Page 36 of His Dark Vendetta

She twisted her face. “Great. More shit on my counter,” she mocked in a less-than-flattering Italian accent.

To my horror, she made things infinitely worse by pouring the concoction back and forth between the two pint glasses, spilling more vodka on the counter with each transfer. Then she placed her fingers over the top of the glass with the ice and strained the “martini” into her glass.

I gaped at the mess—not just splashed across my island, but Siobhán herself.

She raised her eyebrows and took a big gulp of vodka. “What? You think I was going to wait quietly on the couch for you to come home and kill me?” She hiccupped, and an amused grin broke through her scowl.

I came around to her side of the island. “So you decided to get shit hammered?”

“I’m not shit hammered,” she snapped and spun on the barstool to face me. “I’m pleasantly buzzed,” she finished demurely and lifted her chin.

I scoffed.

“You should try it sometime. Might make you less of a dick.”

All my worry and dread that I’d irreparably broken Siobhán’s spirit vanished in a heartbeat. She was back. Albeit fucking tossed, but she was back.

“You are unbelievable,” I said, infuriated and relieved.

“I know,” she said, smug and smiling.

I rolled my eyes, and she stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth.

My stomach flipped.What the fuck.

I reached around her, grabbed the two pint glasses, and headed for the sink.

“What did you expect?” she shouted.

I glanced over my shoulder as I rinsed out the pint glasses. Her face was flushed, but not just from the vodka. Her glassy eyes flashed with anger.

“You leave me here all day like a—like a caged animal preparing for slaughter. Of course, I’m going to fucking drink. What the hell else should I be doing? And I would’ve kept on drinking until I passed out if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted music time. Being unconscious is a hell of a lot better than waiting for the man you’ve dreamed about for two years to come home and kill you.”

I froze, stunned silent.

Siobhán seethed, red splotches darkening her pale face. “Oh, don’t look so shocked.” She relaxed against the back of her barstool, martini glass dangling from red-tipped fingers.

I turned off the water, dried my hands, and leaned against the counter facing her.

“You knew I had feelings for you, and for some demented reason, I thought you had feelings for me too.” She averted her eyes, looking out the glass doors, and drained half her martini with a wince. “Whatever,” she mumbled. “It doesn’t matter.”

My jaw ached from the strain of grinding my teeth. It did matter. It mattered more than I wanted it to matter. It mattered so much, not only had I failed to push her off the bridge but seeing her broken that morning felt like a knife to my insides.

Fuck.

I ran a hand through my hair, stared at my feet, and squeezed. “I had feelings for you,” I mumbled, unable to deny the truth. The signs had been there. I just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge their source.

No response. I let go of my hair and lifted my gaze. Her lips parted, her eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears.

“But it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact your family killed my father. It doesn’t change the fact you lied to me. And it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact you led me to believe you were someone you’re not.” My voice grew louder with each layer of her betrayal.

She pursed her lips and moved her head through a slow nod. She shot back the rest of her drink, slid off the barstool, and walked around the island until she stood in front of me.

“You know what?” She poked my chest with her manicured finger, and the impact caused her to sway like she was on the deck of a ship. “I’m drunk enough and traumatized enough that I’m fresh outta fucks. I. Call. Bullshit. You wanna know what happened? Lemme break it down for you.”

I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow.

“We got too close, and it freaked you out. That’s right. I said it. We hooked up that night at Vesuvio, and it was fucking spectacular, and it scared the shit out of you. You couldn’t handle having something real, something special, something that wasn’t built on your bullshit flashy lifestyle and fake smiles. So you broke it.” Her voice wavered and caught. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her bottom lip trembled. “You ruined it. You went out the next day—thenext fucking day, Luca—and hooked up with someone else.” She punched me in the chest, not hard, but it carried enough of her pain that it struck like a hammer. “You broke my heart, and when I thought it couldn’t hurt any more, you tried to blame it on me!”

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