Page 64 of Tortured Hearts

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“I know what I saw.” I shove at his chest, but there’s no power behind it. I’m spiraling.Sinking.Slipping behind the glass. “I fought him. I tore his mask. That man had?—”

“Red hair,” he finishes, gripping my flailing arms. “I know.”

My vision blurs as images of my courthouse attacker and Henry flash through my mind, then merge. I shake my head, trying to force them apart. “No. The man who attacked me had the same rose and dagger tattoo on his chest that my mother’s killer had on his arm. The same one that’s onme. A marshal wouldn’t have that.” I search Gianni’s face for a hint of validation, but all I find is something that looks a lot like pity. “What?” I snap. “For God’s sake, just say it.”

“Becca,he had the tattoo. I saw it with my own eyes. Plus, he knew things only someone who was there could’ve known. Things I didn’t even know.” The conviction in his voice hits like a wrecking ball. “He knew you were attacked on the fourth level of the parking garage. He knew you were wearing spandex leggings and a lime green shirt.”

More bile crawls up my throat with every word. “No…”

“The bastard knew he wasn’t leaving that warehouse alive, so he detonated as many bombs as possible.” Pausing, he inhales through his nose. “He claimed to have mentioned me by name. He said, ‘ask her what I said when she begged me to let her go.’”

Closing my eyes, I force myself back into that parking garage. I feel the wind being knocked out of me as I’m crushed against my car. I feel his hot breath against my ear as I plead with him.

“I won’t say anything. I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know anything about you.”

“Maybe not, but I know all about you, Becca.”

I remember thinking those words sounded familiar, but before I could place them, he shoved me to the concrete. Then my mind spins further back, and I hear a less volatile conversation as I’m steered through the Port of Providence warehouse.

“You know I’m not really Johnny’s friend, right?”

“I know all about you, Becca…”

Oh, God. Itwashim.

I bring a shaking hand to my mouth. “That man you killed was innocent, and I condemned him to…”Death.I freeze, and in between all the static, I hear him again—the man with the small eyes and big teeth.

“Bullets and blades, Rebecca. The first shot punishes the sinner, but it’s the second that paysthe sin.”

It’s me. I’m the second shot. That’s why he left me alive all those years ago. I was a long-term mind fuck they watched from afar. They didn’t have to intervene. Leave a pot of water on the stove long enough, and eventually, it’ll boil over.

My father destroyed his life protecting me from murderers, only for me to become one.

My knees buckle, and Gianni’s arms hook around before I hit the floor. “No, Doc,” he soothes. “That Irish bastard condemned himself long before you came along.”

I fight his hold, but it’s a useless battle. I’m like a rag doll ripped at the seams. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“This is real.” My thrashing stills as he wraps a hand around the back of my neck. “We’re real. You’re mine, Becca. Do you understand what that means?” I nod, and his grip tightens. “I need to hear the words,cara mia.”

I know what he wants, and as fractured as I am, I’m helpless against the truth.

“Once I let the Devil in, he’ll never leave.”

“I’ll protect you. I’ll kill for you. I’ll bleed for you.” His grip tightens, imprinting the promise on my skin. “But I’llneverlet you go. Not even death can separate us.” He slides his thumb under my chin, then tips my head back, lowering his mouth until our lips are only a whisper apart. “No matter what happens.”

My eyes drift close, and I wait for the kiss that’s somehow both poison and salve. The moment I feel his mouth on mine, the pain numbs, and all I feel is him. The more broken my moan, the harder he kisses. It’s messy. It’s careless. It’s illogical. But it’s also the only sense I have in this trapped existence, so I give in to it.

I grip his back, a low growl rumbling in his chest as my nails dig into his skin through his shirt. “I’m a violent man, Becca,” he counters against my lips. “I butchereda man a couple of hours ago without an ounce of remorse. That part of me will never change.”

I pull away, my anger flaring at the distance in his eyes.

He’s trying to force hate from me.

Jesus, caring for this man is like balancing on the broken end of a see-saw.

“I’m not asking you to change anything,” I grit out. “I don’t know how much time either of us has left, and I don’t want to spend it fighting, all right?”

“Fine.”