her out, past the corpse of her uncle, to an adjacent room. She deserved to rest, at least - not on a floor, but that couldn't be helped for now.

He laid her down, letting her sleep gently. Camilla was not ready to see her - would not be ready to know her sister was gone.

No, he realised. Not gone. Taken. Vincenzo had taken her life. To an extent, Niccolò knew he should be angry - should hate that another innocent had died - but this was life.

Life was cruel. It was easy for him to stay calm - it would make protecting Camilla easier. Caterina was taken too young, but nothing could bring her back now. He could protect what was alive, he had destroyed the one who had made her suffer. She could rest.

Cee sat on the grass outside the Romano House, her arms wrapped around herself; her eyes were swollen and red. She had no tears left to cry.

Her Caterina, her baby sister - gone.

She'd seen Niccolò walk downstairs, blood staining his hands - she'd screamed then. No words, just an empty, broken screech of pain, of suffering. He didn't have to say anything: she knew.

It's funny - she'd always thought she'd feel it if someone she loved died. Now, sitting on the lawn beside her greenhouse, she knew. She hadn't felt it when Vincenzo had slit her mother's throat several days ago, before she'd even left the Romano House.

She wouldn't have known her father was dead if she hadn't watched Vincenzo shoot him, straight to the heart, in front of her while she screamed.

She wouldn't have felt Caterina die, if she hadn't watched Vincenzo shoot her sister in the stomach - all because she wanted to know where her friend Angie had gone.

Vincenzo hadn't liked questions.

She could feel their eyes on her from the living room windows, making sure she was still there, still safe.

Leo was head of the family now. He had to be, had to step into his father's shoes too soon. Leo had never been good at negotiations, Cee remembered, perhaps he needed help.

Cee felt her stomach twist; she doubled over and retched bile up onto the grass. How could she think about negotiations when her sister - Caterina - her own blood - was dead?

Luca watched her from the window, his forehead creased with worry. She'd lost her parents and her sister in less than twenty-four hours - she was suffering.

He turned his gaze back to the table, watching Niccolò and Leo, the two Dons, murmur quietly. The only thing that the two had agreed on was that a pact between the two families should still go ahead, in memory of Leonardo, Marie and Caterina.

Luca flexed his fingers, loosening them from the fist he'd been forming. He was tense - they all were. Angela Romano was missing; the Fieros had taken care of her for months - and now she'd vanished. From what he'd heard, Caterina had asked too many questions to Vincenzo - he'd shot her in front of Cee.

His little cousin was far more shy than her half-brother; she was nervous around people, didn't like loud noises - she had mild autism, and would struggle without help -

Luca felt his shoulders tense; he exhaled sharply. She hated having her routines disrupted: it was hard enough for Niccolò to allow her to be exchanged to the Fieros, and to persuade her to go.

"No," Leo snapped angrily, interrupting Luca's thoughts, bringing his attention back to the arguing Dons. "She's the only family I have left."

"Camilla staying with me was part of the original negotiations," Romano said coldly, his face emotionless. However heartless he may seem, Niccolò Romano was a good negotiator. "You had my sister in return."

"I didn't lose the girl!" Leo scowled, holding himself back from physically attacking the Romano Boss.

"Find her, then." Romano shrugged, as if he was unbothered - as if he wasn't already planning to send out teams to search for the missing Romano. "Camilla stays with me."

Luca found himself oddly relieved that Cee would be coming back; the atmosphere around the house, around Niccolò, changed when she was there. She was a friend.

"No!"

"This is non-negotiable," Romano stated darkly, his calm composure cracking to reveal the swirling anger beneath. "Camilla is coming back with me."

"No." All eyes moved to the doorway, where the girl in question stood, her shoulders hunched.

Niccolò made no move to respond, his eyes narrowing on Camilla. She should not refuse him so boldly, not now - he was torn between concern and fury. She looked so pale, so weak: so heartbroken.

They watched as she took a deep breath, swaying slightly as though she was about to keel over. "I'm going back to university," she stated defeatedly, her voice cracking as she wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm going to- to finish my training."

"Cee- " Leo attempted, pushing his chair back as he stood, but she stood her ground, avoiding eye contact.

"No. Not- not anymore. I won't stay with either of you." Romano's face was impassive, giving nothing away, but he leaned back to consider her. He didn't know how to reach out to her, to let her know it was okay to hurt, that he could try to be there for her.

Luca glanced at his cousin, concern in his eyes; Cee couldn't go back to the real world - not after the D'Angelos, not after her brother became Don. Niccolò exchanged a look with Elias and then Luca, his eyes filled with grim resolution.

There was no way she could go back.

"Very well," Romano murmured eventually, inclining his head. "Although I'm sure you will want to attend Caterina's funeral." His words were loaded; she'd have to stay to bury her sister.

Cee reeled back, as if he'd slapped her. She hadn't realised. A funeral.

A funeral made it so certain, so final.

"Yes," she managed eventually, recovering her voice and ignoring the sting of tears. "I'll stay until- until then."

Luca glared at his cousin, hating him for insensitive words; Cee turned on her heel and slipped out of the room without another word.

A couple of hours later, Niccolò sighed. He'd been watching Camilla from his office window - she hadn't moved from her greenhouse. Leo Fiero was in a guest bedroom - securely guarded by Elias - and theoretically, his sister should be too, but there she was, sitting inside the greenhouse, with a small, dim light.

He pushed away from the window frame angrily. "Why the hell won't she talk to me?" he snarled into thin air, running his hands through his hair. She'd had every opportunity - she'd been sitting alone outside for hours now, like she was waiting for something or someone. He wanted her to talk to him, he wanted to let her cry to him, to protect her from whatever pain she was feeling.

Niccolò turned, seeing her shadow flash across the windows of the greenhouse faintly; it made up his mind. He made his way downstairs, crossing the lawn in record time and knocking gently on the glass.

Slightly distorted, he saw Camilla look up, wiping under her eyes quickly.

"Camilla," he murmured, opening the door, and ducking inside. It was uncomfortably small for him, but his gaze was focused on the tiny ghost girl, tucked into the corner of the greenhouse, her knees hugged to her chest. She didn't reply, avoiding his look. "Talk to me."

Niccolò felt something unusual for a second: uncertainty. He didn't know how to deal with grief. He hated watching people cry, hated dealing with emotions generally, but he wanted to try. So he stepped forward, offering her a hand; she stared at it blankly.

"You need to sleep inside," he murmured, by way of explanation, "or you'll catch a cold."

Cee couldn't look him in the eye. She didn't want to see him right now, or see anyone else for that matter, but particularly Niccolò.

"You can trust me," he told her quietly, as she slipped her palm into his, just for a second, to stand up. Niccolò watched as she nodded slightly, once, and slipped out of the greenhouse silently, leaving him behind.