Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Siobhán
M y body jerked off the bed and I gasped. I pushed my hair out of my face and rested my hand on my heart, waiting for the adrenaline to dissipate and my breath to calm. Plummeting from the Tobin Bridge into the icy mouth of the Charles River wasn’t exactly how I wanted to wake up.
I climbed out of bed and pulled back the drapes. It was dark outside, but the pale light of dawn had started to brighten the sky above the tops of the trees and the calm water beyond.
We must be near Walden , I thought, the only area like this for miles in any direction.
There was no way I was going down without a fight. I’d fought this long to separate myself from organized crime, I sure as shit wasn’t going to stop now.
I peeked out the door. There were three other rooms on the second floor, and the door to the master suite was open.
It was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop on the carpet. I crept down the hallway to the stairs. The house was old, even if it had been recently remodeled. One creak and I was done for.
At the bottom of the steps, my red-painted toes wiggled atop the cherry wood floor. The front door was directly ahead, but my shoes were on the other side of the kitchen in front of the door to the garage. Should I take the time to put them on? I wouldn’t get very far without them, especially if I had to run.
My heartbeat reverberated at the pulse in my neck and against my temples, but I had no choice. I had no phone, no money, and only a passing sense of direction. All I had was my two feet and determination.
I tiptoed across the kitchen and lowered myself to the floor next to my shoes, moving like I was underwater, slow and smooth. But with my heightened awareness and Luca’s warning that he was a light sleeper, each pull of my laces echoed like boulders tumbling down a craggy mountain, each tap of my rubber soles a jackhammer against the hardwood.
There wasn’t an alarm system attached to the front door, at least not one I could see. Not that I’d know how to disarm it even if there was. I wrapped my fingers around the cold copper of the deadbolt and twisted, slowly adding force until it started to turn. The first click made me jump. My eyes darted to the stairs. Not a sound but the incessant beat of my pounding heart. I resumed turning the lock as gently as I could.
Click .
CLICK!
The swoosh when I flung the door open resounded like a crashing wave, and my feet on the pavement like hammers striking an anvil as I sprinted out the door, across the walkway, and down the long, sloping driveway.
A terrible athlete and an even worse runner, I barely reached the end of the property before my lungs burst into flames. But my life was on the line, so I pushed through the burn in my legs and in my lungs, pumped my arms, and followed the curve of the road. If I could reach the bend, if I could escape the line of sight from his house…
Footfalls slapped the pavement behind me, closing fast. My heart rate spiked, fueling my pathetic excuse for speed. Within half a block, Luca’s thick arm wrapped around my waist and hauled me off the ground as easily as a rag doll.
“Nooo!” I wailed and thrashed.
He clamped a hand over my mouth, and my chest heaved as I tried to breathe through my nose. I kicked and squirmed, but he ignored my feeble attempt at fighting back as if it was no more nuisance than a fly.
He started back toward the house, one arm holding me aloft, the other hand covering my mouth. I stopped flailing; I needed to catch my breath if I was going to try and break free.
“For someone with legs as long as yours, you really suck at running,” he snarked in that smug, taunting voice he used any time he wanted to get a rise out of me.
It worked. Winded or not, I balled my fist and aimed for where it would hurt him the most. He swiveled his hips just in time and lifted me further off the ground, and my punch connected with the rock-hard plane of his lower abs instead.
“Stop squirming,” he hissed in my ear, “or I’ll tie you up. And not in a fun way.”
My body went slack. What was the use? He hadn’t even been trying. He wasn’t even wearing shoes. And I believed him when he said he’d tie me up. He was completely unhinged.
He plopped me down inside the front door and slammed it shut. “Take your shoes off,” he barked and pushed past me.
I’d never seen Luca in anything but shirtsleeves, suits, and formalwear. Now he strode into the kitchen in a wifebeater and basketball shorts. The wide span of his shoulders tapered to a trim waist, his round, muscular ass accentuated by the cling of basketball shorts. He yanked the refrigerator door open and pulled out a bottle of water. Not to be outdone by his back, his bare arms, thick with corded muscle, bulged when he twisted the cap off. His pecs flexed indecently beneath the thin material of his shirt. Especially with that gold chain and the pendant that landed at the scoop of the neckline. It drew my attention to a sprinkling of dark, trimmed chest hair.
My brain short-circuited under the assault of all that stereotypical Italian masculinity, and I caught myself gawping. What the hell was wrong with me? The man kidnapped me and sentenced me to death, and my body still reacted like a horny teenager. Worse was the reminder of how I’d fallen for him. How I’d trusted him. How I’d grieved for him when I’d thought he was dead instead of remembering him for what he was—an arrogant asshole.
“I hate you,” I said.
“Ditto. Why the fuck did you run out?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re going to kill me, and I don’t want to die?”
He scowled and took down half the bottle of water. His gaze dropped to my feet. “Shoes.”
“Ugh!” I groaned and rolled my eyes. I toed off my shoes and folded my arms across my chest. “There. Happy?”
He arched an eyebrow and shrugged.
Sunrise poked its head above the tree line beyond the wall of sliding glass doors between the kitchen and the deck. People were probably getting ready for work, taking their morning runs, walking their dogs. Not a great time to commit murder.
“What’s the plan, anyway? I suppose you have to wait until it gets dark before you can toss me off…” I swallowed the lump in my throat and waved a hand through the air. “Something.”
He looked out the French doors and shoved his fingers into his hair. He fisted them at the ends. “I don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean you don’t know yet?”
“I mean, I don’t know yet.”
“You can’t just keep me here.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, kidnapping is illegal.”
He snorted and dropped his arm.
“Eventually people will notice I’m missing.” I’d taken the next two weeks off work. Marco, Anna, and my family knew, but Luca didn’t.
He licked his lips.
I sneered, self-satisfied. “Didn’t think of that, did ya?”
“Oh, I thought about it,” he snarled, “but you’re supposed to be floating in the Charles River right now, not standing in my kitchen.” He set the water bottle down on the island. “With your connections, anyone with a Shaughnessy bone to pick could’ve kidnapped you.” He craned his neck. “And a lot of people have a bone to pick with your family.”
I ground my teeth and averted my gaze. He wasn’t wrong. But neither Ciarán nor Marco would rest until they found out who’d taken me.
I may not have trusted either of them to protect me and keep me out of mob and Mafia affairs, but I did trust them to lose their shit after the fact. These men were all the same. As much as they professed wanting to keep you safe, they’d never leave their criminal lives behind, content to clean up the messes they created instead of preventing them in the first place. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, and after what I’d been through as a teen, I didn’t need to learn it again.
“What about Marco?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“I was there when he realized you?—”
Luca surged forward and pointed a finger in my face. “Because you’re a fucking rat.”
I flinched and held up my hands. They shook, but I ignored his bait. “I saw what it did to him. How angry he was. How hurt. How do you think he’ll react when he finds out about this?”
“He already disowned me, thanks to you. Handed me over to Vinnie. There’s nothing more he can take from me.” He canted his head, a vicious sneer on his plump lips. “Not even this vendetta. It’s my blood right. As long as the blood I spill isn’t Ciarán’s, I have the support of the New England families.”
My stomach pumped out a fresh supply of acid, and I winced. “Marco would never…” I whispered, unable to finish. No matter what words I added to end that sentence, they wouldn’t be true.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Shamrock. Marco did. A Shaughnessy for a Moretti. Justice served.”
Dread coiled its barbed arms around me, squeezing until my chest constricted under its thorny pressure. Stars danced in my vision, darkness clouding its edges. My acid stomach continued its relentless attack.
My mind went blank. No thoughts. No emotions. My consciousness detached itself from a reality it didn’t want to experience, one it couldn’t handle, and I watched myself like an avatar making its way through a fucked-up movie.
I walked across the kitchen, stiff and robotic, stopped in front of the fridge, and yanked open the door. Beer, water, condiments. A couple leftover takeout containers with Porta Via printed on their sides in swirling red letters. Stange to have such a big fridge with so few items. I grabbed a bottle of water and shut the door.
“By all means…” Luca’s voice echoed in the cavern of my disassociated mind.
The cold water coated my mouth and throat. It quenched my thirst but landed in an empty bath of acid. My stomach needed attention. I opened and closed kitchen cabinets.
“What are you doing?” That voice again. A question this time.
“Hm?”
“What are you looking for?”
“Tums.”
“I don’t have any Tums.”
“Oh.” I closed the cabinet and walked into the living room.
I picked up a throw pillow, wrapped an arm around it, and climbed into the corner of the couch. I crossed my legs, hugged the pillow to my chest, and sipped my water.
Silence.
I’m in shock . The logical conclusion of my external observer. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The black TV screen reflected a small blob in the corner of the sectional. A second blob entered the reflection, this one upright. It stopped in front of me.
Thick forearms dusted with dark hair crossed over a white undershirt. I lifted my gaze and met eyes as black as the TV. They examined me from behind a fall of chocolate brown hair. It framed familiar features like curtains. Lips pressed into a line, eyebrows drawn together—if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought the expression was one of concern. But I did know better.
I stared into the shadows cast by the early morning light peeking through the split in the curtains.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting to die.”
He stiffened, and his energy changed as if he was on the verge of saying something.
I rested my head on the back of the couch. If only I could go back to sleep, shut my brain down until he took me back to the bridge. Or into the woods. Or out onto the pond with chains tied around my ankles. There was no way I could sleep though. The different ways I might die jumped in my imagination, demanding attention.
The light behind the curtains brightened. I sipped my water.
At some point, the upright silhouette vanished from the reflection in the TV screen.
Drawers opened and closed in the kitchen.
“Hey. Yeah. I need you here by eight thirty.” His voice was blunt and even. “All day. I’ll fill you in when you get here. Uh-huh. Yeah.”
More kitchen rustlings. The whir of an espresso machine. The smell of coffee.
“Do you want caffè?” He was talking to me this time.
I rolled my head along the back of the couch until I faced the kitchen. Coffee the same color as Luca’s eyes dribbled into two shot glasses. He poured milk into a stainless-steel jug, and the hiss of steam replaced the loud rumble of the espresso machine. He looked at me with an odd combination of frustration and concern that deepened the lines in his face.
The smell of coffee wafted into the living room, and my mouth watered. My stomach couldn’t handle the milk, but without something to cut the acid in the espresso, the pain in my gut would worsen. Everything with my digestive system was a trade, and this morning I chose the lesser of two evils, especially considering I might be dead by the time the lactose reaction kicked in.
“Sure.”
He constructed the drink with meticulous attention, carefully pouring the espresso and the milk into a wide-mouth mug. He spooned foam onto the top. “Sugar?” He set the mug on top of a saucer.
“No. Thank you.”
He studied me and the couch and scowled. He set the steaming cappuccino on the island. “You have to drink it in here,” he said and got to work discarding the used espresso.
I let go of my safety pillow, climbed off the couch, and walked into the kitchen. I sat on one of the island barstools, cupped the mug in both hands, and sipped. A perfect balance of espresso, milk, and foam. Future Siobhán was going to hate me, but I desperately needed the cappuccino’s comforting flavors and warmth.
“This is delicious.”
“I’d be a terrible Italian if I couldn’t make proper caffè.”
The milk steamer hissed and burbled.
“Who taught you?”
“Gina DeVita.”
“Marco’s sister.”
“Yes. She raised me. Well, her and Marco, but Marco wasn’t around much until we moved to Italy.”
The casual conversation was surreal but better than ominous silence. I didn’t know much about Luca’s early years. We never really talked about our upbringings before.
“When was that?” I asked.
“When I moved to Italy?” He glanced over his shoulder, and I nodded. “I was ten, so… ninety-two?”
He retrieved another mug and saucer from the cabinet and assembled his drink.
“How long did you live there?”
“Till I was eighteen. I came back for college.”
“Where?”
“Harvard, believe it or not.”
“I believe it. We spent almost a year talking business over lunches and coffee, remember?” One thing Luca was not was stupid.
He sipped his coffee, set it down, and started cleaning. I watched with fascination as he wiped down the entire machine, washed and dried the jug and shot glasses, and sprayed the entire counter with cleaning solution, polishing it like he’d prepared a Thanksgiving meal. A little excessive for two cappuccinos but given his fixation on my shoes, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.
He leaned against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other. “I remember,” he said, a gravelly admission. “It wasn’t my choice. I wanted to stay in Italy, but Marco was determined. Control freak,” he finished derisively.
I huffed. “Understatement.”
“Try living with him.”
I honestly couldn’t imagine. Anna was a saint.
Luca looked out the French doors. “He and my father had nothing growing up. They never went to college.” He snorted. “Hell, I’m not even sure they finished high school.” He faced me. “I think he was trying to live vicariously through me.”
“Can you blame him?” I shrugged. “He also could’ve just wanted you to have the opportunities he didn’t.”
“That’s certainly the way he’d spin it.”
I focused on my cappuccino. Time to end the small talk before we crossed into territory that would start another fight. I didn’t have the energy to argue about Marco. My fight was gone.
The milk in the cappuccino balanced out some of the acid in my stomach. I’d pay for it later, but I needed a reprieve before the cramps became too intense to sit up straight. I walked my dishes to the sink and rinsed them, not wanting to stoke Luca’s ire. I retrieved my water bottle and went back to the living room. I opened the drapes, letting in the bright morning light, and resumed waiting on the couch.
Luca puttered around the kitchen. I stared out the window and wondered how my parents would get by without me.
Maybe Rory would finally step up. Would Ciarán? I hoped so. The rotten garbage smell shoved its way into my nostrils and with it, unwanted images of my parents. Mam wringing her hands, unable to take out the garbage because she’s scared of falling. Da’s vacant eyes staring through the TV. He’s muttering something incoherent, causing Mam to make the sign of the cross.
“I’m leaving soon.” Luca’s blunt declaration snapped me back into the moment. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve and faced him. He leaned against the archway between the living room and the kitchen. “One of my guys is coming over to watch you. Don’t try anything stupid.”
I stared at him, not sure what to say.
“I’ll be back tonight.”
“In time for a trip to the bridge?” My voice shook despite my attempt at sarcasm.
His eyebrows drew together, and he licked his lips. “We’ll see. More likely the pond,” he said and went upstairs.
The thin plastic water bottle crinkled beneath my fingers. It was empty. Nothing left. Tears dripped onto my safety pillow. I allowed myself a moment to cry, to mourn my parents, and then I was as empty as the bottle. Nothing left but the cold reality of being born into the Irish mob. A reality where, at any moment, your life can be snatched away. No matter how fast you run.