Page 37 of His Dark Vendetta

Her voice rose to a fevered pitch. She pounded the side of her fist against my chest, and I let her. I had no right to stop her.

“You made up this grand tale about how I lied to you, how I was hiding some deep Southie secret, just so you’d have an excuse to hate me, so you could walk away from something most people only dream about. All because you were scared.” She hiccupped through a sob and struck my chest again. “And I hated you for it. I still hate you for it as much as you hate me.” She struck my chest over and over, tears and sobs shaking her body. “Because even after all that, I still wanted you. Those feelings never went away, and I have to live with them every”—strike—“single”—strike—“day.”Strike.

I grabbed her wrist on the last punch, and she broke down crying.

Overcome, I placed my hand on the back of her head and pulled her into my chest. She rested there for the briefest moment, then pushed off me and wriggled free.

“No,” she said and stumbled back, shaking her head. “Don’t.” She reclaimed her stool, grabbed the vodka bottle by its neck, and took a hefty swig before plunking it back down. She swayed, clutching the bottle on the counter.

“So”—she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve—“excuse me for getting drunk and trying to deal. Excuse me for trying to numb myself while I waited for you to come back and break my body like you broke my heart.” She swayed again, released the bottle, and rested her arms on the island and her forehead on the backs of her hands.

I stood dumbfounded, unable to speak or think or move. She sniffled and shifted, and all I could do was stare, because her drunken outburst wasn’t contrived. Alcohol was the world’s oldest truth serum, and Siobhán had drank enough that she didn’t have any filters left.

The seed of doubt planted during my visit to Vito’s gym sprouted. Its roots tangled around my stomach, thickening and squeezing and forcing me to acknowledge that my assumptions about Siobhán were wrong. Very wrong.

Was she a Shaughnessy? Yes. Did she lie to me? Kinda? Was she a rat? Doubtful. Had she purposefully led me on? No.

I rubbed my forehead, squeezed my eyes shut, and dragged my fingers down to pinch the bridge of my nose. I was exhausted from the brutal, frustration-fueled workout, a stressful afternoon with Matteo and Richie, and now this. I blew out a long, slow breath.

A snort from the island.

Siobhán rested the side of her face on the backs of her hands. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and steady, and every so often a snore escaped.

Passed out. All the vodka and carrying-on and she passed out sitting at my kitchen island.

I rolled up my sleeves and rested my hands on my hips, examining the mess. The mess Siobhán created—vodka, olive juice, toothpicks, melted ice—and the mess I created—Siobhán, heartbroken and passed out from a combination of vodka and panic.

I crouched next to the stool and hooked one arm beneath her knees and one arm around her waist. “Come on,” I said and shifted her body toward mine.

She sat up and wrapped her arms around my neck. I lifted her into my arms with almost no effort. Despite her height—five-eight?—she was shockingly light. She buried her face in my shoulder and wrapped her arms tighter around my neck.

“Are you taking me to the bridge now?” Her small words stabbed my heart.

“No. I’m putting you to bed.”

“Oh.”

I turned for the stairs.

“You smell like Luca,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by my shirt.

“That’s cause I am Luca,” I said, exasperated. My chest ached at the vulnerability in her voice, but I was equally pained by the wrench she’d thrown in my plans to avenge my father.

“No,” she whispered. “My Luca smiled. Every time he saw me, he smiled. A real smile. Just for me.” She slid her hand down my chest until it stopped over my heart. “From here.” And with those two words, she twisted the knife.

Lunches at Vittoria. Sipping coffee in the lobby. Stolen smiles across a conference room. I reached the top of the stairs eager to get Siobhán out of my arms and remind myself of who she was—a Shaughnessy. My enemy.

I turned sideways through the door to the guest bedroom and laid her atop the comforter. Her face was puffy from crying, her eyes a vibrant blue from the tears.

“It was never going to work between us, Siobhán. You’re a Shaughnessy. I’m a Moretti.”

She nodded. “So…” She rested one hand on her heart and the other on her stomach. “You’ll most likely kill me in the morning?” she asked, her voice soft and quaking with fear.

I grabbed the edge of the comforter and tugged. She wiggled until it came free, and I covered her with it. “Go to sleep, Siobhán.”

She closed her eyes, and fresh tears spilled down her face onto the pillow.

I ground my teeth and clenched my fists, hardening myself against her pain and mine and the urge to comfort us both. She rolled onto her side, clutching the comforter to her chin, and curled into a tight ball. I walked out of the room and closed the door behind me.

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