Page 30 of His Dark Vendetta

He stiffened, and his energy changed as if he was on the verge of saying something.

I rested my head on the back of the couch. If only I could go back to sleep, shut my brain down until he took me back to the bridge. Or into the woods. Or out onto the pond with chains tied around my ankles. There was no way I could sleep though. The different ways I might die jumped in my imagination, demanding attention.

The light behind the curtains brightened. I sipped my water.

At some point, the upright silhouette vanished from the reflection in the TV screen.

Drawers opened and closed in the kitchen.

“Hey. Yeah. I need you here by eight thirty.” His voice was blunt and even. “All day. I’ll fill you in when you get here. Uh-huh. Yeah.”

More kitchen rustlings. The whir of an espresso machine. The smell of coffee.

“Do you want caffè?” He was talking to me this time.

I rolled my head along the back of the couch until I faced the kitchen. Coffee the same color as Luca’s eyes dribbled into two shot glasses. He poured milk into a stainless-steel jug, and the hiss of steam replaced the loud rumble of the espresso machine. He looked at me with an odd combination of frustration and concern that deepened the lines in his face.

The smell of coffee wafted into the living room, and my mouth watered. My stomach couldn’t handle the milk, but without something to cut the acid in the espresso, the pain in my gut would worsen. Everything with my digestive system was a trade, and this morning I chose the lesser of two evils, especially considering I might be dead by the time the lactose reaction kicked in.

“Sure.”

He constructed the drink with meticulous attention, carefully pouring the espresso and the milk into a wide-mouth mug. He spooned foam onto the top. “Sugar?” He set the mug on top of a saucer.

“No. Thank you.”

He studied me and the couch and scowled. He set the steaming cappuccino on the island. “You have to drink it in here,” he said and got to work discarding the used espresso.

I let go of my safety pillow, climbed off the couch, and walked into the kitchen. I sat on one of the island barstools, cupped the mug in both hands, and sipped. A perfect balance of espresso, milk, and foam. Future Siobhán was going to hate me, but I desperately needed the cappuccino’s comforting flavors and warmth.

“This is delicious.”

“I’d be a terrible Italian if I couldn’t make proper caffè.”

The milk steamer hissed and burbled.

“Who taught you?”

“Gina DeVita.”

“Marco’s sister.”

“Yes. She raised me. Well, her and Marco, but Marco wasn’t around much until we moved to Italy.”

The casual conversation was surreal but better than ominous silence. I didn’t know much about Luca’s early years. We never really talked about our upbringings before.

“When was that?” I asked.

“When I moved to Italy?” He glanced over his shoulder, and I nodded. “I was ten, so… ninety-two?”

He retrieved another mug and saucer from the cabinet and assembled his drink.

“How long did you live there?”

“Till I was eighteen. I came back for college.”

“Where?”

“Harvard, believe it or not.”

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