Page 40 of His Dark Vendetta

I grabbed onto the tenuous lifeline. “Most kids are allergic to discipline, and I can’t imagine you were a quiet, well-behaved child.”

He snorted. “I was a hellion. But I was determined to learn how to play that violin.” He nodded in the direction of the violin case. He shifted his weight and licked his lips. “It was my mother’s.”

The declaration hung in the space between us. It weighed on the silence, loaded with baggage. Despite my surprise, I held his eyes, kept mine steady, let him know I was listening. Because the heartache attached to that simple statement was near palpable in its severity. Antonio Moretti was Boston legend, his ending known to anyone who grew up in our world. But his mother? I knew she wasn’t in the picture—Marco and Gina raised Luca—but beyond that…

“She was first chair in the Boston Symphony Orchestra.” His spine straightened with pride. “My father gave it to me on my sixth birthday, just a few months before he was murdered.” He glanced at the case, and his gaze grew distant, his voice strained and hushed. “He wanted me to have something of hers. Something she loved. Something he loved about her.” He slowly turned back to face me, as though traveling forward through time. His eyes were glassy, and his nostrils flared.

I swallowed, bracing myself for the answer to the next inevitable question. He spared me the discomfort of asking.

“She died,” he said, matter-of-fact and devoid of feeling.

“How?” I whispered. Something about the loving way he handled the violin and the honesty that poured out through the notes forced the question from my lungs.

“In childbirth,” he croaked, the rawness in his voice as terrible as the truth.

The space around my heart constricted. “I’m sorry.”

Never knowing his mother. Losing his father when he was six years old. The bitterness that ruled Luca’s life no longer seemed so strange, and my heart ached for him. Words never escaped me, but I couldn’t find any that wouldn’t sound trite. No words could ease that kind of loss or provide comfort to a man whose childhood had been weighed down with such heaviness.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were on vacation?” he asked.

I blinked rapidly, the question giving me whiplash. “What—what are you talking about?”

“You’re on vacation for the next two weeks. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I was preoccupied with you being alive. Or because you broke into my house, kidnapped me, and threatened to throw me off the Tobin Bridge?” I shook my head. “My vacation plans didn’t exactly seem relevant.”

“Even if the reason you’re taking the vacation is to find a new job?” He raised an eyebrow.

My head jerked back. “How do you know that?”

“Maybe this pretty face is smarter than you think.” He cocked a shit-eating grin and winked.

I huffed. “Anna’s got a big mouth.”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but I’m not going to toss you off the Tobin Bridge anymore if that helps.”

“Decided on chains and the pond?”

He snorted. “I’m not going to kill you, Siobhán.”

Relief-induced adrenaline shot into my bloodstream. It made my knees weak, and my vision blurred. I placed my palm flat on the table to steady myself and let out a shuddering breath. My eyelids moved through a slow blink, and my lips parted to let out the hysterical noise percolating in my chest, but instead, I just stood there and gawped.

“Don’t look so surprised,Shamrock,” he said dryly. “I know you think I’m an asshole, and you’re probably right, but I’d never kill an innocent person. You’re a smart woman, and if it never occurred to you to tell me you’re leaving Terme…” He shook his head. “You’re not a rat. You may be a Shaughnessy, and you did lie to me about that, but you’re not a rat.”

My ears started ringing. Heat traveled from my belly into my head, a rush of fury that burned away the dizziness and boiled over almost as soon as it started.

“You asshole!” I punched him in the shoulder. It was like hitting a brick wall. He dropped his arms and raised an eyebrow. “You were going to push me off that bridge!” I hit him again, harder. “I told you I wasn’t a rat!” I swung at him with both fists, right then left, back and forth, pounding on his pecs.

He grabbed my wrists, and I flailed beneath his grip, my breath coming in short, angry bursts.

“Hey. Shamrock. Relax.”

“Argh! Don’t tell me to relax! You almost fucking killed me! And now you’re all,Oops, my bad. Fuck you, Luca!” I kicked him. “Ow!”

“Stop.” He snickered. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I stopped writhing and glared at him, panting fire. My damp hair hung in front of my eyes, and I puffed a breath to get it out of my face.

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