Page 35 of His Dark Vendetta

I was out of options. The deck had been my last hope, but if I couldn’t make it over a rail and down an eight-foot drop, there was no way in hell I’d make it out a window.

Escape wasn’t in the cards. I’d have to make do with pissing Luca off. At least until I thought of another way out of this mess.

I found a pot and colander and set them on the stove. Where were the bowls? I opened the top cupboard next to the fridge.

“Hello, lover,” I said to the bottle of vodka staring back at me. At least I could take the edge off while I waited for my demise.

ChapterEleven

Luca

“What the hell is that?” I strode up the path between my driveway and the front porch.

Dominic sat in the Adirondack chair thumbing through theBoston Globe. The door was closed and so were the windows, yet guitar riffs echoed through the walls as loudly as if speakers were mounted on the awning.

He dropped his arms, and the newspaper crinkled into his lap. He glared at me, eyebrows drawn together. “That,” he said, “is the third time she’s played that song.” He folded the newspaper, pushed himself out of the chair, and shoved the crumpled pages at my chest.

My jaw tightened, confusion, irritation, and no small amount of curiosity battling it out for my attention.

“Just wait till she starts singing.” He clapped my shoulder and squeezed like he was sending me into battle, then walked down the path to where his truck waited, pulling out his keys as he went.

My fingers closed into a tight fist around the newspaper, and I flung open the front door.

Detritus covered the island and stovetop like war had been waged against my kitchen. The mess squeezed the air from my lungs as surely as the wall of sound reverberating through my chest. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat next to an open jar of green olives, its lid and toothpicks strewn around its base. Two dirty pint glasses swam in a puddle of liquid. One held half-melted ice cubes. The other remnants of some cloudy liquid. Condensation trailed down both glasses into the shallow pool. A stainless-steel pot waited on the stove, probably for someone to empty it, and a colander taunted me from atop the counter, gleefully announcing its escape from its rightful place in the sink.

Opposite the warzone, Siobhán stood on my sectional wearing a pair of my sunglasses, feet separated in a wide stance. She hoisted a martini glass and held the TV remote in front of her mouth.

“Toniiight!” she sang into her makeshift microphone, although calling it singing was generous. The sound was more akin to a stray cat in heat. “I’m a rock ‘n’ roll star!”

I winced. The ear-splitting, off-key wail was as offensive as the state of my kitchen and made my already tense chest tighten. I marched over to the stereo and killed the power. “What thefuckis going on in here?”

“Heyyy!” she whined and propped my sunglasses onto her head like a headband. “I was listening to that!”

“Get down!”

She stepped off the couch and landed with a thud, wobbling as she regained balance. “What’s your problem?” But it didn’t come out like that. It came out, “Wuzz’yer probbem?” like she was talking through a mouthful of cotton and had lost control of her tongue. At least she wasn’t wearing shoes.

She teetered forward, craned her neck, and squinted. “You have a really prominent vein on your temple.” She aimed a red fingernail at my face. I jerked my head out of the way. “It’s pulsating. Maybe you should get that checked out.”

My breath came hot and fast, and I crunched the newspaper into a tight wad. “Cazzo!” I stormed into the kitchen, tossed the newspaper in the trash, and rolled up my sleeves. “Che fottuto disastro. There’s shit everywhere.”

My heart fluttered, making me dizzy. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm my racing heart so I wouldn’t pass out. Clean. I needed to clean. I reached under the sink for a spray bottle of disinfectant and fresh rags.

Siobhán climbed onto the barstool and reached for the bottle of vodka. “Dramatic much? There’s literally one bottle, a jar, and two glasses.”

“And the pot on the stove and”—I craned my neck—“Fuck! Dirty dishes in the sink? There’s water and olive juice and toothpicks…” I grabbed the jar of olives and the lid.

“Hey! I’m not done with those!”

“Oh, you aresodone with those.”

“What is it, Luca?” she asked innocently and batted her eyelashes. “Don’t like messes?”

I scowled, my hand flexing then fisting. I wanted to strangle her. “And what the hell are you doing anyway? Getting drunk?”

She shrugged and slid the two pint glasses toward her. “Yup.” She dumped vodka into one of the pint glasses. It splashed when it hit the melted ice.

“Great. More shit on my counter.”

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