Page 33 of His Dark Vendetta

Vito’s words landed like an uppercut, and my head rocked back. Siobhán was quitting?

I finished the wrap, bit the edge of the tape, and ripped it off. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“Gina. From Anna. Ms. Connelly told Marco she was going on vacation but didn’t tell him why. Told Anna though.” Vito’s expression said he wanted to be far away from Marco when he found out.

He stepped up to the ring, hung on the ropes, and shouted at the two men in Italian. I mindlessly wrapped my other hand, preoccupied by this new information. He glanced over his shoulder. “Apparently, the thing at Vesuvio really messed her up.”

A new source of guilt hit me like Vito’s right hook, and everything Siobhán had said over the past twenty-four hours stormed my head in a mad rush. She swore up and down she wasn’t a rat. I chalked it up to her trying to save her skin. But if what Vito said was true, and I tended to believe it was—Anna couldn’t lie to save her life—maybe Siobhánhadkept her work and family lives separate. Maybe she hadn’t known who Marco was when she started at Terme. Maybe Siobhán wasn’t a rat.

I rocked my head from side to side, cracking my neck, the idea so jarring, I needed to shake it loose. My belief that Siobhán was a rat had fueled me in that shithole with Vinnie, kept me alive. I had a target. A focal point for my rage. A real chance at revenge. But if it was all bullshit? An insane story I concocted?

Siobhán was the perfect plant. If Marco bought her story, which he did, there was no reason for her to walk away. Especially with her salary.

Not to mention, if she’d been trying to save her skin, why wouldn’t she have told me she was quitting? Use it as proof of innocence?

Because she hadn’t thought of that. Because she wasn’t a rat.

The explanation was so simple, so uncontrived, it couldn’t be anything but the truth.

I bit the tape and ripped. I clenched and unclenched my fists, working the stiffness out of the tape, all too eager to punch something. Hard.

This changed everything. Rats deserved to be whacked, and I had no problem letting one drown. But throwing an innocent woman off the Tobin Bridge for being a Shaughnessy? True restitution required honor, and my vendetta wouldn’t be satisfied with a pointless death.

I met Vito at the ropes and tried to pay attention to the two civilians finishing their round, but all I could see was Siobhán curled up on the corner of my couch, small, scared, and defeated. I hated seeing her like that. I grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed.

The round ended.

“Come on.” Vito clapped me on the shoulder. “Better get moving if you’re gonna meet Matteo and Richie for lunch.”

Better get moving was right. I climbed between the ropes and danced on the balls of my feet. The faster I finished the faster I could get back to the house and back to Siobhán.

ChapterTen

Siobhán

My morning pity party ended with the doorbell and a man on the porch announcing, “Pizza!” The aromas of freshly baked dough and a zesty sauce wafted across the kitchen and into the living room.

My stomach rumbled. Hunger had grown with each passing hour, as aggressive and persistent as my irritation. “You could have asked if I wanted something,” I snapped.

Dominic glanced in my direction, his thick eyebrows drawn together and lips bent in an exasperated version of his roguish smile. My mafioso babysitter was around my age, but you’d never know it with his impish dimples. “I asked if you wanted a slice.”

“I don’t like pizza.” Not true, but I wasn’t about to explain why I couldn’t eat pizza.

He shook his head. “Everyone likes pizza.”

Typical. I was officially over this hostage business.Sodone with waiting. I launched off the couch, marched into the kitchen, and opened cabinets one by one, searching for something—anything—I could eat.

Dominic got up, walked around the island, and pulled open a drawer. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Something to eat. How does Luca have a kitchen this big and no food?”

“He doesn’t like clutter.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How is food clutter?”

Dominic shrugged, placed the remaining pizza into a reusable container, and walked to the fridge. He exchanged the pizza for a bottle of water.

I shook my head and resumed my search. The only food in the kitchen was in the pantry. The options? Pathetic. A few canned goods, a box of penne, spices, coffee, and a glass container of olive oil. Not to be outdone by the rest of his immaculately organized cupboards, each item was lined up in perfectly spaced rows with their labels facing out. I knew Luca had issues, but good grief. I grabbed the box of pasta and the olive oil.

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