Page 95 of Ruthless Vengeance
“It’s always about money and power, Marco. Don’t act surprised.Ye’vebeen in this world long enough.”
I force my expression to stay neutral. “Do youwantme to have a problem with it?”
“Do you?” Cillian eyes me carefully.
“No, I have no problem with it at all.”
“Good. Then stop asking questions and just do what I tellye.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
I take it and quickly scan the address scribbled on the inside, committing it to memory.
“Be there, And don’tfeckit up.”
I pocket the note and turn without another word. If I stay here a second longer, I might put a bullet in his head and say to hell with the fallout.
As soon as I’m in the car and driving back to Westchester, I give Clara a call, needing more than anything to hear her voice.
She answers on the third ring.
“Hey.” Her voice is thick with sleep.
“Shit, did I wake you?”
“No, I was just dozing.”
“How are you feeling, love?”
“I’m okay.”
“How did everything go with the doctor?”
I don’t miss the way Clara hesitates before giving me an answer.
“Everything’s fine. Dr. Weston gave me something for the nausea, and I already feel much better.”
That doesn’t ease the knot in my chest, but I don’t push her to tell me more. At least, not right now.
“When will you be back?”
“Soon. I just need to make one stop on my way.”
“I miss you.”
I let out a breath. “I miss you too, love. So damn much.”
Thirty minutes later,I park up outside a small Italian restaurant calledOlivetto’s,a small, family-owned place that always smells of fresh basil and garlic. The moment I walk through the door, I’m hit with such a strong wave of nostalgia that it takes my breath away.
I’ve been coming here since I was sixteen.
It was the last place I had a meal with my parents before they died, so it holds a lot of fond memories for me.
Even though Andre now lives in our old family home, this is the place where I feel closest to them, in part because the food is almost identical to the sorts of dishes my mother used to make.
“Marco!” Francine hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. “What a nice surprise.”
Francine and her husband, Alexandro, are the third generation to own this restaurant. They’re the epitome of old Italian grandparents, which only adds to my nostalgia.
It’s been a very long time since I had the pleasure of being in my own grandparents' company and I’ll admit, sometimes it’s nice to be fussed over like I’m a kid again.
