"You put us out into the open on purpose."
Polly's voice cracked on the words, the sharp blade of betrayal cutting through her voice. It made Florence wince; there was a point in time when her father operated under her aunt's wing. No plan was put into action without going through her first. Now, this was a one-man horror show. Thomas didn't react, not even when Polly stood to her feet, eyes wild and manic and looking ready to lash out at the first person she could get her hands on.
There was the sound of hooves thudding on wet grass, and the loud puffs of breaths of horses filling the clearing. Florence broke free of Ada's arms suddenly, moving as though she was being pulled on strings, stalking forward as she saw men on horses coming towards them.
"You used John's funeral fire as a fucking beacon." Florence felt her insides twist and churn, and she was sure that if she'd had anything at all to eat in these last few days, it would be on the grass at her feet by now. Instead of turning to her father and beating her fists against his stubborn chest, she kept her eyes trained on the men and their horses. "You set a trap".
"We were never in any danger, Polly," Arthur assured, though his voice lacked its usual gusto, as though he was trying to convince himself as well. It was clear that his words missed their mark completely by the snarl of Polly's words, the tremble of her small body that was filled with too much rage.
Florence lifted her hand, pointing a finger at the men who kept getting closer. She doesn't know when she started shaking. "Who's dead?"
To nobody's surprise, especially not Florence's, Tommy ignored his daughter. "Finn, go to the yard, light the fires," he said, and without question, Finn left, sparing his niece a worried glance as he went. Florence didn't even notice. "Florence, come here."
But Florence didn't move. "Who's dead, dad?"
"Florence, get over here, now." Again, Florence didn't move; couldn't move.
"You set up a trap with us a fucking bait!" Polly shouted, getting up close to Tommy's face, but, by the power of God and her own sheer, unyielding willpower, not touching him. "You're own fucking daughter, Thomas."
"Who's dead?" Polly asked, echoing the question that Florence had been asking; maybe she would finally get some answers. "Who's dead, Thomas?"
"You wanna know, Pol?" Florence sure did. "Two no-good fucking Italians who heard about the vendetta and tried making a fucking name for themselves, that's who."
"We got word to them about the funeral," Arthur interjected, his voice still sounding the same. Dry, tired, and without life. "The where, the when, where to stand to get the best shot."
"And Aberama Gold will do the rest."
Florence watched as the man she assumed was Aberama Gold made his way closer on his horses. From where she stood, Florence could see the bodies strewn over the horses, blood dripping from the Italians' hands and spattering into the grass, limbs swaying with the movement of the animal that was carrying them. She stared, unable to peel her eyes off of them. These men wanted to kill her family; and yet, her heart squeezed with something terrible when she looked at them.
"That's the language of vendetta," Tommy said, sounding so detached that Florence turned to look at him, wondering if he was still there or if a ghost had taken his place. Looking at him, she still couldn't tell. "They take one of ours, we take two of theirs."
"You used your own brother's funeral." Florence didn't expect the words to come out of her mouth, but they did. They came out steady and cold and so unlike any other words Florence had ever spoken to her father. "What were you thinking?"
