Page 103 of Her Dark Salvation

Through the fog of my exhaustion and worry, the survival instincts I’d honed over decades working for Big Frankie kicked in. She was telling the truth; I could see it in her eyes. But could I trust her? And who would gain from attacking Vesuvio? My brain cycled through countless possibilities.

“Trust me on this, Marco. You can trust me. You took me into your family, and my loyalty has been with you ever since. It wasn’t Ciarán, but someone wanted you to think it was.”

The chain of events fell into place and told a story I didn’t want to believe, but deep in my gut I knew who to blame. The white-hot flame of betrayal sped through my insides like wildfire. It burned away any remaining affection I had for my adopted son, leaving behind nothing but the scorched earth of our past.

A primal scream ripped free of my lungs. I spun away from Siobhán and hurled my coffee against the wall, black remnants splattered across beige paint. My chest heaved trying to control the rage, but I lost the battle. I turned my back to her, panting, devastated, and unable to hide the blazing fury in my eyes.

“Keep this to yourself,” I growled over my shoulder, hand poised on the doorknob.

“Marco, I?—”

I tilted my head enough to see her face out of the corner of my eye. More tears spilled onto her cheeks.

“I don’t want to know what happens next.” Her mouth twisted in a strained effort not to cry. “Please. I don’t want to know what you do to him. Please don’t tell me.” Her voice wavered through the earnest plea, and her shoulders shook through silent sobs. She suspected the same man.

I nodded and walked back into the waiting room. It was time to call Vinnie.

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Marco

The door clattered open and a whoosh of late February air wafted across the club followed by the hard fall of Luca’s footsteps. Mynephewappeared, and the toothy smile he’d worn since he was a child punched me in the gut. He looked so much like Tony. It was like losing my best friend all over again.

No. Worse.

Luca was as close to a son as I might ever have, and his betrayal hurt worse than death.

“Marco.” Luca shrugged out of his coat.

“Luca.” I dug my fingers into the arm of the chair and tried to remain calm.

“You got rid of the keypad.” He unbuttoned his suitcoat and sat across from me at the poker table. He reached inside his left breast pocket and retrieved the cigar case he kept there, a habit he’d learned from me. Like father, like son. Loss shrunk the space around my heart.

“Passcodes can be leaked. Better to have a man on either side of a deadbolt. Lesson learned.”

He eased back into his chair, lit the cigar, and extended his long legs, crossing them at the ankles.

Enzo stood on a chair, scrubbing the last of the spray paint off the brick.

“Enzo.”

He looked over his shoulder, and I nodded toward the door. He tossed the brush and rubber gloves on the floor, grabbed his coat, and walked out.

“You wanted to talk?” How I managed to keep the vitriol out of my voice, I had no idea, but I needed to hear what he had to say without tipping him off. He’d called the meeting before I’d had the chance. Saved me the trouble. Either way, the conversation would have the same ending.

His expression morphed into one filled with concern. I’d known Luca his entire life, knew how easily he masked his true feelings with bullshit, and that was his bullshit face.

“I heard what happened,” he said. “Wanted to let you know, I’m ready to move on those Irish fucks. Just say the word.”

And there it was. All the confirmation I needed.

I brought my cigar to my lips and let the slow burn temper my anger. I’d known, of course, but that didn’t make the validation any easier to stomach.

A quiet calm settled over me, a kind of begrudging acceptance. I couldn’t control everything, that much was clear, and it was time to let Luca lead his own life.

My shoulders relaxed, and my voice turned cool and conversational. “Did you know in over fifty years, the Irish have never once—not once—crossed over into the North End? Charlestown, yes. But never the North End.” I flipped my cigar to stare at its burning red end. “And the Italians have never set foot in Southie.”

Luca leaned back and licked his lips, a nervous tell I’d warned him about for years. He puffed on his cigar.

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