Page 26 of His Dark Vendetta

“I already explained that to Marco. I?—”

“Marco can’t see what’s in front of his own face. Not when he doesn’t want to believe it and not when it might drag him into a war. You knew that. You used that.”

“No. That’s not true. None of that’s true. And not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s exactly what you did. To your own family. Hypocrite.” I spewed the venomous truth, and the muscle in Luca’s clenched jaw twitched. “But unlike you, I don’t want a war. I don’t want to see the people I love hurt. I tried to protect Marco. I told him it wasn’t a Shaughnessy raid so he wouldn’t retaliate.”

Luca seethed, and his fingertips dug into my neck, cutting off my air. “Nice story, Shamrock.” He spit the nickname, tossed me away, and backed up to retrieve his beer. He drained half of it.

“I remember when you called me that and it wasn’t a slur,” I mumbled, rubbing my neck, and the bitterness in my heart spread to engulf my entire body. “You really do hate me, don’t you?”

He pointed at me with his beer. “You stole Marco from me. You destroyed my chance at vengeance. You sentenced me to that—that hellhole.”

“No! You did that all to yourself, Luca! Don’t try and blame me for your mistakes.Again.”

He walked back to where I stood, clamped a hand around the front of my neck, and squeezed hard enough to make me scratch at his fingers. “I want blood. Shaughnessy blood. And because of your lies and because you’re a rat, I want that Shaughnessy blood to be yours.”

My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. There was nothing left to say. He’d channeled all his hatred and resentment into a single focal point—me. And in the face of abject terror, in the face of knowing I was going to die, the shock of losing Luca—the hurt, the confusion, the anger—swept through me for the third time in my life. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that was how he intended to kill me.

* * *

The palm-leaf ceilingfan spun in slow circles. It flickered the shadows cast by the moonlight. I stared wide-eyed at the spinning blades from beneath the bedsheets, emotionally and physically exhausted, but unable to sleep.

Luca hadn’t said another word to me after declaring that he wanted to take payment for his father’s blood with mine. Just finished his beer without so much as a glance in my direction.

He locked my purse in the cabinet beneath the TV in the living room, then dragged me upstairs by my abused arm, shoved me in a room, and locked the door.

I immediately checked the window. It slid open with ease, but there was no way to climb down. Just sheer brick all the way to the ground. I screamed at the top of my lungs—“Help! He’s going to kill me! He’s a fucking psycho! Help! Please!”—hoping a neighbor might hear and call the cops. Instead, Luca stormed into the room, yanked me back with so much force I thought he dislocated my shoulder, and slammed the window.

His eyes had burned with fiery menace. “One more time and we’re going out on Birch Pond tonight and ending this. Drowning with chains around your ankles is just as effective as breaking your neck from hitting the Charles.”

The threat shocked me into silence.

He tossed me onto the bed. “I’m a light sleeper. Don’t try anything.” He walked out, leaving the door ajar.

I followed the fan’s rhythmic whir with my breath, trying to slow my heart rate. All I could do was close my eyes and attempt sleep and hope an escape opportunity presented itself in the morning. Maybe with a clear head and calm body, I’d find a way out.

But closing my eyes introduced a fresh source of torture—images of a packed Vesuvio. I rolled away from the door, squeezed my eyes shut, and shoved my face into the pillow, trying to dislodge the memory of when everything fell apart.

I’d wanted a quiet night out with the girls—one free drink after dinner enjoyed in a corner booth instead of slammed against the bar before heading home. I had a date the next night and didn’t want to be hungover, tired, or both. Luca was finally taking me out, and after our unexpected late-night tryst Wednesday, I was more than ready for whatever came next.

We headed toward the back of the club, navigating past Friday-night corporate partiers, sweaty clubbers, and college coeds. It was darker in the back, but there were fewer people, and I spotted a single empty booth along the wall. Score.

I met my friends’ eyes and lifted my drink. One of them tipped her chin at the corner booth where a couple was partaking in PDA best left in private.

I twisted my face in disgust. “Gross,” I shouted over the music.

She nodded and rolled her eyes. But there was only one empty booth left, so we’d have to deal with inappropriate neighbors.

We made a beeline for our unlikely prize when my attention snagged on the corner booth, pulled back to the scene by some unknown force. I stared at the shadowed couple. In particular, the silhouette of the man’s head and shoulders. His hair blocked his profile, but something about the way it fell just past his chin…

He came up for air, dislodging himself from the woman’s neck. He tucked his hair behind his ear, revealing a devastatingly handsome jawline, a perfectly straight nose, and full, pouty lips I’d recognize from a mile away.

Luca.

My stomach lurched, and my hands started to shake. I squeezed the stem of my martini glass like it was his neck. My feet propelled me forward, controlled by heartbreak-fueled ire.

“You fucking asshole,” I said, loud enough to hear over the music, but calmly enough that anyone within earshot knew I was deathly serious.

His head snapped up, and his eyes went wide. “Siobhán,” he said, and his throat bobbed through a swallow.

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