Page 38 of His Dark Vendetta

In the kitchen, I poured myself a finger of scotch and surveyed the other mess. The chaos on my counters was as distressing as the chaos in my mind. I needed order. I needed rightness. I needed to clean.

But even after the clutter was gone and the soothing smell of lemon disinfectant filled the air, the rapid assault of images and words merely slowed. The discordant offensive waged by my emotions continued to hold me hostage.

I splashed more scotch into my glass and retrieved the cigar case and lighter from my suit jacket. I went outside onto my deck, leaving the door ajar. Siobhán was thoroughly passed out, but I wasn’t taking chances. Not that I knew what the hell I was going to do with her anymore.

I pulled half of a cigar out of the case. I’d cut a fresh one a couple days ago. Unlike Marco and Vinnie, a smoke wasn’t permanently wedged between my lips. It wasn’t a habit for me, but it came in handy at times when cleaning didn’t cut it, and I needed something more to calm my nerves and focus my attention.

The wooden deck was cold under my bare feet and the damp spring air clean in my lungs. Refreshing after the heat of the past hour. I leaned against the rail and dragged cigar smoke into my mouth, holding it there and letting it ground me.

The woods created a sea of rustling darkness. The light of the streetlamps reflected off their new leaves. They waved with each kiss of the slight breeze.

We’d never kissed, Siobhán and I. After all the pining and yearning, after all the flirting and baiting, after the lap dance and the best blowjob of my life, no kiss. Like we’d struck some telepathic agreement to wait for the perfect moment before taking the plunge into something meaningful. Something we both thought had a chance. Something that never happened. And tonight, Siobhán turned the tables and laid the blame squarely at my bare feet.

Smoke swirled in front of me, backlit by the light leaking onto the porch from the kitchen. The only images I had of my mother were from the one photo album my father put together when I was a kid. That and the stories he told me about her beauty and kind heart. The way he reverently traced her picture behind the plastic as if he could reach through time and touch her face.

Humans were fragile creatures, an unfortunate lesson my father learned the hard way and one I never wanted to repeat. I kept women at arm’s length, especially humans. I always told myself, if I ever got into a relationship, it would be with a blood demon. There was no way in hell I’d risk what happened to my mother happening to someone I cared about. Not that I’d ever cared about anyone. Not until Siobhán.

Somewhere along the way, she pierced my armor and squeezed her way in through the crack. And I let her. Right up until that night at Vesuvio when the house of cards came tumbling down. She lied to me, and I hated her for that.

The wind gusted and fanned hair across my face. I threaded my fingers through it and pushed it away. Had I wanted her to catch me feeding that night? I took more risks than Marco or Vito, but feeding in the middle of Vesuvio? For anyone to see? I squeezed the thick strands and tugged, trying to pull myself back to what mattered.

In the pit of Vinnie’s warehouse, hatred had avalanched into something deeper, something crueler. I wanted to turn her into the instrument with which I took my revenge and ease my tormented mind. She stole that plan from me, a plan I’d held onto as if it were my soul’s last chance for survival. I hated her for that.

Uncomfortable feelings swirled like eddies in the river of my emotions—guilt, empathy, worry—but they couldn’t eclipse the powerful current of hate. Old memories of us surfaced, painful ones of happier times best left buried. They forced me to question my truths. I hated her for that too.

I pulled on my cigar, long and slow. Its earthy flavor settled on my tongue and bit the back of my throat, raw and harsh. As much as I hated Siobhán, a part of me wanted to climb up those stairs and into her bed, wrap my arms around her, and tell her everything would be okay. And for that, I hated myself.

ChapterTwelve

Siobhán

Steam filled the bathroom and fogged the mirror. I wiped away the condensation, clearing a patch to see my reflection. I felt like a new woman after the hot shower—out of the clothing I’d worn since Friday and rinsed clean of the previous night’s vodka-induced sweats—but I needed to see evidence of life firsthand.

My eyes were bloodshot, my makeup-free face a mess of wrinkles and freckles. I combed my hair with my fingers. Fine and stick straight, it would fall limp when it dried without the help of products and pins and my blow-dryer. I sighed. He was bound to see me like this at some point—Siobhán unplugged.

I dried my hair as best I could with the towel I found in the hallway closet. Luca’s bedroom door was ajar, but if he’d heard me, he didn’t bother to stop my snooping. I wrapped the big, fluffy towel around me.

My mouth had the taste and texture of an old rug, like it required a scrubbing worthy of one of those carpet-cleaning videos on social media. I rifled through cabinets until I found toothpaste and cleaned my cotton mouth, not once but twice, with my finger.

The shower helped the headache pulsing behind my eyes, but my stomach was tied in a big, ugly knot. The cramps were almost unbearable, and the acid burned its way up my esophagus. I needed food. Actually, I needed my Tums, but they were locked in the entertainment center with my purse. But something more than a bowl of noodles and olives surrounded by a cubic meter of vodka would be a step in the right direction. I’d never been a paragon of nutrition—not my choice—but yesterday was bad even by my standards.

Clouds of steam billowed into the hallway, and the mellow notes of classical music floated up the stairs. I paused outside the bathroom, straining to hear. It was soft. A single violin. I’d never taken Luca for a classical music guy.

His bedroom was empty, bed made. Not that anything different would have stopped me. I wasn’t about to wear my stale, dirty sweatshirt or leggings. If he was going to keep me holed up in his house, I needed fresh clothes, and the only fresh clothes were in his bedroom.

Pressed dress shirts paired with suits hung evenly spaced in his closet. His shoes formed neat rows beneath the orderly sets. He had one of those tie racks and his silks were arranged by color. I selected a white button down with thick cotton, the best option to battle obscenity. Luca was six-foot-four by my estimation, and the shirt would fit like a dress. Good enough until he either tossed me off the Tobin Bridge or decided I needed my own clothes. I buttoned the shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and padded down the stairs.

My head throbbed, and my stomach gurgled in time, cramping violently and threatening to double me over.

The music grew louder with each step, but when I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned for the living room, it was empty, the sound system silent. Confused, I shifted my attention to the kitchen and did a double take. The music wasn’t coming from a television or a stereo or a record player but the most unlikely source imaginable.

Beyond the island and the dining table, the blinds were pushed to the side and the French doors that led to the deck were open. They revealed a scene I wouldn’t have believed had I not seen it with my own eyes.

Luca stood on the deck in nothing more than track pants. His bare feet peeked out from beneath the fall of light gray fabric, pooled at the bottom from being slung so low on his trim hips. His hair, always so neatly combed back and tucked behind his ears, was pulled up, half of it tied in a messy bun. A few loose strands fell around the sculpted lines of his chiseled face. Over the past forty-eight hours, that face had been twisted in anger, all hard scowls and intense eyes, but now his jaw and brow were soft and relaxed. At peace. Eyes closed, his chin rested reverently on a violin, tucked into the crook of his neck like a cherished lover.

His fingers moved deftly up and down the instrument’s neck, and he swayed in time with the music. The thick muscles of his arms flexed with each movement of the bow, with each peak and valley of the melody.

I stepped delicately toward the entrancing scene, not wanting to interrupt the beauty emanating from Luca’s talented hands. I leaned a hip against the dining table and watched.

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