Page 54 of His Dark Vendetta

“Cosa?” I asked and walked into the kitchen. My shoulder holster and jacket were slung over the back of a barstool. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a gun before.”

“I’ve never seenyouwith a gun before.”

I shrugged into my shoulder holster. “You know what I do for a living.” I removed the 9mm from my waistband and tucked it into the scabbard.

“You don’t usually carry a gun.”

I frowned, tossed my track jacket back on the chair, and walked into the living room, folding my arms across my chest. “Not often. No.”

She gaped at me, red popsicle melting. “You’ve had those the entire time.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You could’ve shot me. Before you realized I wasn’t a rat.” Bright red sugar water dripped onto her finger and slid down her hand toward her wrist. “Buried me in the forest.” She swallowed. “Or thrown me in the pond.”

“Yeah, well…” I mumbled and rubbed the back of my neck.

Truth was, I didn’t thrown her off the bridge. Truth was, no matter how much I wanted to end her, I didn’t. And now? Now there were other ways to get my revenge that didn’t require a bullet through Siobhán’s head or her body floating in the Charles.

Ciarán was in bed with the feds no matter what Vito believed. And if I could prove it, no one would bat an eye when I put a bullet through his head. Not Roman. Not Vinnie. Not even Marco.

According to Siobhán, she and Ciarán were tight, which meant confidences had been shared and conversations overheard. She might not think she knew anything, but she did, and I’d have her singing like a canary before I let her go.

An unhinged impulse to scoop her up off the couch and kiss the frown off her face nearly knocked me sideways. Anger replaced the ache in my chest. It burned away the unwelcome impulse, replacing it with ash.

“Careful with that fucking popsicle,” I snapped and walked back into the kitchen. I grabbed my jacket off the chair. “I don’t want red shit all over my couch.”

“Asshole,” she mumbled and pushed herself up. She joined me in the kitchen, dumped the half-melted mess into the sink, and washed the sticky red tracks from her hands. She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms across her chest.

I clenched my teeth. She was wearing my Harvard hoodie. It was so huge on her it ended past her shorts. Seeing her in my ratty old college sweatshirt did uncomfortable things to my insides.

“Stop wearing my clothes,” I barked. “I brought you an entire bag of stuff.”

“Yeah, from your hoes. No, thank you.”

“My hoes? Seriously, Siobhán?” I smirked. “I told you before—jealousy is not a good look on you.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

I scoffed and leaned my hip against the island, crossed my arms, and cocked an eyebrow.

“You blame our entire falling out on me lying. You take zero responsibility for your actions.” I heard her blood surge; I was attuned to its rush. It pushed redness up her neck and into her cheeks. “I walk into Vesuvio the night before a first date we’d planned for weeks, and what do I find? You attached to the neck of some—some floozy! For an entire year, I had to watch you waltz through the lobby or come to events with whichevergoomaryou decided looked good on your arm. And, to top it all off, you blamemefor what happened?” She thumped her chest with a fist wrapped in my sweatshirt sleeve, face splotchy and blue eyes flashing. “That’s not jealousy, Luca. That’s a normal reaction to being slapped in the face. Repeatedly.”

I dropped my arms and closed the distance between us, my frustration heating my blood as surely as it heated hers. “You know, you talk a lot about trust for someone who isn’t willing to give it herself.” I stopped in front of her and grabbed the counter on either side of her hips. She rested a hand on her chest and tilted her head back to meet my eyes. “You wanted me to believe you didn’t lie to hide things from me. You wanted me to trust you even though you’re living a double life.” I searched her eyes, making sure she was paying attention. “But when I told you what happened at Vesuvio wasn’t what it looked like, when I told you over and over that you don’t know what you saw…” I raised my eyebrows, and she pursed her lips. “Don’t talk to me about trust when you refuse to return the favor.”

I ground my teeth, waiting for some smart comment or reaction. Nothing. Instead, she fidgeted the hoodie string and held my gaze like we were playing some fucked-up game of chicken. Fine.

I pushed off the counter, stepped back, and sneered. “And yeah, that’s jealousy, Shamrock. Plain and simple.”

Her eyes and nostrils flared.

The doorbell rang.

I went to the door and answered it.

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