Page 48 of Her Dark Salvation

“Jesus.” I collapsed onto my desk, resting my forehead on the backs of my hands.

That man made every nerve ending in my body come alive. I was so turned on, my skin felt like it was on fire. I wanted to strip naked, run outside, and throw myself onto a snowbank.

All the warning signs were blazing red neon lights—his complete lack of boundaries, the way he ordered me around, his involvement, however unofficial, with the Mafia. Any sensible person capable of rational decision-making would run far, far away. Yet there I sat, unabashedly aroused, excitement coursing through my veins, not wanting the rollercoaster ride to end.

I was done with quiet classrooms filled with bored students. Done with stuffy department mixers and windowless offices with only my books to keep me company. Done with bad dates and even worse sex.

I’d escaped my rut. I was on a new path, a path fraught with danger and pointing me in the wrong direction, but I was willfully marching down that path with reckless abandon. I was taking risks, living life with the urgency it deserved. A phoenix reborn out of the fires of Marco DeVita’s indomitable presence.

Who was this woman emerging from my midlife awakening? Liberated-Anna shocked the hell out of me. Even more surprising? I liked her.

ChapterThirteen

Marco

Faneuil Hall was a twenty-minute walk from Terme. My meeting with Luca in the North End wasn’t till two, but I needed to clear my head. Of Anna, the Irish, my European office. Of everything.

The wind whipped across the Commons, and the overcast sky blocked even the slightest breakthrough sun. Homeless people gathered their belongings close. Runners tugged on their winter gear to cover their faces. A few businessmen charged through the streets, heads lowered to the wind. It was going to storm again tonight, maybe even this afternoon. The air was thick with humidity, and the dense clouds loomed heavy in the sky, readying themselves for release and doing nothing to lift my dark mood.

The empathy and determination in Anna’s eyes when she’d promised to find the leak had eased something in my chest. She was giving me the partnership I’d been missing, and it made my heart ache with a tenderness a man in my position couldn’t afford.

I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head the entire time I was in Italy. I’d jerked off more times in the past week than I had since I was a teenager. And when I’d found out she’d been on a date? Thank God I’d been in my hotel room when Vito’s email came in. One thought of another man’s hands on Anna’s body made my eyes flare and fangs descend.

The way she fidgeted that damn necklace when she was nervous or too flustered to find words. The way she lost her temper each time I pushed her buttons. The way she shifted and stumbled, unsteady in heels. I smiled and shook my head remembering how she’d wobbled that first day.

She struck the perfect balance, a harmonious chord. Timid yet fierce; reserved in manner yet bold in brilliance; self-conscious yet undeniably sexy.

But to expect a sheltered, educated woman to accept a made man was delusional. Our worlds were too different. Right now, she skirted the periphery. Getting involved would put her in real danger, and that wasn’t an option.

And when she found out I was a blood demon? I chuffed out a snort and yanked open one of the doors to Faneuil Hall.

I’d been worried about distraction, but this was bordering on obsession. If I didn’t keep my eye on the game, things would get a lot worse than a dislocated jaw.

My favorite chowder stand was on the far end of the buzzing hive of vendors, tourists, and school groups. I found a seat at the counter and removed my gloves.

“Cup or bowl?” the grizzled old man in a Sox cap and dirty apron shot across the counter.

“Bowl.”

Armed with his ladle, he spun around to a stainless-steel pot in a single choreographed motion, and within moments, the rich, comforting flavors of Boston soothed my hunger and my temper.

A vaguely familiar man on the opposite end of the counter stared at me with a wide, grateful smile. It took a second, but eventually the connection snapped into place—a newly immigrated blood demon. Gina was using DeVita Foundation funds to help him get settled in his new country. The chowder stand was a known friendly spot for our kind. Leave it to Gina to help a person feel right at home. I acknowledged him with a nod.

There were a lot of humans who found out about blood demons and accepted them as a fact of nature, just another part of our crazy world. Most were Sources who, for their own reasons, benefited from the knowledge. But the majority of the population refused to believe, their logical brains discounting the supernatural. They’d make any excuse to keep their understanding of the world intact.

Then there were the humans who found out about blood demons and the knowledge broke them. Discovering the world wasn’t what they were taught to believe? That their understanding was an illusion? The abyss of their fear devoured them whole, and they couldn’t escape.

Like Lucia. Fear had killed Luca’s mother, God rest her soul. I couldn’t risk Anna suffering that fate.

I tossed a twenty on the counter and checked my watch. Another fifteen minutes to the North End. I pulled on my gloves and, armed with a stomach full of chowder, braced myself for the cold.

The clouds had lost the battle to withhold their winter burden. Snowflakes kissed my cheeks, and a thin sheen of white blanketed the frozen landscape.

My capi from the West Coast and Canada would arrive tomorrow. We gathered in Boston for two weeks every three months to discuss business. We talked about the crew—who were the top earners, who was ready to be made, who was dead weight—how to expand our rackets, increase tributes. We played cards and shot pool, smoked cigars and drank whiskey, shared meals with our families.

I’d spent the morning trying to figure out how to break the news, but there was no gentle way to say it. We were losing money, and there was more at play than poorly performing hotels and spas. I felt the truth in my bones as sure as I felt the oncoming blizzard. Vinnie’s visit and the Shaughnessy interest in the financial district were too coincidental. But I needed proof. I needed Anna.

I walked past the entrance to Stanza dei Sigari, an iconic feature of Hanover Street and one of the last bastions of another time. A lot of the Italian immigrants had moved out of the North End over the past few decades, out to the suburbs where it was more affordable to buy a house. But there were holdouts, including my family and a handful of restaurants, delis, and bakeries who refused to relinquish the “Little Italy” of Boston.

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