Page 29 of His Dark Vendetta

I may not have trusted either of them to protect me and keep me out of mob and Mafia affairs, but I did trust them to lose their shit after the fact. These men were all the same. As much as they professed wanting to keep you safe, they’d never leave their criminal lives behind, content to clean up the messes they created instead of preventing them in the first place. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, and after what I’d been through as a teen, I didn’t need to learn it again.

“What about Marco?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“I was there when he realized you?—”

Luca surged forward and pointed a finger in my face. “Because you’re a fucking rat.”

I flinched and held up my hands. They shook, but I ignored his bait. “I saw what it did to him. How angry he was. How hurt. How do you think he’ll react when he finds out about this?”

“He already disowned me, thanks to you. Handed me over to Vinnie. There’s nothing more he can take from me.” He canted his head, a vicious sneer on his plump lips. “Not even this vendetta. It’s my blood right. As long as the blood I spill isn’t Ciarán’s, I have the support of the New England families.”

My stomach pumped out a fresh supply of acid, and I winced. “Marco would never…” I whispered, unable to finish. No matter what words I added to end that sentence, they wouldn’t be true.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Shamrock. Marco did. A Shaughnessy for a Moretti. Justice served.”

Dread coiled its barbed arms around me, squeezing until my chest constricted under its thorny pressure. Stars danced in my vision, darkness clouding its edges. My acid stomach continued its relentless attack.

My mind went blank. No thoughts. No emotions. My consciousness detached itself from a reality it didn’t want to experience, one it couldn’t handle, and I watched myself like an avatar making its way through a fucked-up movie.

I walked across the kitchen, stiff and robotic, stopped in front of the fridge, and yanked open the door. Beer, water, condiments. A couple leftover takeout containers withPorta Viaprinted on their sides in swirling red letters. Stange to have such a big fridge with so few items. I grabbed a bottle of water and shut the door.

“By all means…” Luca’s voice echoed in the cavern of my disassociated mind.

The cold water coated my mouth and throat. It quenched my thirst but landed in an empty bath of acid. My stomach needed attention. I opened and closed kitchen cabinets.

“What are you doing?” That voice again. A question this time.

“Hm?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Tums.”

“I don’t have any Tums.”

“Oh.” I closed the cabinet and walked into the living room.

I picked up a throw pillow, wrapped an arm around it, and climbed into the corner of the couch. I crossed my legs, hugged the pillow to my chest, and sipped my water.

Silence.

I’m in shock. The logical conclusion of my external observer. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

The black TV screen reflected a small blob in the corner of the sectional. A second blob entered the reflection, this one upright. It stopped in front of me.

Thick forearms dusted with dark hair crossed over a white undershirt. I lifted my gaze and met eyes as black as the TV. They examined me from behind a fall of chocolate brown hair. It framed familiar features like curtains. Lips pressed into a line, eyebrows drawn together—if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought the expression was one of concern. But I did know better.

I stared into the shadows cast by the early morning light peeking through the split in the curtains.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting to die.”

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