Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Siobhán
“I still can’t believe you drive a 1985 308 GTS,” I said.
Luca turned off the engine, and the roaring beast quieted. We climbed out, and the Ferrari-red paint blazed in the noontime sun. He parked diagonally across two spaces as far as possible from every other car in the lot, which meant we were tucked in a corner even though there were plenty of spaces up front.
“Granted, they were the most widely produced Ferraris, and the most accessible to mere mortals, but—” I ripped my eyes away from the sexiest car I’d ever seen to find Luca halfway across the parking lot. I hurried to catch up. “That car is almost forty years old, but it looks like you drove it off the lot yesterday. Not to mention the engine. Purrs like a kitten.”
He snorted. “How do you know so much about cars?”
“I already told you. Da’s a mechanic. Or was. I grew up around cars. And there’s never a shortage of expensive ones at a chop shop. Plus, there were always car magazines lying around. I got bored. It was something to do.” I grabbed his forearm. “Can I drive it?”
He looked at me in horror. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
He scoffed. “You’d probably strip the clutch.”
I folded my arms and arched an eyebrow. “Cause I’m a woman I don’t know how to drive stick?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I’m going to drive that car.”
He got in my face. “No, you’re not.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said through an evil smile and crossed the last stretch of parking lot.
The automatic doors of Starmarket swooshed open. Someone must have set the air conditioning to Penguin Enclosure, and that grocery-store-refrigeration smell turned my empty hangover stomach, but I didn’t care. I was just stoked to be out of the house.
Luca reached for a basket, and I snatched it from him and shoved it back on the stack. “We need a cart.”
He groaned.
“What? You have no food in your house, and you’ve given me zero information as to how long you plan on holding me hostage. I need to eat. And as much as I love vodka and olives, I can’t survive on martinis.”
“Fine,” he said and jerked a cart out of the corral.
I led us toward the bakery. “So where’d you get it? Auction?”
“No. It was my father’s. He bought it new a year or so before he died. He was obsessed with that car. ‘The pride of Italy, figlio mio. And Magnum drives one.’” He chuckled, and the rare display of genuine happiness when talking about his past made me smile. “After he died, Vito—you know who Vito is, right?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Marco’s consigliere?”
He frowned, and a hint of suspicion colored his displeasure.
“I’m not a rat, Luca. I’m just not stupid.”
“Right,” he said, but drew the word out. “Anyway, after he died, Vito locked everything up—the house, the car, the boat”—my head snapped up—“Yes, I own a boat, and no, we can’t go out on it.” I frowned. “Froze his assets. Set up a trust.”
I picked up a loaf of Wonder Bread and put it in the cart, garnering a hefty amount of side-eye.
“Everything transferred into my name when I turned eighteen, but I didn’t touch any of it till after college.”
I picked up a package of chocolate chip cookies and held it up to him in question.
He shrugged.
“We’re shopping for you too,” I said. “There’s nothing to eat in that house.”
“I’m fine.”
“What? You don’t eat?”
“Of course, I eat.”
“You can’t cook?”
He gaped at me as if I’d blasphemed. “I’m Italian. Of course I can cook. I just choose not to. Easier to pick up some gabagool or a slice at Tarantino’s.”
I tossed the package in the cart. “Soup aisle.”
He turned the cart, and I followed.
“Well, that car is in perfect condition,” I said. “Amazing.”
“It was in perfect condition,” he said all surly and cocked an eyebrow.
I canted my head.
“It was in perfect condition until someone barfed on my passenger-side floor mat.”
I scoffed. “That’s your own damn fault. You kidnapped me and almost threw me off the Tobin Bridge, remember? I did nothing wrong.”
He grabbed my arm, pulled me close, and stopped the cart. “You may not be a rat, but you’re still a Shaughnessy. Don’t forget that, because I won’t.”
“I’m not doing this here,” I hissed. I yanked my arm free and marched down the soup aisle. I loaded two cans of chicken noodle into the cart and paused. “Any idea how long you’re going to keep me prisoner?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Until you help me even the score between our families.”
“I’d love to hear how you think I’m going to do that.” I put two more cans in the cart, then grabbed the handle and started driving it myself. “Care to clue me in on the grand plan?”
He eyed me sideways, his lips pressed into an irritated line.
“Ah. I see. There is no plan. Fantastic. Really fucking great, Luca.” I turned for the dairy section. “Selfish asshole,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
I stopped, faced him, and moved my mouth slowly through each word. “Selfish. Asshole.” I raised my eyebrows, and he scowled. I spun away and kept moving. “No better than Ciarán or Rory or any of the other selfish assholes in my life.”
“Don’t compare me to those lawless fucks. And what the hell’s that supposed to mean anyway?”
“Lawless, huh?” I snorted. “Says the kidnapper. And it means exactly what you think it means. You’re all the same. Selfish assholes.”
“I got you clothes, didn’t I? We’re grocery shopping, aren’t we?”
I glared at him and his smug face. “Oh, yeah. You’re a real paragon of charity. I’ll be sure to order you an engraved plaque.” I looked down at the slightly-too-big leggings and my off-the-shoulder long sleeve—the only clothes appropriate for public. “Booty shorts, crop tops, scraps of fabric I can only assume are underwear. Not to mention that—that blue thing.”
His nostrils flared at the mention of the sheer teddy I found buried in the gym bag. I’d thrown it across the room, pissed at his presumption and the flare of heat that had shot between my legs.
I poked him in the chest. “If you think I’m going to wear that for you, you’ve got another thing coming.”
He stepped into my space and flashed his trademark sexy smirk. “Thought you might want to practice your lap dance skills. Wouldn’t want you to get rusty.”
My cheeks burned. “Ugh!” I stormed away with the cart and left him chuckling in my wake.
I stopped in front of the cold case and nearly jumped for joy—full rows of my favorite coconut milk chocolate pudding cups. I started stacking them in the cart.
“Presumptuous too. All you care about is yourself. It doesn’t matter how what you want impacts me. Case in point—you have no reason to keep me. Your original plan is shot, and your new plan doesn’t exist beyond use Siobhán for revenge , which”—I pointed at him with a pudding cup—“for the record, is not an actual plan”—and tossed it in the cart.
“ For the record ,” he shot back, “I do have a plan.”
“Oh yeah?” I folded my arms. “Lay it on me.”
“I have questions. You’re going to answer them.”
I made a disgusted noise, something between a scoff and a snort. “Did you lose brain cells when you put on all that extra muscle? For the eight millionth time, I’m not a rat.”
He stepped around the end of the cart and crowded me. “Your cousin is working with the feds,” he said, low and scathing. My empty acid-stomach flipped, and I shook my head. “ He’s the rat, and you’re going to help me prove it.”
“I already told you. I stay out of my family’s business.” The words came out robotic, trying to hide that I suspected he was right about Ciarán. “Besides, I don’t talk. Not to Marco. Not to Ciarán. Not to you.”
“Oh, you will.” He leaned in close enough that I smelled his cologne. “Give it enough time, and you will.”
“So… You’re keeping me prisoner until I talk?” My indignation resurfaced, stomping all over my worry.
He backed up with a smug turn to his lips.
I put my hands on my hips so I wouldn’t grab his biceps and shake him. “It doesn’t matter to you how this might impact me and my life, does it? Not even accounting for the trauma you caused. You know I’m leaving Terme, which means you know this vacation isn’t a vacation. I have interviews lined up for the next two weeks, interviews that were extremely difficult to get. There isn’t exactly an overabundance of five-star resorts within driving distance of my parents. Who, by the way, I have to take care of, because Rory and Ciarán are just as selfish as you.”
My frustration and anger at the entire fucked-up situation would make my stomach start cramping if I didn’t tamp it down, but I couldn’t help myself. I jammed my finger into Luca’s rocky chest—hard this time—and hoped my pointy fingernail hurt like hell. “And when I miss those interviews? When I don’t even call to cancel? I lose those opportunities. Forever. You think those resorts will hire a GM who can’t be bothered to cancel an appointment, much less show up?”
His jaw and lips twitched as if fighting a grimace, but otherwise, he remained a stony wall.
“I can’t go back to Terme. Especially not after this debacle. And I can’t go back to Ireland and leave my mother who is afraid to walk and my father who has dementia to the mercy of unreliable, egotistical men. Which means you are ruining my career. For no reason.” The heat in my cheeks was as fiery as the burn in my stomach. “Selfish.” I poked him again in his chest. “Asshole.” And once more, with feeling. “Plain and simple.” I grabbed the cart and pushed it forward.
Rory. Ciarán. My uncle Paddy. My own da. Every asshole I dated who just wanted to fuck the tall skinny blonde. Luca. They were all the same. Self-absorbed, macho assholes who expected me to take care of them and any shit situation they created. The only exception? Marco. Despite his machismo, he gave me opportunity and support. A real chance at making a life in Boston. A home. And of course, because fuck my life, he turns out to be a don in the Italian Mafia.
Everywhere I turned, the life I never chose haunted me. Everywhere except Ireland.
I stopped and threw some bananas into the cart.
“What are you going to do with all that pudding?” he asked.
I looked at him, incredulous. “Were you listening?” His face revealed nothing. “Why am I even asking that? Of course you weren’t.” I resumed my quest with the cart. “What do you think I’m going to do with it? I’m going to eat it.”
“No one can eat that much pudding.”
“Wanna bet?” I cocked an eyebrow.
“Aside from the bananas, there’s not a single healthy thing in that cart.”
“Healthy is relative.”
He scoffed.
“Judgy much?” I sighed. “All right, Susan Powter, crash course on my digestive system.” I sped down the freezer aisle. “One of the bullets went through my stomach. They had to section off the damaged portion, so my stomach is about half the size it’s supposed to be, which means I can’t eat very much in one sitting. On top of that, they removed feet”—I met his eyes and stuck my head out—“ feet of my small intestines and several inches of my large, which means, of the small amount I can eat in one sitting, only a fraction of the nutrients gets absorbed. I can’t digest raw vegetables or any unprocessed grains without spending hours in the bathroom and wanting to end my life.”
He grimaced.
“Sexy, right?” I reached into the freezer and grabbed a pack of cherry popsicles. “And, after all the surgeries, what’s left of my stomach pumps out acid like nobody’s business. I have a wicked case of reflux, which means no foods with too much acid or spice and a steady intake of extra-strength Tums.” I tossed the popsicles into the cart. “Oh! And to add insult to injury, I was lactose intolerant before any of this happened, so…” I waved my hand over the contents of the cart like Vanna White presenting a dystopian smorgasbord. “These are my safe foods—high-calorie and processed as fuck. Stuff I can eat that won’t make me miserable. Healthy for me . Any questions?”
He stared at me, eyes wide and jaw slack.
Despite my bravado, my impromptu rant made me highly uncomfortable. I never told anyone about my over-the-top dietary restrictions, much less their origins. I made up all kinds of stories over the years about my scars, too. Surprisingly easy since the average person had no idea what a bullet wound looked like, especially amid all the other incisions.
Luca was the first person to see my stomach and immediately know what happened. I’m not sure why I told him the details. Maybe because he’d already guessed the gist. Or maybe because I wanted him to know why I’d “lied.” It had never been about pulling a fast one on him or Marco. It had been about escaping my past.
But this? Telling him the gory details of what I could and couldn’t eat?
Maybe I wanted to stick it to him. Drive home the fact that all the bullshit he made up about me and my motivations was just that—bullshit. That his decisions based on his stories were impacting my life, and I didn’t need one more man using me to make their life simpler. Maybe I wanted someone to care. Maybe I wanted him to care.
I’d exposed my truths and made myself vulnerable to the worst possible person. A man who had, in a way, cheated on me, then decided I was the root of all evil, kidnapped me, and tried to kill me. And I just explained to him that if I wasn’t careful with what I ate, I’d end up on the toilet.
What the fuck, Siobhán?
Falling back into conversation with Luca was too easy. All the lunches and chats and small talk before The Incident. Not to mention the strange magnetism that drew us together no matter where we were or who was around or what was happening. Like the universe was shoving us together, forcing us into something neither of us wanted but were destined to face.
“Whatever,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.” Because it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I was trapped, indefinitely, with no possibility of escape. “Let’s just get this over with and go back to the house.”
* * *
“Shoes!” Luca announced as soon as he walked through the door between the garage and the kitchen.
“Oh my god, you’re obsessed!” I said and toed them off.
“That was quick,” Dominic said from the living room. The TV was on. “Did you get me a calzone?”
I set the grocery bags on the island. Luca was already arranging items in the fridge like he was playing competitive Tetris. Labels out.
“Yes, I got your calzone,” Luca said. “It’s on the counter.”
“Perfetto. Grazie. Hai finito di giocare a fare la famiglia per oggi?”
Luca’s head snapped to where Dominic sat on the couch. Dominic had one of those boyish faces that made the upturn of his lips look especially mischievous. I had no idea what he just said, but I couldn’t help chuckle at Luca’s reaction. It was nice to see someone else needle him for a change.
“Vaffanculo!” Now that I understood. Luca pointed at Dominic. “Watch yourself. I’m still your capo.”
Dominic raised his hands in surrender, and his smirk broke into a wide smile. “Mi dispiace, capo. You want me here babysitting instead of doing pickups, that’s your call.”
Luca slammed the door shut—“Corretto!”—and walked over to the entertainment center.
I leaned across the island and pulled the focaccia I ordered at the Italian deli out of the bag. We stopped there on the way back from Starmarket to pick up Dominic’s calzone, and I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity for fresh bread covered in olives and olive oil to cure my hangover stomach.
I sank my teeth into the doughy goodness and groaned. My eyes closed, and I slumped into the barstool, relaxing my head on its back. I hadn’t eaten anything but those noodles in over a day, and the focaccia was the best bread ever in the history of all bread.
The silence was deafening. I rolled my head toward the living room and opened my eyes. Dominic and Luca stared at me, the former like he was waiting to see what indecent noise I’d make next, the latter like he wanted to haul me upstairs and lock me in my room.
“What?” I said through the mouthful.
Luca slammed the cabinet door, locked it, and walked back into the kitchen, glaring at Dominic along the way.
“All right.” Dominic pushed himself up off the couch and walked to the front door. “I’m going outside.” He bent over to put his shoes on. “Calzone, per favore?”
I reached for the paper bag, but Luca snatched it from my fingers, eyes dark and shooting daggers.
“What’s your problem?” I mumbled and ripped off another mouthful.
The door opened and shut, and moments later, Luca hovered over me. He gripped the back of my barstool in one hand and held my cell phone out with the other.
“Give me the passcode to unlock it. Tell me who you need to call to reschedule your interviews.”
My mouth hung open, the lump of bread stuck between my teeth.
“And don’t get any ideas,” he warned. “I’m putting it on speaker.”
I swallowed and gaped at him. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, well… I’m not about to be compared to Ciarán Shaughnessy.”
I nodded, dumbstruck by the conflict plainly written in the twitch of his jaw and the way he shifted his weight.
“I need to get to work,” he snapped. “Let’s make this quick.”
I got down from the barstool. “Excuse me.”
He moved out of my way.
I went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water.
Nothing made sense. Not him keeping me here and certainly not this latest foray into benevolence, however reluctant or relative. But one thing was clear—I needed to get out of there. I needed to escape Luca Moretti’s bizarre jail. And once I did? I needed to get out of Boston, away from Luca and back to safety.