Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Luca
V ito climbed out of his pickup truck just as I turned into the Lake’s Edge Casino in Worcester. I jogged from the far end of the parking lot to where he leaned against his tailgate sucking down a cigarette.
“Vito,” I said.
“Luca.”
“How’d it go Wednesday?”
“Fine,” he said through an exhale of smoke. “Mikey’s out on bail. Judge didn’t set a court date though. The prosecution requested additional time for investigation.” He raised an eyebrow.
“The feds?”
“I’d put money on it.” He tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and slapped me on the shoulder. “Andiamo.”
Marco, Vito, and Vinnie had been coming to this high-stakes poker game for years. Run by wealthy French financier and information broker Assane Durand, the game hosted some of the most powerful and deadly men in the Northeast. And the occasional celebrity. Durand either cut a deal with the owner or had dirt on him, because once a month, the penthouse gaming suite transformed into his personal battlefield where cutthroats tested their mettle over green felt on neutral territory.
I hadn’t attended a game in years. Vito never missed, but Marco had an engagement with Anna’s family, so I was Vito’s plus one.
As much as I wanted to spend another night buried between Siobhán’s legs, I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to ingratiate myself with Assane Durand. Information was the most precious form of currency, and Durand held the equivalent of gold in the Fort Knox vaults. Unfortunately, he was as guarded with his information as the US was with its reserves.
I also needed to blow off steam. It had been a rough week with Vinnie breathing down my neck about moving those game consoles, Matteo’s constant messages about booking Sources, and the usual fuckery that went down at The Dollhouse. Nothing like dropping a stack of Gs to distract my racing mind.
Slot machines buzzed and clinked, laughter and applause broke out from the craps tables, and beneath the raucous melody, the conversations of a packed casino provided a bassline. We strode quickly to the elevators at the back of the main hall.
“How are things at Pompeii?” I’d been intrigued by the acquisition since Marco first toyed with the idea of claiming a foothold in the financial district. The location had potential, and if things had gone differently, I’d have thrown my hat into the ring to manage the new club.
“Mired in paperwork,” he said. “That historical classification is a real pain in the ass.”
I snorted, and we stepped into the elevator.
“But we’re pushing it through.” He eyed me. “With the help of a few city officials who can’t stop betting on the Pats.”
I cocked a knowing grin. “Hey, whatever works. The sooner that place opens, the better. I’m getting real twitchy about the Irish. More than usual.” He raised an eyebrow. “That thing with Mikey, the feds showing up all the way out in Framingham. Cops aren’t that motivated without being clued in, and we all know whose take they’re on in this city.”
“Here’s where I say, your vendetta is making you paranoid.”
“But you’re not going to say that, are you?”
He stared back at me, lips pursed.
“I didn’t think so.”
We stepped off the elevator into the lobby outside the penthouse. The guard at the double doors recognized Vito with a nod, keyed in the passcode, and opened the door. We walked into the luxury suite turned private gaming hall, and another guard waited next to a strongbox the size of a small cabinet. He held out a metal detector and waved us forward.
“Weapons,” he said and unlocked the cabinet.
I pulled the gun out of my shoulder holster and handed it to him. Vito did the same. He placed them in the strongbox, locked it, and ran the metal detector over both of us, focusing on our ankles and torsos.
“Go ahead,” he said and waved us through.
I rebuttoned my jacket, and we moved toward the back of the entryway and through another set of doors.
Thick damask drapes with gold brocade, gilded Louis XIV mirrors, tables, and chaise longues, and a sparkling crystal chandelier made the opulent space look as though we’d walked into a ballroom at Versailles instead of a casino penthouse in Worcester, Massachusetts.
Beneath the bright lights, a full-sized poker table took center stage complete with one of the casino’s dealers. Vinnie sat at the table, huffing down a cigar. A cocktail waitress sat across his lap, and I was surprised the antique chair didn’t give out under their combined weight. He whispered something in her ear. She laughed, swatted his arm, and launched herself out of his lap toward the bar at the back. He turned to the two men sitting on his right.
To Vinnie’s left, Assane Durand quietly stirred his drink, his ebony skin stark against his high-collared white dress shirt and fat tie. Thick horn-rimmed glasses were perched atop a broad nose that, given his long, thin face, made for a distinctive profile. The glasses amplified the unique color of his calculating eyes—light brown, almost gold. Such a stark contrast to his dark complexion, you couldn’t help but stare.
“Welcome,” he said, and his velvety French accent added to the palatial ambiance. “Have a seat, s’il vous pla?t. We’re about to begin.”
We moved toward the two empty chairs on Durand’s right, and that’s when I saw him.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” The vitriol escaped before I could contain it.
The room fell deathly silent, and the eyes of every man descended on me. I felt their focus even though mine was locked on the source of my outburst.
Ciarán Shaughnessy lifted his gaze from his drink, curiosity alive in bright blue eyes that matched those I’d left only hours before.
The tips of my fangs pressed into my bottom lip, and I started, ready to end my vendetta right then and there. But Vito squeezed my shoulder and held me back.
“Cool it, boss,” he mumbled and brushed past me to take the seat next to my enemy.
If it were possible to murder someone with my eyes, Ciarán Shaughnessy would already be dead. I closed them, not wanting the humans to see me turn, and breathed steadily through my nose, fighting the power in my blood and willing my fangs to retreat.
“This is neutral territory, messieurs.” Durand’s cool, conversational tone only made his pronouncement more imperious. “All are welcome.”
“Who the fahck ah you, pretty boy?” Ciarán snapped in a Southie accent as thick as Siobhán’s when she let it fly.
Vito glared across the table to where Vinnie watched the scene unfold with amused interest. “A heads up might’ve been good, Vinnie,” he growled.
“He knows better than to start something here. Don’t you, Luca?”
I narrowed my eyes. This was a setup. A fucking test. I ground my teeth and took the seat to Vito’s left.
Ciarán Shaughnessy eyed me. “Luca? Luca Moretti?”
The man sitting on Vito’s right could have been Siobhán’s twin, and the resemblance made my stomach turn. He folded thick freckled arms across his chest, and his lips cocked in an irritating smirk that made me want to punch him in his smug face.
“ Fahck . I’d’ve brought more muscle if I knew this hothead was showin’ up.”
“Messieurs,” Durand said, terse and abrupt. His golden eyes captured mine then Ciarán’s. “This is a civilized game. If you are unable to conduct yourselves in a polite manner, my associates”—he lifted his chin to where two men the size of small giants stood on either side of the door—“will escort you to the lobby, and you will no longer be welcome. Comprenez-vous?” He leveled us with his uncanny stare.
I replied with a terse nod.
“Bien. Let us begin.”
The dealer stepped up to the table. Vinnie leaned into his conversation with the men on his right. Durand gestured over his shoulder to the waitress. Vito stacked his cash. I did the same, then took the cigar case out of my breast pocket and got to work. There was no way I’d make it through the night without taking the edge off. Fucking Vinnie and his fucking tests.
“I hear you have quite the vendetta against me, Moretti.” Ciarán’s accented voice crossed the corner of the poker table.
I picked up my cards and gestured to the waitress. “Glenfiddich. Neat. Single malt. The older the better.” She nodded and left to get my drink.
Cigar between my teeth, I fanned the cards and examined my hand.
“Not just you,” I said through a cloud of smoke. I placed my cards face down and avoided meeting Ciarán’s gaze. I couldn’t. He looked too much like Siobhán, and it was pissing me off. I locked eyes with Vinnie instead and wrapped my thumb and forefinger around the cigar, removing it from between my teeth. Smoke trailed out from between my lips, a slow serpent slinking toward the ceiling. “Your family.”
Vinnie nodded, almost imperceptible, but he was pleased I was holding it together.
Ciarán snorted. “You Italians and your blood feuds…”
The man next to Vinnie tossed a wad of cash onto the table. “Five thousand,” he announced in a heavy Russian accent.
Everyone else threw in, and the game began.
The waitress returned with my drink. I inhaled the oak notes and let the woody sweetness dance on my tongue.
“An eye for an eye, isn’t that it?” Ciarán asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.” I folded. My pair of fours wasn’t doing me any favors. Not in this crowd. “There are other ways to even a score.”
I picked up my drink, sat back in my chair, and the mouthful of scotch burned a trail down my throat into the hollow pit of my stomach. My plan to pump the leverage living in my house for information had been sidelined by the fallout from the hijacking, but there was another way I could use Siobhán to exact my revenge. One that hadn’t occurred to me until that moment.
Ciarán Shaughnessy studied his cards, only a hint of a smirk on his thin lips. He’d aged more than she had, his blond hair a motley of close-cut golds and grays, the lines on his face etched deep into weathered skin. But her nose was there, dusted with freckles that spread across the pale skin of his high cheekbones.
He had her eyes. The motherfucker had her eyes, and I hated him for it. Because in those eyes I saw another answer, another way to cause the Shaughnessys pain, and it was disgusting and wrong and I was going to do it anyway.
He flipped his cards over and threw a stack of cash into the pot. “Seems to me my da is the one who evened the score. Payback for coming around Charlestown and operating on Irish territory. You know the rules.”
“I do.” I glanced at Vinnie and brought my glass to my lips. “More than most.”
Vinnie held my gaze, face unreadable.
“Territories…” I mumbled, disgusted. “Stronzo. My father was taken from me by a bunch of Micks little better than common thugs. No code. No honor. The score is far from settled.”
“Watch your language, Monsieur Moretti,” Durand interjected. “Civilized.”
I tilted my head in deference, but the rage boiling my insides wasn’t about to back off this verbal joust. Or my chance to initiate an endgame.
Ciarán folded, ending the round, and glared at me. “You gonna settle it then, or are you all talk?”
I smiled, smug and mocking, knowing the ace in my pocket, and drained the rest of my scotch.
He shook his head. “Whatever, Moretti. I don’t give a fig what you do.”
The dealer collected the cards and dealt the next hand. I finished my cigar and ordered another drink. Vito and I talked about the community boxing tournament planned for the following month. Vinnie chatted with the Russians, Ciarán with the man between him and Durand.
Another hour passed, and so did the second round. The scotch did its work; my rage cooled to a simmer. Suit jackets were discarded, sleeves rolled up. Vinnie even shared one of his precious cigars with the Russian next to him. Durand remained as buttoned up and proper as ever.
Cards landed in front of me. The final hand. Durand kept the monthly sessions to no more than three hours.
I reached into my left pocket and brought one of the two cell phones there into my lap. I made sure it was the right one and clicked the volume all the way up. I put it back in my pocket and picked up my cards.
“Have you talked to your cousin lately, Shaughnessy?” I asked and examined my hand.
In my periphery, Ciarán froze. He must’ve realized the tell and tried to play it off with a roll of his shoulders he wanted to look like a shrug.
“I’m Irish-Catholic. I have a lot of cousins,” he said with feigned indifference. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
I kept my eyes on my cards. “Oh, I think you know which cousin I’m talking about.”
Vito cleared his throat. The other players’ heads were down studying their cards. Vinnie ordered another drink.
“No, I haven’t,” he said through his teeth. “She’s on vacation. But you already knew that. She works for your uncle.”
I tipped my head in acknowledgment.
Vinnie eyed me from across the table, brows drawn together, probably wondering where this was going.
I waited for the inevitable. The question Ciarán Shaughnessy didn’t want to put out there but couldn’t resist asking.
Antes were tossed into the pot. The dealer placed the turn on the table, and I studied reactions, a great excuse to watch Ciarán squirm.
He chewed on the question. The muscles of his jaw worked around his distaste for it, and he spat it out. “Why?”
A pair of aces. I upped the ante and shrugged a shoulder. “Curious if she’s mentioned whether she’s enjoying her time off.” I sipped my scotch.
Ciarán’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure what you’re implying, Moretti, but you’ll have to do better than that to throw me off my game.”
He met the ante. So did the rest of the table, oblivious to the verbal antes Ciarán and I exchanged. Except for Vito. He reached for a fresh pour of Jack Daniels and drained the glass.
“No one’s trying to throw you off your game.” I gave him my best shit-eating grin. “No need.” Good thing murder-by-glare wasn’t a thing, or my immortal ass would’ve been dead. “You’re the one who asked if I was going to settle the score.”
“Is that a threat?” He sat forward. “I swear to God if you go anywhere near her?—”
“Monsieur Shaughnessy,” Durand warned.
“Considering why she left Boston, I’m not sure anyone in your family should be taking the moral high ground on Siobhán’s safety.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tell me”—I cocked an eyebrow—“does she know O’Doyle’s been alive all these years?” I raised my eyes and captured his, wanting to witness every second of his reaction. “And that you knew?” Color climbed his neck, and his eyes flashed with hatred. “I’ve seen the scars, and they run a lot deeper than her skin.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he ground out through a tightly clenched jaw.
“Whatever makes you sleep at night.” I kept my eyes locked with his and sipped my scotch. “But she’s safer in my bed than she’s ever been with your family.”
Ciarán launched to his feet, upending his chair, face red with rage. “Lies!” He pointed at me across the table, his other hand balled into a fist at his side. “Keep my cousin’s name out of your filthy fucking mouth, or I’ll rip your goddamn tongue out!”
“Monsieur Shaughnessy!” Durand barked. “This is your final warning. If you cannot control yourself, I will have my men see you to the door.”
Ciarán seethed but dropped his pointed finger. He was having a hard time keeping himself under control, but my guess was he didn’t want to fuck up his invite to a seat at Durand’s table. No one wanted to lose access to a man who not only dealt in cards but information. His jaw worked, and he bent to right his overturned chair.
“Monsieur Moretti.” Durand’s voice returned to its normal timbre. “I appreciate the decorum you’ve maintained, but please refrain from provoking Monsieur Shaughnessy.” His gold eyes glinted with what looked a lot like amusement.
I plastered an innocent expression on my face and raised my hand in deference despite having zero intent to fold. The rising tide of my anger at Ciarán Shaughnessy’s self-righteous bullshit drove my hunger for vengeance to new heights. The son would pay for the sins of the father.
Ciarán stood behind his righted chair, but as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, he mumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?” I bit out.
“I called you a fucking liar .” He reached into his pocket and took out his cell.
I kept my face unmoving, a mask of indifference even as my insides jumped.
He stepped away from the table, showing us his back, and raised the phone to his ear with one hand, shoving the other in his pocket.
A shrill ringtone cut through the silence like shots fired.
Ciarán spun around, searching for the source.
I looked down, surprised and confused, and reached into my pocket where Siobhán’s phone screamed to be answered.
It rang again, and I held it up. “How’d that get in there?”
“Figlio di puttana,” Vito swore under his breath.
Ciarán’s eyes widened, and the color drained from his face. He held the phone to his ear as if desperate for someone to answer it. So I did.
“Must’ve picked up the wrong phone when I left the house,” I said into Siobhán’s phone while holding his horrified gaze.
Color returned to Ciarán’s face, and it flamed red with outrage. He dropped his phone and stormed across the room, coming at me with balled fists. “Where is she?” he shouted.
I launched from my chair and stepped back. I glanced at my watch. “Probably in bed by now.” I smirked. “Waiting for me to come home and?—”
Ciarán hauled off to punch me. I had half a mind to let him connect. It would give me an excuse to beat the ever-loving shit out of him. But this was a test, and I didn’t need Vinnie riding my ass. I needed revenge.
My guard went up in record time thanks to my work in Vito’s ring, and I blocked the punch.
“I swear to fucking God, Moretti, if you touch her, I’ll fucking kill you. Do you hear me? I’ll fucking kill you!”
A high-pitched whistle flew across the room. Durand’s bodyguards didn’t waste any time. Within seconds they materialized on either side of us. Ciarán dropped his arms to his sides, seething, but the low simmer of my hatred had sped to a rolling boil.
“How does it feel, Shaughnessy?” I asked, slow and menacing, my voice thick with spite. “How does it feel to have someone you love taken from you?” The pain I wanted Ciarán Shaughnessy to feel clawed its way out of my lungs with each venomous word. “How does it feel knowing I had more than her name in my filthy fucking mouth? ” I stepped forward, fighting the rage that threatened to turn my eyes. I glared down at him and lowered my voice. “That she belongs to me? That she’s mine?”
He swung at me. With my supernatural reflexes, I caught his right fist in my hand and squeezed, hard enough that he froze.
“And I’m going to remind you of that. Every. Fucking. Day. That’s how I’m going to even the score. By torturing you with the knowledge that I took her from you. I took her from your family. And you will never get her back. Blood for blood.”
He roared like an animal and swung a left cross. I threw up a block. He yanked his arm back and his right fist out of my grip, coming at me with feverish attempts to land a punch. “You fucking asshole! I’ll fucking kill you!”
Durand’s men grabbed Ciarán’s swinging arms. Which was a good thing, because my fangs descended, and I was a heartbeat away from fully turning and unleashing my own rage.
They pulled him off me, and I stepped back, hands raised, breath heavy in my nostrils as I focused every ounce of control on keeping my lips sealed around my fangs and my eyes from lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree.
“Get him out of here,” Durand ordered.
They tugged at Ciarán’s arms and moved for the door, but after a few steps, he shook them off and marched toward it himself.
“Fuck this,” he said and stopped with his hand on the knob. “I want my gun. And my phone.”
Durand gestured to the waitress behind him. She lowered her ear, nodded, and retrieved the dropped phone, returning it to its owner.
“You may pick up your gun tomorrow after you’ve collected yourself, Monsieur Shaughnessy,” Durand said coolly.
Ciarán landed a death glare on me. The hate in his eyes matched the hate in my heart. No one stood between us except Durand’s guard, and his attention was focused on Ciarán.
I let my power fly, and my eyes flared. I cocked my lip, baring my left fang. I tongued the tip and winked. His eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped, but then his features hardened, and he flung the door open and stormed out, slamming it behind him.
I had him, and this revenge would be sweeter than I imagined, because I would drag it out, a long, slow punishment while I collected evidence of his involvement with the feds. I’d prolong his pain with every picture and every video I sent him of me owning Siobhán. And once I found proof? I’d put a bullet between his eyes.
The adrenaline rush from driving the stake into his heart tonight combined with the anticipation of twisting it over and over again made me eager to get out of there and begin his torture.
I closed my lips over my fangs, rolled my shoulders, and took a couple deep breaths to get my eyes under control.
“Messieurs,” Assane Durand said, “it seems our game has come to an unexpected end. S’il vous pla?t, collect what is yours.”
The other players stood, polished off their drinks, and gathered their cash. I walked back to my seat at the poker table under the assault of Durand’s unwavering golden stare.
“Monsieur Moretti. Consider tonight a warning. Next time, I won’t be as patient.”
Durand never broke eye contact, and I swear he never blinked. It was unnerving. I gave him a deferential nod, and finally, he released me. He stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and left the table, making his way to the doors at the back of the suite without further ado.
“Fucking hotheads,” Vito grumbled.
I picked up my cash and tucked it into my jacket, too focused on the satisfaction of fucking with Ciarán Shaughnessy to register Vito’s words.
“Luca,” Vinnie said.
He stood at the table where Durand’s men opened the safe with our guns. His tight expression gave nothing away and left me wondering if I’d passed his test or if I was about to get reamed.
I met him at the table, and the guard handed me my piece. I tucked it into my holster, buttoned my suit coat, and followed Vinnie out of the suite.
He clasped my shoulder and squeezed. “Well played. See what happens when you follow the rules?”
We stopped at the elevators. Not many people were taller than me, but Vinnie had me by an inch. He arched a dark eyebrow beneath his slick salted hair. “Don’t let Marco find out,” he said in a warning tone. “You might be playing by the rules, but that doesn’t mean you won’t piss him off. And he’s the last person you want to piss off.”
The elevator dinged.
We rode to the ground floor in silence, my mind’s singular focus on my next move. Vengeance was within reach, and I wasn’t about to let it slip through my fingers just to appease Marco. Fuck him.
* * *
“Siobhán!”
I stormed into the kitchen from the garage, my insides heated from stewing for the hour and a half it took me to drive from Worcester to Saugus. I tossed my jacket over a chairback.
“Siobhán!” I shouted up the stairs and went back into the kitchen for a glass of scotch.
My body vibrated with anticipation and my mind raced, but I needed a drink to settle my stomach as much as my nerves. Nausea cut through my excitement every time I thought about the video I was about to record and send to that prick from Siobhán’s phone.
“Siobhán!” I shouted again.
The French doors slid open, and Siobhán stepped into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Luca?”
A knot formed in my chest centered around my heart. She had on my old college hoodie again, the one that was too big on her and ended below her shorts. One of the sleeves fell past her hand. The other one she held scrunched up in her fist. She shuffled toward me with sleepy eyes and a guilty smile.
“Sorry. I know you don’t want me wearing your clothes, but…” She stopped in front of me and wrapped her arms around her middle. “It’s warm, and it smells like you, and I wanted to sit outside on the deck.” Her smile turned sheepish. “I must’ve fallen asleep. It was so cozy out there with the big blanket and your sweatshirt.”
The ends of the knot around my heart pulled tight. I slammed the scotch.
She placed her hands on my chest and tilted her head. “I’m glad you’re back.” Her lips twitched with a hint of a smile.
The knot strangled my aching heart, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Nausea swelled, and a wave of dizziness washed over me. I willed myself to push her away and tell her to get on her knees. To drop my pants, pull out my dick, and pull out her phone. But I didn’t. Instead, I stared into eyes that looked up at me with so much love, I thought I might be sick.
I stepped back, and her hands fell from my chest. I shoved mine into my hair and tugged, hoping the pain might force air back into my lungs. My eyes darted, looking anywhere but Siobhán’s adoring face, but the knot around my heart continued to suffocate me from within.
“I can’t do this,” I mumbled and stumbled into the living room.
“Do what?” Siobhán’s voice was soft and concerned. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
I crouched in front of the entertainment center, unlocked it, and grabbed her purse. I quickly shut and locked the doors.
“Luca?”
I couldn’t look at her. I set her purse on the island, took her cell out of my pocket, and dropped it in. I braced myself with both hands on the counter and let my chin fall to my chest, staring at nothing. “Go get your stuff,” I said in a low rumble. “I’m taking you home.”
The blood rushing in my ears sounded like a torrent amid the silence.
“Right now? It’s—it’s three in the morning.” Her hand landed on my back. It moved up and down along my spine and with each touch meant to soothe, the knot tightened, and stars danced before my eyes. “Why don’t you come to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said to the counter. “I told you I’d keep you here until I figured out what to do with you, and—” I swallowed. “I’m taking you home.”
She dropped her hand. “So that’s it? You’re done with me?” she asked, her voice shaky and confused.
I didn’t answer.
“I see. Couldn’t figure out how to use me, so you fucked me instead and now you’re done?”
I ground my teeth. What was I supposed to say? That I was going to hurt her family by hurting her. That I wanted to use her and her feelings for me to create as much pain for them as I’d endured for the last thirty-five years. That I needed her out of my life, because I couldn’t do it, and every day she stayed was one more day my father remained unavenged.
I pushed off the counter. Her blue eyes flashed with hurt and contempt.
“You asked me not to break you. I’m trying—” The words caught in my throat, and I swallowed.
She nodded to herself. Her lips twisted and trembled as she fought tears, but worse than that was the look in her eyes. They weren’t bright with rage or downcast with sadness. No. They brimmed with disappointment. Disappointment for herself. Disappointment for us. Disappointment in me.
“Coward.” She spat the word out, showed me her back, and marched up the stairs, leaving me alone with my vendetta.