Page 105 of His Dark Vendetta

Marco’s confused expression transformed into one of shock and just as quickly pity. But I didn’t deserve his mercy.

I hung my head, defeated and shaking and unable to face a future without Siobhán, especially when that empty existence was one of my own making.

* * *

Smoke swirledthrough the air and stung the back of my throat. I washed it down with the rest of my scotch, and the harsh bite soothed me. Mamma Gina grabbed the bottle and poured another splash into the crystal.

Marco leaned forward, grabbed my shoulder, and squeezed. “Bene, nipote. Bene,” he said around his cigar. “Calm those nerves.”

I exhaled a shuddering breath. He patted my shoulder, then sat back, holding an icepack to his swollen nose.

Vito had set it for him before we left the gym, and Gina refused to give him any whiskey without ice. Vito also gave me an emergency blood bag. I could barely walk after emptying myself in the ring, especially with how little I’d fed over the past month. The bag hadn’t been enough to refill the well, but it would get me through until I could visit a Source.

The unseasonably warm June air was moist with humidity. Gina’d thrown the kitchen window open to let Marco and I smoke inside, a rare occurrence I hadn’t witnessed since I was a kid. I puffed on my cigar and blew the smoke into the cobbled alley. Night had fallen, and the smoke swirled beneath the amber glow of the porch light.

One winter night, almost forty years ago, that same porch light made the snow falling outside appear to glow. My father and Marco sat in the same spots we sat in now smoking. The window had been cracked enough to let the smoke out but keep the warmth in. They chatted in Italian. Drank. Laughed. The scene was forever etched in my memory.

I swigged my scotch, a bracing mouthful, and set the glass on the sill where Nonna—now Gina—kept potted herbs. Tonight, it held an ashtray and our drinks. The smoke and the scotch and the open window brought a sense of rightness to the space we occupied, a sense of home.

“She’s strong,” Gina said from the kitchen table. “Tough as nails, that one.”

I huffed. “You have no idea.”

“Lucia wasn’t nearly as strong.”

Marco shot Gina a look, and I followed his gaze to my foster mother.

She dipped her chin and raised her eyebrows at her brother. I knew better than to challenge Mamma Gina when she looked at you like that. So did Marco.

“I’m being honest,” she said in a tone that garnered no argument. “It’s about time we all started being honest.”

Marco shifted in his seat and placed his cigar between his teeth.

Gina’s expression softened. “Your mother was a gentle soul, Luca. It was one of the things Tony loved about her. She was innocent, naïve at times. Her feelings ran so deep… I always thought that’s why she was so talented at music. She had a beautiful heart.” Gina’s eyes and voice overflowed with fondness and nostalgia. “But it was a fragile heart. So very fragile.”

A lump formed in my throat, and I turned away, unable to handle the sadness woven between her words. I needed Zio’s strength.

Marco’s eyes fixed out the window. The muscle in his jaw that twitched when he got emotional jumped, but aside from that, he remained still. A rock. I’d always seen him as cold and distant, but now I recognized it as strength. He’d protected his family the only way he knew how.

“Siobhán’s different,” Gina continued. “She’s a fighter. She’ll survive the truth, and she’ll survive this pregnancy. You need to trust her, trust in her strength. Trust how much she loves you.”

I glanced at Gina out of the corner of my eye.

“She loves you, Luca. It’s clear as day. And I know you love her too.”

“I can’t lose her,” I said, fear strangling my words.

“You won’t. Not if you fight for her.”

The oven beeped.

Gina’s chair scraped the floor. I brought my cigar to my lips and puffed, comforted by the burn of the smoke and the clank of dishes and utensils.

“I know you resent me,” Marco said, low and gruff. His eyes remained fixed out the window. “But—Dio, Luca—I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. It’s not like you came with an instruction manual.” He tossed the ice pack on the table and lifted his whiskey. He took a long drink and winced when he lowered the glass. “All I knew was I had to do right by Tony.”

He placed his cigar between his lips. The cherry flared red with each pull. It turned the tobacco into smoldering ash, remnants of the past.

“He had so many hopes for you. He wanted you to have the opportunities his parents wanted for him. An education. A home and a family. A sense of security. He wanted to give you the life he never had.” Marco’s dark eyes burned with the love I knew he felt for his best friend, my father. “But more than that, he wanted you to be happy.”

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