Page 10 of His Dark Vendetta

I glared at him, but he wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t stand the disappointment and judgment in Marco’s cocky face.

Vito’s eyebrows drew together behind a plume of smoke. “Marco comes in after work. Stick to the mornings. Keep that rage in check. Got it?”

“Yeah,” I said and ran a hand through my hair.

“When’s the last time you saw Gina?”

Vito knew the answer, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked.

“Not since Marco’s been back.”

“We’ve been working on your guard, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t avoid him forever. Learn to put up a guard.”

He held my eyes and burned the rest of his cigarette in one long, slow drag. “And don’t do that to Gina.” He dropped the butt on the ground, stepped on it, and closed the distance between us. He squeezed my shoulder, his expression severe and uncompromising. “She doesn’t deserve it. She loves you like a son, and she’s suffered enough loss in that department.”

“I’ll visit her Friday after the gym.”

“Bene. See you in the morning.” He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the Range Rover.

I took off my suit jacket and climbed into my Ferrari. The engine roared to life, but neither the vibrations nor the cool touch of the steering wheel brought me back to the present. Friday waited on the horizon, a bright, shining beacon into a future free from my torment.

I revved the engine, and anticipation revved my heart as if its furious beat might accelerate my endgame. I peeled out of the parking lot, raced up the street, and punched the gas onto the freeway, speeding back to Boston. Speeding toward Friday.

It was going to be a big day. The biggest day of my life. First, the gym. Then, Gina’s. And finally, my revenge.

ChapterFour

Siobhán

My parents’ house was southwest of downtown just north of Dorchester, but with traffic, even after laying on the horn and cutting off one hot-tempered cabbie, I didn’t start my parking search until twilight darkened their packed, narrow street. Friday was my night to help with supper. To be fair, most nights were my nights to help my parents. God forbid my idiot brother step up and take more than one night a week. No, he was content reinforcing my long-held belief that if I didn’t do something, it wouldn’t get done. Which was the reason I was late in the first place. It was the Friday before my two-week vacation, and I needed to make sure my department heads had their marching orders. My team was solid, but I never left anything open to interpretation.

I slowed to a stop ahead of a space only inches longer than my BMW and shook my head at the irony of parallel parking between a Volvo and a brand-new Rivian. The neighborhood had become a trendy hot spot for young professionals, a far cry from the ’80s and early ’90s when it was one of the most dangerous in the country. I’d spent my entire life trying to get out of Southie, and now people were trying to move in.

Over the past twenty years, most Irish Americans had moved to West Roxbury or Dorchester. Southie was more diverse now, but a good quarter of the residents were still Irish, holdouts like my parents. Until a few years ago, Da still worked at his shop. He didn’t chop for the Shaughnessys anymore—hadn’t in years—but even before he quit, I doubted he’d made any real money. But working on cars made him happy. It gave him purpose, and he refused to leave his shop behind and move with the rest of Mam’s family.

And now? I slammed the door, slung my purse over my shoulder, and darted across the street. Now it was too late. Da’s dementia worsened with each visit, and Mam was convinced that leaving the only home he’d known since moving to America would turn his world upside down. They had a routine, and as long as they stuck to the routine—in their house in their neighborhood—everything would be fine. I was too tired to argue.

How this would all work with a new job was beyond me. I already ran myself ragged between managing Terme and my parents’ household. Not to mention keeping my own life afloat. Add in a longer commute to wherever—if I found a job that wasn’t a step backward in my career—and I had serious doubts I’d ever sleep again.

The old chain-link gate shrieked open, then clattered shut. I hurried up the narrow path between century-old, detached row houses to the back porch. Mam kept the front door dead bolted. It made her feel safe even if that safety was an illusion.

I held the screen door open with my hip and unlocked the back door. It opened into the kitchen where I was immediately accosted by the smell of… garbage.

What. The fuck.

“Ma!”

“We’re in the TV room, Siobhán,” she yelled back, as much as my mother had ever yelled in her life. Soft-spoken was an understatement.

“What is that smell?” I asked, my face twisted in disgust. The rancid stench was no less prominent in the living room than in the kitchen. I dropped my purse next to the potted plant and hung my coat on the back of one of the dining chairs. “And why is the heat on? It’s April!”

I’d just been there Tuesday. How were things already falling apart?

Da sat in his chair, a dirty old thing upholstered in that drab olive color so popular in the ’80s. He refused to get it restuffed or reupholstered, swearing it would ruin his “sitting experience.” He was completely focused on the TV and didn’t spare me a glance. Mam sat on the sofa, crocheting oven mitts. She set her work in her lap and turned her wrinkled face up to give me a smile that landed somewhere between disappointed and resigned.

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