Page 94 of Her Dark Salvation

My jaw clenched and so did my fists, my temper rising to a vicious peak. I needed to get out of there before I exploded and made the entire fucked-up situation even worse. I grabbed my suit jacket and coat off the hook. “This conversation isn’t over,” I growled and put on my coat.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, and her face fell, the hurt and disappointment returning to drive the knife deeper into my heart. “Isn’t it? What’s left to say? You want this to end. I don’t.”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “I don’t want this to end. Not at all.” I opened the door. “But what I want will change your life and put you in danger. And more than anything, I want to protect you.”

Tears fell and her lip quivered, and I couldn’t handle her pain on top of my broken heart. I walked out the door before I lost my resolve and put the life of one more person I loved in jeopardy.

ChapterTwenty-Six

Anna

My Saturday night was going about as well as expected given Marco’s latest and most infuriating foray into tyranny. It took nearly an hour for me to finish my slice of reheated pizza and Caesar salad between sporadic bouts of crying, the latest spell triggered by the Mike’s Pastry box still sitting on the counter. That one dragged every last tear out of me. Deflated, I poured myself a glass of Chianti and sank into the corner of my couch to watch my fake fireplace dance to Dean Martin and stroke Sophie’s long, soft fur.

More than sadness or even frustration, I was disappointed, in the situation and in Marco. As much as I wanted to diminish my feelings and relegate them to lust, I couldn’t lie to myself. I’d finished lying to myself when I’d gone on sabbatical, and I wasn’t going to start up again now. We were good together. We had the chemistry and the connection to build a solid, fulfilling future, and he’d ruined it with his over-protective, caveman bullshit.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table, a short, intense earthquake that made me jump and spill wine on my sweatshirt. “Shit!” The screen lit up, and I craned my neck to see the number, hoping it was Marco and hoping it wasn’t.

I sighed, heavy with disappointment and relief. I set my wine down and picked up the phone. “Hey, Siobhán. What’s up?”

“What are you doing?”

“Not thinking about Marco.”

She snorted. “Right. And I’m not thinking about Luca.”

I chewed the side of my fingernail. Siobhán didn’t have a clue about the whole Luca debacle yet. What a mess.

“Wanna go out? Not think about them together?”

“Sure. I could use a girl’s night. Where to?”

“Duh. Vesuvio.”

I groaned.

“Don’t worry. Marco won’t be there. He’s at Terme hosting a dinner for some big muckety-mucks. Comeooon.” The long whine of heronmade me laugh. “I don’t want to pay for drinks.”

“All right, all right. Vesuvio it is. Gimme like thirty minutes to get dressed.” I fingered the messy pile of hair on top of my head. “And do something with this mop.”

“Yes! Thank you! I’ll grab a cab and pick you up.”

“See you soon.”

I curled my hair and brushed mascara onto my eyelashes, but it failed to hide the puffiness from crying. I decided on the low-cut red sweater that always drew Marco’s eye, a new pair of faux leather leggings, and heels high enough even Siobhán would raise her eyebrows, determined to feel fabulous regardless of how miserable I felt. Thirty minutes later, I walked out of my condo on a mission to have fun and stop brooding over unapproachable blood demons with a foot in the Italian Mafia.

I scooted into the back seat of the cab, and Siobhán, effortlessly stunning as usual, scanned my ensemble. “Damn, girl! Let’s do this!”

The line to enter Vesuvio extended the entire city block. We climbed out of the cab, and Siobhán led us straight to the entrance, bypassing the velvet-roped line of patrons.

“Matteo,” she purred and flashed her starlet smile at the bouncer, one of Marco’s immovable centurions complete with sunglasses.

He nodded. “Ms. Connelly.” He addressed me with an equally formal nod. “Ms. Barone.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised he knew my name. In fact, knowing Marco, every bouncer, chauffeur, and doorman on the DEI payroll probably knew my name, blood type, and shoe size.

He held the door open, and we crossed the threshold into a wall of bodies and heat.

A DJ spun house music from turntables in front of the empty fireplace. Men and women in cocktail attire sipped drinks as expensive as their clothes and gyrated to the hypnotic beat under a dizzying array of dancing lights.

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