Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Luca
“W hat the hell is that?” I strode up the path between my driveway and the front porch.
Dominic sat in the Adirondack chair thumbing through the Boston Globe . The door was closed and so were the windows, yet guitar riffs echoed through the walls as loudly as if speakers were mounted on the awning.
He dropped his arms, and the newspaper crinkled into his lap. He glared at me, eyebrows drawn together. “That,” he said, “is the third time she’s played that song.” He folded the newspaper, pushed himself out of the chair, and shoved the crumpled pages at my chest.
My jaw tightened, confusion, irritation, and no small amount of curiosity battling it out for my attention.
“Just wait till she starts singing.” He clapped my shoulder and squeezed like he was sending me into battle, then walked down the path to where his truck waited, pulling out his keys as he went.
My fingers closed into a tight fist around the newspaper, and I flung open the front door.
Detritus covered the island and stovetop like war had been waged against my kitchen. The mess squeezed the air from my lungs as surely as the wall of sound reverberating through my chest. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat next to an open jar of green olives, its lid and toothpicks strewn around its base. Two dirty pint glasses swam in a puddle of liquid. One held half-melted ice cubes. The other remnants of some cloudy liquid. Condensation trailed down both glasses into the shallow pool. A stainless-steel pot waited on the stove, probably for someone to empty it, and a colander taunted me from atop the counter, gleefully announcing its escape from its rightful place in the sink.
Opposite the warzone, Siobhán stood on my sectional wearing a pair of my sunglasses, feet separated in a wide stance. She hoisted a martini glass and held the TV remote in front of her mouth.
“Toniiight!” she sang into her makeshift microphone, although calling it singing was generous. The sound was more akin to a stray cat in heat. “I’m a rock ‘n’ roll star!”
I winced. The ear-splitting, off-key wail was as offensive as the state of my kitchen and made my already tense chest tighten. I marched over to the stereo and killed the power. “What the fuck is going on in here?”
“Heyyy!” she whined and propped my sunglasses onto her head like a headband. “I was listening to that!”
“Get down!”
She stepped off the couch and landed with a thud, wobbling as she regained balance. “What’s your problem?” But it didn’t come out like that. It came out, “Wuzz’yer probbem?” like she was talking through a mouthful of cotton and had lost control of her tongue. At least she wasn’t wearing shoes.
She teetered forward, craned her neck, and squinted. “You have a really prominent vein on your temple.” She aimed a red fingernail at my face. I jerked my head out of the way. “It’s pulsating. Maybe you should get that checked out.”
My breath came hot and fast, and I crunched the newspaper into a tight wad. “Cazzo!” I stormed into the kitchen, tossed the newspaper in the trash, and rolled up my sleeves. “Che fottuto disastro. There’s shit everywhere.”
My heart fluttered, making me dizzy. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm my racing heart so I wouldn’t pass out. Clean. I needed to clean. I reached under the sink for a spray bottle of disinfectant and fresh rags.
Siobhán climbed onto the barstool and reached for the bottle of vodka. “Dramatic much? There’s literally one bottle, a jar, and two glasses.”
“And the pot on the stove and”—I craned my neck—“Fuck! Dirty dishes in the sink? There’s water and olive juice and toothpicks…” I grabbed the jar of olives and the lid.
“Hey! I’m not done with those!”
“Oh, you are so done with those.”
“What is it, Luca?” she asked innocently and batted her eyelashes. “Don’t like messes?”
I scowled, my hand flexing then fisting. I wanted to strangle her. “And what the hell are you doing anyway? Getting drunk?”
She shrugged and slid the two pint glasses toward her. “Yup.” She dumped vodka into one of the pint glasses. It splashed when it hit the melted ice.
“Great. More shit on my counter.”
She twisted her face. “Great. More shit on my counter,” she mocked in a less-than-flattering Italian accent.
To my horror, she made things infinitely worse by pouring the concoction back and forth between the two pint glasses, spilling more vodka on the counter with each transfer. Then she placed her fingers over the top of the glass with the ice and strained the “martini” into her glass.
I gaped at the mess—not just splashed across my island, but Siobhán herself.
She raised her eyebrows and took a big gulp of vodka. “What? You think I was going to wait quietly on the couch for you to come home and kill me?” She hiccupped, and an amused grin broke through her scowl.
I came around to her side of the island. “So you decided to get shit hammered?”
“I’m not shit hammered,” she snapped and spun on the barstool to face me. “I’m pleasantly buzzed,” she finished demurely and lifted her chin.
I scoffed.
“You should try it sometime. Might make you less of a dick.”
All my worry and dread that I’d irreparably broken Siobhán’s spirit vanished in a heartbeat. She was back. Albeit fucking tossed, but she was back.
“You are unbelievable,” I said, infuriated and relieved.
“I know,” she said, smug and smiling.
I rolled my eyes, and she stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
My stomach flipped. What the fuck.
I reached around her, grabbed the two pint glasses, and headed for the sink.
“What did you expect?” she shouted.
I glanced over my shoulder as I rinsed out the pint glasses. Her face was flushed, but not just from the vodka. Her glassy eyes flashed with anger.
“You leave me here all day like a—like a caged animal preparing for slaughter. Of course, I’m going to fucking drink. What the hell else should I be doing? And I would’ve kept on drinking until I passed out if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted music time. Being unconscious is a hell of a lot better than waiting for the man you’ve dreamed about for two years to come home and kill you.”
I froze, stunned silent.
Siobhán seethed, red splotches darkening her pale face. “Oh, don’t look so shocked.” She relaxed against the back of her barstool, martini glass dangling from red-tipped fingers.
I turned off the water, dried my hands, and leaned against the counter facing her.
“You knew I had feelings for you, and for some demented reason, I thought you had feelings for me too.” She averted her eyes, looking out the glass doors, and drained half her martini with a wince. “Whatever,” she mumbled. “It doesn’t matter.”
My jaw ached from the strain of grinding my teeth. It did matter. It mattered more than I wanted it to matter. It mattered so much, not only had I failed to push her off the bridge but seeing her broken that morning felt like a knife to my insides.
Fuck .
I ran a hand through my hair, stared at my feet, and squeezed. “I had feelings for you,” I mumbled, unable to deny the truth. The signs had been there. I just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge their source.
No response. I let go of my hair and lifted my gaze. Her lips parted, her eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears.
“But it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact your family killed my father. It doesn’t change the fact you lied to me. And it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact you led me to believe you were someone you’re not.” My voice grew louder with each layer of her betrayal.
She pursed her lips and moved her head through a slow nod. She shot back the rest of her drink, slid off the barstool, and walked around the island until she stood in front of me.
“You know what?” She poked my chest with her manicured finger, and the impact caused her to sway like she was on the deck of a ship. “I’m drunk enough and traumatized enough that I’m fresh outta fucks. I. Call. Bullshit. You wanna know what happened? Lemme break it down for you.”
I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow.
“We got too close, and it freaked you out. That’s right. I said it. We hooked up that night at Vesuvio, and it was fucking spectacular, and it scared the shit out of you. You couldn’t handle having something real, something special, something that wasn’t built on your bullshit flashy lifestyle and fake smiles. So you broke it.” Her voice wavered and caught. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her bottom lip trembled. “You ruined it. You went out the next day—the next fucking day , Luca—and hooked up with someone else.” She punched me in the chest, not hard, but it carried enough of her pain that it struck like a hammer. “You broke my heart, and when I thought it couldn’t hurt any more, you tried to blame it on me!”
Her voice rose to a fevered pitch. She pounded the side of her fist against my chest, and I let her. I had no right to stop her.
“You made up this grand tale about how I lied to you, how I was hiding some deep Southie secret, just so you’d have an excuse to hate me, so you could walk away from something most people only dream about. All because you were scared.” She hiccupped through a sob and struck my chest again. “And I hated you for it. I still hate you for it as much as you hate me.” She struck my chest over and over, tears and sobs shaking her body. “Because even after all that, I still wanted you. Those feelings never went away, and I have to live with them every”— strike —“single”— strike —“day.” Strike .
I grabbed her wrist on the last punch, and she broke down crying.
Overcome, I placed my hand on the back of her head and pulled her into my chest. She rested there for the briefest moment, then pushed off me and wriggled free.
“No,” she said and stumbled back, shaking her head. “Don’t.” She reclaimed her stool, grabbed the vodka bottle by its neck, and took a hefty swig before plunking it back down. She swayed, clutching the bottle on the counter.
“So”—she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve—“excuse me for getting drunk and trying to deal. Excuse me for trying to numb myself while I waited for you to come back and break my body like you broke my heart.” She swayed again, released the bottle, and rested her arms on the island and her forehead on the backs of her hands.
I stood dumbfounded, unable to speak or think or move. She sniffled and shifted, and all I could do was stare, because her drunken outburst wasn’t contrived. Alcohol was the world’s oldest truth serum, and Siobhán had drank enough that she didn’t have any filters left.
The seed of doubt planted during my visit to Vito’s gym sprouted. Its roots tangled around my stomach, thickening and squeezing and forcing me to acknowledge that my assumptions about Siobhán were wrong. Very wrong.
Was she a Shaughnessy? Yes. Did she lie to me? Kinda? Was she a rat? Doubtful. Had she purposefully led me on? No.
I rubbed my forehead, squeezed my eyes shut, and dragged my fingers down to pinch the bridge of my nose. I was exhausted from the brutal, frustration-fueled workout, a stressful afternoon with Matteo and Richie, and now this. I blew out a long, slow breath.
A snort from the island.
Siobhán rested the side of her face on the backs of her hands. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and steady, and every so often a snore escaped.
Passed out. All the vodka and carrying-on and she passed out sitting at my kitchen island.
I rolled up my sleeves and rested my hands on my hips, examining the mess. The mess Siobhán created—vodka, olive juice, toothpicks, melted ice—and the mess I created—Siobhán, heartbroken and passed out from a combination of vodka and panic.
I crouched next to the stool and hooked one arm beneath her knees and one arm around her waist. “Come on,” I said and shifted her body toward mine.
She sat up and wrapped her arms around my neck. I lifted her into my arms with almost no effort. Despite her height—five-eight?—she was shockingly light. She buried her face in my shoulder and wrapped her arms tighter around my neck.
“Are you taking me to the bridge now?” Her small words stabbed my heart.
“No. I’m putting you to bed.”
“Oh.”
I turned for the stairs.
“You smell like Luca,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by my shirt.
“That’s cause I am Luca,” I said, exasperated. My chest ached at the vulnerability in her voice, but I was equally pained by the wrench she’d thrown in my plans to avenge my father.
“No,” she whispered. “My Luca smiled. Every time he saw me, he smiled. A real smile. Just for me.” She slid her hand down my chest until it stopped over my heart. “From here.” And with those two words, she twisted the knife.
Lunches at Vittoria. Sipping coffee in the lobby. Stolen smiles across a conference room. I reached the top of the stairs eager to get Siobhán out of my arms and remind myself of who she was—a Shaughnessy. My enemy.
I turned sideways through the door to the guest bedroom and laid her atop the comforter. Her face was puffy from crying, her eyes a vibrant blue from the tears.
“It was never going to work between us, Siobhán. You’re a Shaughnessy. I’m a Moretti.”
She nodded. “So…” She rested one hand on her heart and the other on her stomach. “You’ll most likely kill me in the morning?” she asked, her voice soft and quaking with fear.
I grabbed the edge of the comforter and tugged. She wiggled until it came free, and I covered her with it. “Go to sleep, Siobhán.”
She closed her eyes, and fresh tears spilled down her face onto the pillow.
I ground my teeth and clenched my fists, hardening myself against her pain and mine and the urge to comfort us both. She rolled onto her side, clutching the comforter to her chin, and curled into a tight ball. I walked out of the room and closed the door behind me.
In the kitchen, I poured myself a finger of scotch and surveyed the other mess. The chaos on my counters was as distressing as the chaos in my mind. I needed order. I needed rightness. I needed to clean.
But even after the clutter was gone and the soothing smell of lemon disinfectant filled the air, the rapid assault of images and words merely slowed. The discordant offensive waged by my emotions continued to hold me hostage.
I splashed more scotch into my glass and retrieved the cigar case and lighter from my suit jacket. I went outside onto my deck, leaving the door ajar. Siobhán was thoroughly passed out, but I wasn’t taking chances. Not that I knew what the hell I was going to do with her anymore.
I pulled half of a cigar out of the case. I’d cut a fresh one a couple days ago. Unlike Marco and Vinnie, a smoke wasn’t permanently wedged between my lips. It wasn’t a habit for me, but it came in handy at times when cleaning didn’t cut it, and I needed something more to calm my nerves and focus my attention.
The wooden deck was cold under my bare feet and the damp spring air clean in my lungs. Refreshing after the heat of the past hour. I leaned against the rail and dragged cigar smoke into my mouth, holding it there and letting it ground me.
The woods created a sea of rustling darkness. The light of the streetlamps reflected off their new leaves. They waved with each kiss of the slight breeze.
We’d never kissed, Siobhán and I. After all the pining and yearning, after all the flirting and baiting, after the lap dance and the best blowjob of my life, no kiss. Like we’d struck some telepathic agreement to wait for the perfect moment before taking the plunge into something meaningful. Something we both thought had a chance. Something that never happened. And tonight, Siobhán turned the tables and laid the blame squarely at my bare feet.
Smoke swirled in front of me, backlit by the light leaking onto the porch from the kitchen. The only images I had of my mother were from the one photo album my father put together when I was a kid. That and the stories he told me about her beauty and kind heart. The way he reverently traced her picture behind the plastic as if he could reach through time and touch her face.
Humans were fragile creatures, an unfortunate lesson my father learned the hard way and one I never wanted to repeat. I kept women at arm’s length, especially humans. I always told myself, if I ever got into a relationship, it would be with a blood demon. There was no way in hell I’d risk what happened to my mother happening to someone I cared about. Not that I’d ever cared about anyone. Not until Siobhán.
Somewhere along the way, she pierced my armor and squeezed her way in through the crack. And I let her. Right up until that night at Vesuvio when the house of cards came tumbling down. She lied to me, and I hated her for that.
The wind gusted and fanned hair across my face. I threaded my fingers through it and pushed it away. Had I wanted her to catch me feeding that night? I took more risks than Marco or Vito, but feeding in the middle of Vesuvio? For anyone to see? I squeezed the thick strands and tugged, trying to pull myself back to what mattered.
In the pit of Vinnie’s warehouse, hatred had avalanched into something deeper, something crueler. I wanted to turn her into the instrument with which I took my revenge and ease my tormented mind. She stole that plan from me, a plan I’d held onto as if it were my soul’s last chance for survival. I hated her for that.
Uncomfortable feelings swirled like eddies in the river of my emotions—guilt, empathy, worry—but they couldn’t eclipse the powerful current of hate. Old memories of us surfaced, painful ones of happier times best left buried. They forced me to question my truths. I hated her for that too.
I pulled on my cigar, long and slow. Its earthy flavor settled on my tongue and bit the back of my throat, raw and harsh. As much as I hated Siobhán, a part of me wanted to climb up those stairs and into her bed, wrap my arms around her, and tell her everything would be okay. And for that, I hated myself.