Page 65 of His Dark Vendetta

“They got Mikey,” I said.

“Goddammit.”

“He knows what to do.” There was a protocol when a blood demon got pinched—call the DeVita Foundation.

“Did he get shot?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Good. We can’t do anything about it tonight. Call me in the morning.”

“Va bene,” I said and led Siobhán to the door. “Domani allora.”

“You might wanna leave the room for this, tesoro,” Vito grumbled to Mia, and the door clicked shut.

I hurried Siobhán out the back and locked up behind me. Rain came down in sheets, loud against the metal overhang. Siobhán shivered. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, tucking her into me and away from the cold.

Leo drove on, taking the fake U-Haul to the drop-off location, and Dom’s car was still at the gas station in Needham, which meant I had no wheels. I dialed one of my crew. He answered after a couple of rings. “Barbie’s. In the back. Ora. Sbrigati.” I shoved the phone back in my pocket and wrapped my other arm around Siobhán.

“You okay?” I asked.

She tilted her head up. “The fresh air helps.” Her lips twitched, attempting a smile, but she couldn’t quite make one happen. “All the blood on”—she swallowed and blinked hard—“all the blood on his stomach…”

“I know, baby. But Dominic wasn’t shot in the stomach,” I lied. “It just looked that way from all the rain and the blood from his shoulder. He’s going to be fine.”

Surviving a bullet to the shoulder, I could explain. A gunshot through the stomach?

“Thank God.” She rested the side of her face against my chest and burrowed into it like she wanted to crawl inside.

“What’s a Source?” she asked.

Fuck.

There were so many reasons I didn’t want to answer that question. I hugged her closer. “Don’t worry about it,” I said and hoped like hell she’d forget that word and everything else she saw and heard that night.

* * *

A truck rumbleddown the street outside. The single lightbulb hanging from the warehouse ceiling swayed. A Bowie knife glinted beneath its movement.

Vinnie hovered over me, face devoid of emotion. He gripped my hair, jerked my head back, and lowered the blade to my right eye.

“Nooo!” I screamed and turned my head from side to side.

White hot pain exploded into existence, a flash of lightning that seared my eye and transported me from Vinnie’s dingy warehouse to the upstairs of Vesuvio.

Marco stood before me, masked in darkness. The red glow of his eyes met mine from beneath the shadows of his down-turned face.

“You’re no longer a DeVita,” he growled.

“No, Zio, per favore. Non capisci.” I shook my head. I needed to explain. Then he’d understand.

“Now get out of my sight,” he said with finality.

His image faded, replaced by a black casket in an empty field.

It was so big. Why was it so big?

I tugged at my collar. Too constricting. Why did Zio make me wear a tie?

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