Page 58 of The Secrets We Share

“You need to listen to the rest of what I have to tell you.”

I whirl on my heels, my hand clenching against the sting radiating through my knuckles, the other thrown up to stop him from saying anything else. “What difference does it make now? You knew. You led us down the path that got my mother killed in the middle of the street, probably as retribution for something you did. It’s your fucking fault she’s dead.”

His venomous glare would be more intimidating if my temper weren’t in complete control of my actions and thoughts.Even when he stands and towers over my petite frame, it doesn’t matter. Harkin moves in my peripheral, but I hold a hand out to stop him. As red as Patrick’s face blazes, I don’t feel unsafe here. Maybe there’s something wrong with my self-preservation, but it’s never steered me wrong.

“Your mother made her choices. I could have dragged you both back and locked you up. Or maybe it would have been better for everyone to send you away to another state or back to our home country. But there are eyes everywhere and rats within my own system. You were both safe off your father's and great uncle’s radar. So, I did what I thought was best. I left you both to discover what life was like for those without a family to rely on. I kept my distance and looked after you from afar. Your mother never knew the extent of my reach. The building you grew up in, mine. The work she was hired to do without any experience, my connections. Even the woman who watched you before you were old enough to go to school.”

“Then what happened? If you were so on it, how did he find us?” I choke over the resentment clogging my throat.

“Like you said, you weren’t very far. All it took was for someone to recognize her and run their mouth to the wrong person. The city might be full of unsuspecting people going about their lives, but in the wrong neighborhood, you’re one gossip away from disaster, and disaster it was.”

My rage crumbles into nothing more than emotional torment. It wasn’t anything she did. It wasn’t a vendetta. It was a man scorned by a teenage girl on a power trip that caused my mother’s death. Maybe there was more to the story, but no one’s dropped that secret yet. At this point, I’m not sure I can handle it. My head hurts. I want to go home, crawl into our bed and forget that today ever happened.

This is too much. I came here expecting information about my mother. Information that would tell me where to find her.Our last ounce of hope was that we might have something to hold over Dom’s head. All today has accomplished is another jarring trip down memory lane I never asked for.

Drawing in a deep breath, I shake off the last twenty minutes. I know I need to process all this, but now isn’t the right time. We have more important things to deal with right now, especially now that we’ve finally found and have an audience with the man Domenico is so desperate to meet with.

“Speaking of disasters, my father wants a meeting with you.”

He takes the sidestep in conversation in stride, not missing a beat. “He does. My men have set up a time and place.”

“Do you know what he wants?”

His hand works against his long white goatee. “I have my suspicions.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and it pisses me off. “You know I’ll be there,” I add, trying to draw more information from him.

“I’m aware,” is his only response.

The man from moments ago who wouldn’t stop talking is gone. In his place, now zipped up tight with his business on the table, is the boss everyone else must be used to. He exudes an unearthly power without all the bells and whistles. Where Domenico is the storybook depiction of a mobster: lavish house, tailored suits, and gelled-up muscle, Patrick is the complete opposite.

He looks like he just came off a construction site. His hands are literally stained and dirty, and I try not to think about the cause. It’s funny, really. I’m being thrust into the life my mother fought so hard to keep us out of. I guess what they say is true: the past always comes back to haunt us, even when we’re not the ones it should be haunting.

I step back, bumping into a solid wall of muscle. “Well, if that’s all, we should go. Guess I’ll see you again soon.” I sidestep around the metal chair and head for the door, Harkin, my ever-present shadow. I pause, hand outstretched for the knob, and peek over my shoulder. “Oh, and a word of advice. That twin of mine might look all sweet and angelic, but she’s under his influence. However Domenico tries to sell her, just know it’s a lie.”

As we exit, he doesn’t try to stop us, but the last thing I notice is a surprising look of pride in his eyes. The walk from his office out the front of the building is tense. His men still take up around the space, but they don’t interfere. There’s no scanning of eyes or secret codes to step through the double doors, and when we get outside, the two men from before wait beside their kidnapping van.

They spin quickly, hands drawing weapons, as the crunch of tires steals their attention from our arrival. I recognize the blacked-out SUV. James slams on the brakes when a bullet grazes the edge of the car.

“Enough,” I yell over the cacophony of chaos about to erupt around us.

It grabs their attention, but an ear-piercing whistle echoing off the surrounding buildings makes the men freeze. We all spin toward the newcomer, resting against the frame of the door to the warehouse. Patrick Donahue, my grandfather, calls his men back like school children.

The scene causes a giggle to build in my chest, but I stifle it from erupting. James pulls ahead and blocks us from the building to get in. Unexpectedly, Stace occupies the passenger seat, so we jump in the back and take off.

Her blonde locks whip around, smacking James in the face as she spins in her seat to take me in. “You good?”

“Girl, I am far from good. Want to trade families?”

She lets out a soft chuckle, but her eyes brim with concern. “Babes, there’s a reason you’ve never met my family. You might not be asking that if you had.”

I don’t know much about Stacey’s family besides the fact that she comes from old European money. The kind of money that comes with castle estates in the hills of some small country town where the letters don’t spell out the actual word. Yet, she’s been alone in the city since she was sixteen.

“You’re right. Family sucks,” I say, wrinkling up my face to exaggerate my point.

“Thank fuck for friends. Am I right?” Stacey adds.

“Language,” James whispers under his breath, eyes still focused on the road.

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