Page 96 of His Dark Vendetta

Fuck. He would too. Goddammit. He was the last person I wanted to talk to. Well, second to last. My tank for dealing with alpha-male bullshit was empty, but I didn’t need him calling the cops and making things worse.

I climbed out of bed. “Gimme a sec, will ya? Jesus Christ, Ciarán, you’re going to wake my neighbors.”

“Oh, thank God.” The relief in his voice was palpable even through the door.

What the hell is going on?

The clock on the bathroom counter read eight a.m. I looked in the mirror and immediately regretted the decision. My eyes were puffy, bloodshot, and cradled by dark circles, stark against my pale cheeks. My hair was askew, matted on one side from shoving my face into the pillow and sticking out at odd angles on the other. Hot mess was an understatement.

Not that I should have expected anything better. Luca had driven me back to Somerville without a word. He dropped me in front of my house, and as soon as I shut the door, he sped away, the roar of the Ferrari’s engine his only goodbye. I started ugly crying the moment I walked into my empty house, hurt and anger alternating as fuel for my dramatic bouts of sobbing. They didn’t stop until I cried myself to sleep, only to be woken up by Ciarán pounding at my door.

I grabbed my toothbrush. Something had happened at Luca’s poker game. I was sure of it. But Luca had so many demons, who knew if I’d ever find out the truth. And did it matter? I knew our bubble would eventually burst. I just hadn’t expected its end to be so abrupt.

I rinsed my mouth, tied my rat’s nest into a ponytail, and made my way to the front door. I twisted the dead bolt and walked into the kitchen to make coffee.

Ciarán barged into the foyer like a bull in a china shop, slamming the door behind him. He stormed over to where I stood in front of the coffee maker, took me by my shoulders, and examined me like he was looking for signs of damage.

“Vahnie,” he breathed. He drew me into his arms and squeezed so hard he cracked my back.

“Ow! Ciarán! What’s wrong with you? I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

He pulled back. “Thank God you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Aside from a bruised rib,” I said dryly.

“Did he hurt you? Tell me the truth. What did he do to you? What did that fucking psycho do to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That piece-of-shit Jersey Shore motherfucker, Luca Moretti. What did he do to you?”

I stiffened and pressed my lips together. I swatted at his hands and focused on the coffee maker, willing it to drip faster. “It’s too early for this shit. I need coffee. But to answer your question—none of your goddamn business.”

He stepped closer, looming over my shoulder. “Like hell it’s none of my business. I’m the head of this family, and you’re a part of it whether you want to admit it or not. I’m responsible for your safety.”

Blood rushed up my neck, making my ears ring and my face hot. I placed my palms flat on the cold countertop to steady myself and angled my face toward his. “Excuse me?”

He shifted his weight, and his eyes darted to the coffee maker which gurgled and gasped as it finished brewing. He shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets and stepped back into the dining area. “Luca Moretti is a fucking lunatic with a vendetta. I want to know what happened. How can I protect you if I don’t know what happened?”

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back. I was so tired and emotionally drained; I wanted to pick up the pot of coffee and chuck it at Ciarán’s head. Instead, I retrieved my favorite mug from the upper cabinet, poured myself a cup of coffee, and leaned my hip against the counter. The scalding brew burned my tongue and throat, but the sting grounded me enough to combat Ciarán’s bullshit without sending him to the hospital with third-degree burns.

“You’ve got a lotta fucking nerve,” I said and blew on my coffee. I sipped more of the only thing keeping me from losing my shit. “You know that, right?”

His eyebrows drew together as if he didn’t know, but the way he kept his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight—the same way he’d done since we were kids—told me he knew he’d stepped onto thin ice even if he didn’t know how or why.

For the most part, I kept my anger and resentment toward my family safely locked away, but Ciarán’s willful ignorance blasted the vault door right off its hinges. “You’ve got some balls coming over here after all this time pretending like you give a shit about me.”

His face softened. “Vahnie, I?—”

“Nope.” I held up a hand. “Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes and Vahnie bullshit. Where were you after I moved to Cork and had emergency surgery because my spleen finally ruptured? Huh? Where were you every birthday and holiday I spent alone? Where were you when I needed someone to take care of Da so I could keep my job in Ireland? Huh, Ciarán? Where the fuck were you?”

The muscles in his jaw twitched, and his fists balled inside his jeans’ pockets.

“That’s what I thought,” I snapped.

“I’m here now, aren’t I? Making sure you’re safe?”

“Too little, too late. And I don’t know what’s making you think I’m any less safe now than before.”

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