Page 92 of His Dark Vendetta

I tilted my head in deference, but the rage boiling my insides wasn’t about to back off this verbal joust. Or my chance to initiate an endgame.

Ciarán folded, ending the round, and glared at me. “You gonna settle it then, or are you all talk?”

I smiled, smug and mocking, knowing the ace in my pocket, and drained the rest of my scotch.

He shook his head. “Whatever, Moretti. I don’t give a fig what you do.”

The dealer collected the cards and dealt the next hand. I finished my cigar and ordered another drink. Vito and I talked about the community boxing tournament planned for the following month. Vinnie chatted with the Russians, Ciarán with the man between him and Durand.

Another hour passed, and so did the second round. The scotch did its work; my rage cooled to a simmer. Suit jackets were discarded, sleeves rolled up. Vinnie even shared one of his precious cigars with the Russian next to him. Durand remained as buttoned up and proper as ever.

Cards landed in front of me. The final hand. Durand kept the monthly sessions to no more than three hours.

I reached into my left pocket and brought one of the two cell phones there into my lap. I made sure it was the right one and clicked the volume all the way up. I put it back in my pocket and picked up my cards.

“Have you talked to your cousin lately, Shaughnessy?” I asked and examined my hand.

In my periphery, Ciarán froze. He must’ve realized the tell and tried to play it off with a roll of his shoulders he wanted to look like a shrug.

“I’m Irish-Catholic. I have a lot of cousins,” he said with feigned indifference. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

I kept my eyes on my cards. “Oh, I think you know which cousin I’m talking about.”

Vito cleared his throat. The other players’ heads were down studying their cards. Vinnie ordered another drink.

“No, I haven’t,” he said through his teeth. “She’s on vacation. But you already knew that. She works for your uncle.”

I tipped my head in acknowledgment.

Vinnie eyed me from across the table, brows drawn together, probably wondering where this was going.

I waited for the inevitable. The question Ciarán Shaughnessy didn’t want to put out there but couldn’t resist asking.

Antes were tossed into the pot. The dealer placed the turn on the table, and I studied reactions, a great excuse to watch Ciarán squirm.

He chewed on the question. The muscles of his jaw worked around his distaste for it, and he spat it out. “Why?”

A pair of aces. I upped the ante and shrugged a shoulder. “Curious if she’s mentioned whether she’s enjoying her time off.” I sipped my scotch.

Ciarán’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure what you’re implying, Moretti, but you’ll have to do better than that to throw me off my game.”

He met the ante. So did the rest of the table, oblivious to the verbal antes Ciarán and I exchanged. Except for Vito. He reached for a fresh pour of Jack Daniels and drained the glass.

“No one’s trying to throw you off your game.” I gave him my best shit-eating grin. “No need.” Good thing murder-by-glare wasn’t a thing, or my immortal ass would’ve been dead. “You’re the one who asked if I was going to settle the score.”

“Is that a threat?” He sat forward. “I swear to God if you go anywhere near her?—”

“Monsieur Shaughnessy,” Durand warned.

“Considering why she left Boston, I’m not sure anyone in your family should be taking the moral high ground on Siobhán’s safety.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tell me”—I cocked an eyebrow—“does she know O’Doyle’s been alive all these years?” I raised my eyes and captured his, wanting to witness every second of his reaction. “And that you knew?” Color climbed his neck, and his eyes flashed with hatred. “I’ve seen the scars, and they run a lot deeper than her skin.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he ground out through a tightly clenched jaw.

“Whatever makes you sleep at night.” I kept my eyes locked with his and sipped my scotch. “But she’s safer in my bed than she’s ever been with your family.”

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