Page 47 of His Dark Vendetta

I poked him in the chest. “If you think I’m going to wear that for you, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He stepped into my space and flashed his trademark sexy smirk. “Thought you might want to practice your lap dance skills. Wouldn’t want you to get rusty.”

My cheeks burned. “Ugh!” I stormed away with the cart and left him chuckling in my wake.

I stopped in front of the cold case and nearly jumped for joy—full rows of my favorite coconut milk chocolate pudding cups. I started stacking them in the cart.

“Presumptuous too. All you care about is yourself. It doesn’t matter how what you want impacts me. Case in point—you have no reason to keep me. Your original plan is shot, and your new plan doesn’t exist beyonduse Siobhán for revenge, which”—I pointed at him with a pudding cup—“for the record, is not an actual plan”—and tossed it in the cart.

“For the record,” he shot back, “I do have a plan.”

“Oh yeah?” I folded my arms. “Lay it on me.”

“I have questions. You’re going to answer them.”

I made a disgusted noise, something between a scoff and a snort. “Did you lose brain cells when you put on all that extra muscle? For the eight millionth time, I’m not a rat.”

He stepped around the end of the cart and crowded me. “Your cousin is working with the feds,” he said, low and scathing. My empty acid-stomach flipped, and I shook my head. “He’sthe rat, and you’re going to help me prove it.”

“I already told you. I stay out of my family’s business.” The words came out robotic, trying to hide that I suspected he was right about Ciarán. “Besides, I don’t talk. Not to Marco. Not to Ciarán. Not to you.”

“Oh, you will.” He leaned in close enough that I smelled his cologne. “Give it enough time, and you will.”

“So… You’re keeping me prisoner until I talk?” My indignation resurfaced, stomping all over my worry.

He backed up with a smug turn to his lips.

I put my hands on my hips so I wouldn’t grab his biceps and shake him. “It doesn’t matter to you how this might impact me and my life, does it? Not even accounting for thetraumayou caused. You know I’m leaving Terme, which means you know this vacation isn’t a vacation. I have interviews lined up for the next two weeks, interviews that were extremely difficult to get. There isn’t exactly an overabundance of five-star resorts within driving distance of my parents. Who, by the way, I have to take care of, because Rory and Ciarán are just as selfish as you.”

My frustration and anger at the entire fucked-up situation would make my stomach start cramping if I didn’t tamp it down, but I couldn’t help myself. I jammed my finger into Luca’s rocky chest—hard this time—and hoped my pointy fingernail hurt like hell. “And when I miss those interviews? When I don’t even call to cancel? I lose those opportunities. Forever. You think those resorts will hire a GM who can’t be bothered to cancel an appointment, much less show up?”

His jaw and lips twitched as if fighting a grimace, but otherwise, he remained a stony wall.

“I can’t go back to Terme. Especially not after this debacle. And I can’t go back to Ireland and leave my mother who is afraid to walk and my father who has dementia to the mercy of unreliable, egotistical men. Which meansyouare ruining my career. For no reason.” The heat in my cheeks was as fiery as the burn in my stomach. “Selfish.” I poked him again in his chest. “Asshole.” And once more, with feeling. “Plain and simple.” I grabbed the cart and pushed it forward.

Rory. Ciarán. My uncle Paddy. My own da. Every asshole I dated who just wanted to fuck the tall skinny blonde. Luca. They were all the same. Self-absorbed, macho assholes who expected me to take care of them and any shit situation they created. The only exception? Marco. Despite his machismo, he gave me opportunity and support. A real chance at making a life in Boston. A home. And of course, because fuck my life, he turns out to be a don in the Italian Mafia.

Everywhere I turned, the life I never chose haunted me. Everywhere except Ireland.

I stopped and threw some bananas into the cart.

“What are you going to do with all that pudding?” he asked.

I looked at him, incredulous. “Were you listening?” His face revealed nothing. “Why am I even asking that? Of course you weren’t.” I resumed my quest with the cart. “What do you think I’m going to do with it? I’m going to eat it.”

“No one can eat that much pudding.”

“Wanna bet?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“Aside from the bananas, there’s not a single healthy thing in that cart.”

“Healthy is relative.”

He scoffed.

“Judgy much?” I sighed. “All right, Susan Powter, crash course on my digestive system.” I sped down the freezer aisle. “One of the bullets went through my stomach. They had to section off the damaged portion, so my stomach is about half the size it’s supposed to be, which means I can’t eat very much in one sitting. On top of that, they removed feet”—I met his eyes and stuck my head out—“feetof my small intestines and several inches of my large, which means, of the small amount I can eat in one sitting, only a fraction of the nutrients gets absorbed. I can’t digest raw vegetables or any unprocessed grains without spending hours in the bathroom and wanting to end my life.”

He grimaced.

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