Page 70 of His Dark Vendetta

I clenched my teeth, biting back my own retort. I hadn’t gone there for a lecture.

“It’s time you thought long and hard about what this vendetta is costing you. Ask yourself if it’s worth it.” He cocked an eyebrow, turned on his heel, and took quick strides back into the building, buttoning his suit coat as he went.

I took the keys out of my pocket, spun them on my finger, and walked across the visitor lot to my car. Time to check on Dominic, grab some food, and head to Revere for a meeting with Vinnie.

As for Vito’s question…

I unlocked the door, buckled in, and started the engine. It roared to life, an angry growl, loud and persistent.

What was the cost of avenging my father? I couldn’t imagine a price I wouldn’t pay to hurt the Shaughnessys the way they’d hurt the Morettis. To take something from them they could never take back. To free myself from the anger and pain that haunted me. To free myself from my nightmares.

I revved the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the space.

A new ante had entered the pot. One I hadn’t considered—Siobhán.

She was supposed to be my instrument of revenge, but was I okay with her being its victim as well? I told her she was safe. “No more nightmares,” I said. But hurting her family would hurt her too. It would open old wounds, create new bad dreams.

I stomped on the clutch, threw the engine into gear, and slammed on the accelerator, lifting my foot off the clutch. The Ferrari’s tires squealed as I peeled out of the parking lot.

Revenge was worth any cost. No exceptions. Especially if the Shaughnessys finally got the message that crossing the DeVitas, Valenzanos, or Morettis meant consequences. Consequences so dire, they’d never make that fatal mistake again.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Siobhán

Amazing how the pages ofPeopleblended together after you read enough of them, and I was pretty sure this was my millionth copy. I slammed the magazine shut and let my head fall back with an exasperated sigh. A person could only watch so much TV, and by noon, I’d already watchedCasablancaand four episodes of that reality TV show about yacht crews. I took my time with lunch, even attempted a one-sided conversation with Rocco the Wall—he was filling in for Dominic after last night’s incident—but that only got me as far as one o’clock.

I tried picking the entertainment center lock for thirty minutes. Turns out, I have no idea how to pick a lock and, without my phone, no way to Google how to pick a lock. After bending the tip of one of Luca’s knives—and burying the evidence at the bottom of the utensil drawer—I gave up on my latest amateur escape attempt.

I glanced at the microwave. Three.Ugh. Not only was Luca holding me hostage, he was subjecting me to an obscene form of torture—boredom.

He should have been back. Rocco told him multiple times he had to be at The Dollhouse by three. Whatever. Not my problem. My problem was what to do about Luca when he got home.

My family did a decent job at keeping guns out of sight when we were kids, but that didn’t mean we never saw them. Or heard them. Guns were a fact of life in Southie in the ’80s. So were knives. General violence. I had a thick skin when it came to that stuff. I even kept calm, relatively speaking, during the hold-up at Vesuvio. But seeing a gunshot wound? Seeing the bloody mess of Dominic’s shoulder and the stains on his stomach? It transported me right back to my teenage trauma.

Hours later, Luca fell prey to his own nightmares. He’d been thrashing and fighting his sheets when I followed the shouts into his room. I called his name over and over, desperate to wake him up and save him from whatever trauma he was reliving.

Last night was completely fucked up, and that included sleeping in Luca’s bed, wrapped in his arms. What a pair we made. Both severely fucked in the head and taking comfort from the one person we were supposed to hate.

We didn’t talk about any of it that morning. He was out of the shower and dressed by the time I woke up. He hurried out the door and left The Wall in charge. But any minute he’d walk through that door, and we’d either pretend like nothing happened or admit that maybe we didn’t hate each other as much as either of us wanted to believe. That maybe being wrapped up in each other felt right, because it was the missing piece keeping Luca and Siobhán so broken. Maybe our star-crossed relationship had an inevitable end, and no matter how hard we tried, fate was determined to have its way.

The doorbell rang.

My magazine flew into the air. “Jesus Christ,” I gasped, my heart racing.

Where the hell was Rocco? He’d been camped out on the porch all afternoon. He should’ve seen whoever was at the door.

I went into the kitchen and got a glass of water.

The doorbell rang again. Whoever it was, they weren’t going away, and apparently, Rocco was nowhere to be found. Or maybe he locked himself out?

I crossed the kitchen, opened the door, and immediately regretted the decision.

“Agent Johnson,” I said in a tone that contained every ounce of disdain I held for the man.

His head jerked back. “Ms. Connelly. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Maybe for you.”

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