Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Siobhán
L ights sped by in streaks through my tears. I probably should have paid attention to where we were going, but all I could think about was the wind whipping off the Charles River, the sensation of falling, and how my worst nightmare had come true. I was going to die from the exact thing I’d spent my life trying to escape—my mobbed-up South Boston Irish family. And to twist the knife, I’d once seen myself in a future with the man who was going to kill me.
We pulled up a driveway into a garage. Luca turned off the Ferrari, and we sat in strained silence. I stared out the passenger window at everything and nothing and clicked my fingernail against my teeth in time with my heartbeat, a nervous habit I’d developed in the hospital as a teen. My heart rate climbed with each second he didn’t move, each drawn-out breath bringing me closer to my end.
“Stop that,” he barked.
I dropped my hand from my mouth and faced him. He pressed his lips into an angry line. Tears welled in my eyes at the hatred in his, and that seemed to piss him off even more.
My stomach cramped. The acid made me nauseous and ate at my remaining composure. I wrapped my arms around my middle and folded forward, trying to ease the burn.
Within moments, Luca was out of the car and outside my door. “Out.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled. “Don’t step in that shit.”
I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed out, careful to avoid the puke-splattered mat.
My legs wobbled, but he held me upright. He moved me to the side and leaned forward, inspecting the damage my stomach had done to his interior.
“Goddammit!” He put his face within an inch of mine. “Don’t. Move,” he ordered through clenched teeth and released me.
My poor arm had taken a lot of abuse. I rubbed the soreness, certain he’d left bruises. I glanced over my shoulder at the open garage door, ready to bolt, but my legs shook so badly, I was sure my knees would give out before I made it to the driveway.
Luca extracted the floor mat like it was covered in hazardous waste. He looked around the garage and finally lifted his chin to the big city trash can. “Open that for me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” The quiet words were derisive despite my terror and stomach pain. “It’s rubber. Just hose it off.”
“I’d rather buy a new one that isn’t tainted.”
“Those mats are original.” My voice rose with irritation. “Where are you going to find a floor mat for a 308 GTS from 1985?”
“Fucking open it!”
“Fine!” I opened the stupid trash can. “What a waste.”
He tossed the mat in and wiped his hands on his pants. He grabbed me—luckily by the other arm this time—and yanked me toward the door at the back of the garage.
“Jesus!” I stumbled to keep up, and anger pierced the all-encompassing shroud of terror. “I get it. You hate me. You’re going to kill me. Message received. Is the manhandling really necessary?”
He shoved me through the door. “Take your shoes off,” he ordered above the rumble of the automatic garage door. He flicked the lights on, shut the door behind him, and brushed past me. In his socks.
The entryway opened into a spacious kitchen sparkling with bright white tiles, pale blue accents, and stainless steel. It looked like something out of a magazine or a showroom, not someone’s actual house. He tossed his keys on the stone countertop of the island and his jacket over the back of a black leather barstool.
To the left of the island, an eight-seat dining table with a polished natural finish stood before a wall of French doors obscured by vertical blinds. On the right, an archway led into the living room. It was dark, but the outlines of a sectional, a coffee table, and a big-screen TV were unmistakable. A hallway and a set of stairs between the kitchen and the living room led upward into darkness.
Luca went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.
“Now what?” I asked, irritated but shaky. “You take me into the woods and chop me into pieces?”
He pulled a lighter from his pocket and used it to pop the cap off the bottle. “Shoes.” He swigged the beer and raised his eyebrows. “Off.”
I stepped on the heels of my sneakers and pried my shoes off one by one. “You didn’t answer my question,” I grumbled and stepped into the kitchen.
He pursed his lips and examined me.
I examined him right back. I hadn’t noticed how different he looked. Not through all the shock—him being in my house, him being alive, him trying to throw me off the Tobin Bridge. But now, under the bright kitchen lights, Luca looked different than I remembered. Harsher. With thicker muscles and a close-cropped beard. He’d always been clean-shaven. And when he walked toward me, there was a hitch in his step, a slight limp I’d never noticed before.
He set his beer on the island. “You’ll stay here and help settle my vendetta.”
“What?” I shrieked. “Stay here?” I made a hysterical noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He shrugged, an easy, callous gesture, and drank his beer.
I stared at him in horror, unable to believe he would be so cruel as to prolong this torture. And be so nonchalant about it. This had to be some kind of sick joke.
“Good night, Siobhán,” I said, laying on a thick British accent. “Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” I shook my head, dislodging fresh tears. “This is beyond fucked up.”
My stomach boiled with acid. If Luca didn’t end me soon, my stomach would do the job for him. I wrapped my arms around myself. “What the hell did I do to you, Luca? Huh? Exist? Is that my crime?”
“Don’t play around, Siobhán.” He pointed his finger and his beer at my face. “You’re a liar and a rat. Don’t act like you don’t know what happens to rats.”
“I’m not a fucking rat!” I swatted at his finger, and he pulled his beer back, the angry sneer on his face blurred through fresh tears. “And I never lied to you. Ever.”
“You’re lying right now,” he growled, low and hot.
“What are you talking about?”
“That fake fucking accent. One big lie.”
“It’s not a lie! I left Southie when I was eighteen. I got the hell out of there and never looked back. I worked my ass off to build a new life, one without any ties to my family—not even my accent.” I stepped closer, reaching for him, wanting to recreate the connection we once had, wanting him to feel the truth of my words. He didn’t pull away even as I clutched his forearm. “It’s me, Luca. It’s Siobhán. The same woman you’ve always known. The one you met for lunches. The one who flirted with you across the lobby. The one you wanted to date?—”
He slammed the bottle on the island, and I jerked my hand away. Beer frothed and spilled over the edge as explosive and violent as the fury that teemed behind the flecks of red shining in his dark eyes.
My adrenaline spiked, and I stumbled back. I slammed my eyes shut and tried to slow my frantic breath. Fear was driving my imagination wild. When I reopened them, my vision cleared. Luca’s eyes were their normal coffee brown.
He stepped forward, closing the space I’d opened. “You led me on,” he said, accusatory but pained as though he’d dragged the words from a festering wound. But I had wounds of my own, wounds he’d created. Ones that spewed hot lava any time he picked at the scabs.
“Wait a minute.” I held up my hands and gave my head a slight shake. “Let me get this straight— I led you on?”
“You told me you were from Ireland. The first time we had lunch. ‘I’m from Cork,’” he said with an affected accent. “Trying to pass yourself off as some refined Irish woman when you’re just a fucking Shaughnessy from Southie.”
My blood boiled. Anger overtook fear, and I couldn’t contain the explosion. “You are such an asshole, Luca Moretti! You ”—I stabbed a nail into the brick wall of his chest—“ You were the one who asked me out. You were the one who was all too happy to get a fucking blowjob and then suck face with some bimbo the night before our date. You did that. Not me. So you tell me who led who on.” My voice rose with every word, my breath coming in short, heated bursts.
He clenched his teeth. “I told you. That wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Bullshit. It was exactly what it looked like.”
“Believe what you want, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the fact you’re a liar.” He swigged his beer.
“Argh!” I shrieked and punched him in the chest. “I am not a liar, and even if I was, that sure as hell isn’t a reason to kill me!”
“Isn’t it?” He cocked his head. “Why not tell me you were from Southie? Why not use your real accent?” He set his beer down and inched forward until I had to look up to meet his eyes. “Unless you were trying to hide something. Because you’re a rat.” He overenunciated the T , and his eyes narrowed. “Fact is, you didn’t want us to know you were a Shaughnessy, did you? Couldn’t keep feeding information to your cousin if Marco got rid of you.” He leaned closer. I leaned back, but he grabbed the back of my neck and yanked me into him. “I’ve seen Agent Johnson hanging around Terme. Ciarán’s in bed with the feds, isn’t he?”
I shook my head. “What?”
“Just like his father. Trying to take us down.”
“You’re insane,” I whispered.
“Am I?” He tightened his grip, and I winced. “I had a lot of time to think in Vinnie’s warehouse. A lot of time to reflect on how I ended up there, how Marco found out.” He pressed his lips together, and his nostrils flared.
Whatever happened in that warehouse, it wasn’t good. Terror claimed the front seat of the emotional rollercoaster I’d been riding all night.
“If you aren’t involved with your family, if you aren’t a rat, how did you know it wasn’t a Shaughnessy raid? How did you know your family wasn’t involved?”
“I already explained that to Marco. I?—”
“Marco can’t see what’s in front of his own face. Not when he doesn’t want to believe it and not when it might drag him into a war. You knew that. You used that.”
“No. That’s not true. None of that’s true. And not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s exactly what you did. To your own family. Hypocrite.” I spewed the venomous truth, and the muscle in Luca’s clenched jaw twitched. “But unlike you, I don’t want a war. I don’t want to see the people I love hurt. I tried to protect Marco. I told him it wasn’t a Shaughnessy raid so he wouldn’t retaliate.”
Luca seethed, and his fingertips dug into my neck, cutting off my air. “Nice story, Shamrock.” He spit the nickname, tossed me away, and backed up to retrieve his beer. He drained half of it.
“I remember when you called me that and it wasn’t a slur,” I mumbled, rubbing my neck, and the bitterness in my heart spread to engulf my entire body. “You really do hate me, don’t you?”
He pointed at me with his beer. “You stole Marco from me. You destroyed my chance at vengeance. You sentenced me to that—that hellhole.”
“No! You did that all to yourself, Luca! Don’t try and blame me for your mistakes. Again .”
He walked back to where I stood, clamped a hand around the front of my neck, and squeezed hard enough to make me scratch at his fingers. “I want blood. Shaughnessy blood. And because of your lies and because you’re a rat, I want that Shaughnessy blood to be yours.”
My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. There was nothing left to say. He’d channeled all his hatred and resentment into a single focal point—me. And in the face of abject terror, in the face of knowing I was going to die, the shock of losing Luca—the hurt, the confusion, the anger—swept through me for the third time in my life. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that was how he intended to kill me.
* * *
The palm-leaf ceiling fan spun in slow circles. It flickered the shadows cast by the moonlight. I stared wide-eyed at the spinning blades from beneath the bedsheets, emotionally and physically exhausted, but unable to sleep.
Luca hadn’t said another word to me after declaring that he wanted to take payment for his father’s blood with mine. Just finished his beer without so much as a glance in my direction.
He locked my purse in the cabinet beneath the TV in the living room, then dragged me upstairs by my abused arm, shoved me in a room, and locked the door.
I immediately checked the window. It slid open with ease, but there was no way to climb down. Just sheer brick all the way to the ground. I screamed at the top of my lungs—“Help! He’s going to kill me! He’s a fucking psycho! Help! Please!”—hoping a neighbor might hear and call the cops. Instead, Luca stormed into the room, yanked me back with so much force I thought he dislocated my shoulder, and slammed the window.
His eyes had burned with fiery menace. “One more time and we’re going out on Birch Pond tonight and ending this. Drowning with chains around your ankles is just as effective as breaking your neck from hitting the Charles.”
The threat shocked me into silence.
He tossed me onto the bed. “I’m a light sleeper. Don’t try anything.” He walked out, leaving the door ajar.
I followed the fan’s rhythmic whir with my breath, trying to slow my heart rate. All I could do was close my eyes and attempt sleep and hope an escape opportunity presented itself in the morning. Maybe with a clear head and calm body, I’d find a way out.
But closing my eyes introduced a fresh source of torture—images of a packed Vesuvio. I rolled away from the door, squeezed my eyes shut, and shoved my face into the pillow, trying to dislodge the memory of when everything fell apart.
I’d wanted a quiet night out with the girls—one free drink after dinner enjoyed in a corner booth instead of slammed against the bar before heading home. I had a date the next night and didn’t want to be hungover, tired, or both. Luca was finally taking me out, and after our unexpected late-night tryst Wednesday, I was more than ready for whatever came next.
We headed toward the back of the club, navigating past Friday-night corporate partiers, sweaty clubbers, and college coeds. It was darker in the back, but there were fewer people, and I spotted a single empty booth along the wall. Score.
I met my friends’ eyes and lifted my drink. One of them tipped her chin at the corner booth where a couple was partaking in PDA best left in private.
I twisted my face in disgust. “Gross,” I shouted over the music.
She nodded and rolled her eyes. But there was only one empty booth left, so we’d have to deal with inappropriate neighbors.
We made a beeline for our unlikely prize when my attention snagged on the corner booth, pulled back to the scene by some unknown force. I stared at the shadowed couple. In particular, the silhouette of the man’s head and shoulders. His hair blocked his profile, but something about the way it fell just past his chin…
He came up for air, dislodging himself from the woman’s neck. He tucked his hair behind his ear, revealing a devastatingly handsome jawline, a perfectly straight nose, and full, pouty lips I’d recognize from a mile away.
Luca.
My stomach lurched, and my hands started to shake. I squeezed the stem of my martini glass like it was his neck. My feet propelled me forward, controlled by heartbreak-fueled ire.
“You fucking asshole,” I said, loud enough to hear over the music, but calmly enough that anyone within earshot knew I was deathly serious.
His head snapped up, and his eyes went wide. “Siobhán,” he said, and his throat bobbed through a swallow.
The woman next to him smiled and straightened a few loose strands of hair.
I lost it. “You fucking asshole!” I screamed and tossed the martini in his face.
The woman squealed and scooted away.
He wiped the drink out of his eyes and examined his martini-soaked shirt. “What the fuck?” He climbed out of the booth and shook vodka and olive juice from his hands.
A spiderweb of cracks formed at the center of my heart. My temper rose as the fissures spread and shattered the bruised muscle into pieces. I strangled the empty glass, holding onto the stem like it was a club and wanting to hit him with it and hurt him as badly as he’d hurt me.
He held up his hands, and his face softened with concern and regret. He stepped forward and lowered his voice. “Listen, Siobhán, this is not what it looks like.”
“Not what it looks like? Ah you fahcking kidding me?” My cheeks burned. I was embarrassed, enraged, and utterly devastated, and my remaining control evaporated with his lame excuse. “You were attached to her neck like a leech. The night before ah date. Two days after ? —”
I hiccupped a sob, my throat hot with emotion at the thought of what I’d done. What I thought we’d shared. I clamped my lips shut and bit the inside of my cheek. I’d be damned if I let him see me cry.
He narrowed his eyes and studied me like he’d never seen me before. He closed the gap between us, and his eyes burned with an anger that seemed to spark in the low light of the club. “What happened to your accent?”
“What?” I snapped.
He loomed over me, dark and menacing. “What happened to your accent, Siobhán?” The question was clipped and heated, and his face twisted with anger and hurt as palpable as mine. “You lied to me.”
I rolled onto my back, cheeks wet from reliving that horrible night for the millionth time. How had it all gone so wrong? How had I believed that he was any different from every other macho, womanizing man in my life? How had I forgotten what that night had done to him? How his pain—as deep and as real as mine—had transformed something more than affection into disdain and distrust? And how had I forgotten what that night had done to me?
I closed my eyes. Silent tears fell onto the pillow, and I wept myself to sleep.