Page 1 of His Dark Vendetta

ChapterOne

Luca

48 Hours Later

The tip of my cane struck a ridge in the uneven cobblestones and threw me off balance. With a pop and a grind, my right knee buckled, and I stumbled forward. I caught myself on the staircase handrail but landed awkwardly on the unforgiving concrete.

Stabbing pain shot up my legs. The dull ache in my head morphed into a steady throb that pulsed in time with the beat of my racing heart.

I squeezed the handrail. The cold, familiar iron steadied me and reminded me where I was—home.

My body was weak despite having drained two Sources; weeks of torture without food or water or blood will do that. Dreading the climb ahead, I pressed into the cane and forced myself upright.

The stairs led to a mahogany door. It looked the same as it had any of the countless times I’d stood at the bottom of those steps throughout my life. Back when the DeVitas and Morettis were one big happy family.

So much had changed, but not that door.

The stairs inflicted fresh punishment one excruciating step at a time, each movement a sharp reminder of the torture I’d endured. And deserved. But that hell was nothing compared to the pain of a life stolen, a child abandoned, and a crime left unavenged. My suffering was nothing compared to the pain I’d inflict on the family who murdered my father.

Panting from exertion, I needed a moment to catch my breath. I pressed my hand into a long crack I’d put in the door when I was a teenager and had gotten into it with Marco for the first time. He never patched the aged wood, and the crack stared back at me with unmasked reproach. It was wider now than when I’d slammed the door in a fit of rage and split the wood. Twenty-five years and weather and neglect had deepened the untreated wound. Was it possible to fix such a rift now?

I moved my fingers from the crack to the doorbell, and the silence after the ring twisted my empty insides. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open.

Mamma Gina’s hand flew to her mouth. The other gripped the doorknob like she needed an anchor. “Luca,” she whispered and reached for my cheek with shaking fingers. “Il mio dolce ragazzo.” Her bottom lip trembled, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Mamma Gina.”

She stepped back, and I hobbled into my childhood home. I bent to hug her, desperate for her safety and comfort. She took my face between her hands, kissed my cheeks and forehead, and wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. She rocked us back and forth like she used to when I was little, muttering, “Il mio Luca,” and “Il mio ragazzo,” between more frantic kisses. I squeezed her tight.

She clasped my shoulders and held me at arm’s length, examining my face. “Il mio povero, dolce ragazzo. Cosa ti hanno fatto?” She ran her fingers over two-and-a-half-weeks’ worth of unkempt stubble and the edge of the bandage covering my right eye.

“Nothing I didn’t deserve.” My voice cracked over the truth.

The grandfather clock standing guard over the living room announced the first toll in its midday warning. It cut through the silence, and with each chime, the relief and worry in Gina’s face transformed into hurt and anger.

“Dannazione!” The curse resounded over the final bell of the old clock, and she slapped me across the face hard enough to let me know she meant it. Her lips pinched, and her breath heaved in her chest. Red specks appeared in her deep brown irises.

Tears welled in my eyes—from the sting of her hand across my face or the sting of the pain I saw in hers, I couldn’t be sure.

The red glow of her eyes dimmed, and her breathing slowed. She took me back into her arms and kissed my cheeks. “Andrà tutto bene. Sei a casa, adesso. Everything will be okay,” she murmured.

Was she trying to convince me or herself?

She pulled back and gripped my biceps. “You’re so thin.”

I nodded.

When Vinnie’d asked where I wanted his driver to take me, I hadn’t hesitated. “Gina.” But standing there, I didn’t know what to say. I’d hurt her. I’d hurt Marco. Nothing I said would change those simple facts, and nothing she said would change the reasons I’d done it.

“Va bene,” she said and patted my arms. She helped me out of my jacket and hung it by the door. She came to the side opposite my cane, slung my arm across her shoulders, and held my hand. “Andiamo.”

At six-four, I towered over her, but I’d lost so much weight, when I leaned on her for support, she held me up.

“Easy,” she said and wrapped her arm around my waist.

She led me into the kitchen, and with a grunt and a wince, I lowered myself onto a chair and set my cane down.

“Did you feed?” she asked.

---