Chapter 8 #2
“Yeah.” I let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
“And he wasn't just some low-level mafia associate or heir to the family business or anything like that.
Vincenzo had made himself indispensable to the Sicilian mafia by doing the jobs no one else wanted to touch.
He used his restaurant's distribution network to transport drugs, weapons, and God knows what else across Europe.”
Declan shifted beside me. “Jesus. And you had no idea?” Anger was building in his voice.
“I didn't. I swear to you, I didn't know any of it.” My throat closed up so tight I could barely force the words through.
“At least, not until a month ago. I overheard him arguing with Rocco—that big bastard who tried to kill us back there.” I pointed uselessly into the darkness as if Declan could see me gesturing at that creep.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, curling in on myself.
“They were talking about a job from years ago.
Someone had tried to muscle in on their territory, and the mafia was furious.
So, they needed to 'make a statement.'“ I could still hear Vincenzo's voice in my head, cold and matter-of-fact, like he was discussing a business transaction.
“They were sent to kill the man behind it. My Uncle Paolo.”
“Oh, jeez.” Declan's warm hand found my forearm in the darkness, and his touch grounded me in the present moment even as my mind spiraled back into the past.
I sucked in a shaky breath that rattled in my chest. “But they didn't just kill Uncle Paolo. They killed his brother, too—my father.”
“Shit, Bella.” Declan's voice cracked. “You heard them admit that?”
“Yes. I always knew the mafia had killed my dad and Uncle Paolo.
Everyone in town knew. But I never knew why.
The rumors were that it was Paolo's business dealings that had gotten him killed.
But Aunt Madonna never believed it. She swore Paolo was honest, that he'd never have gotten mixed up with criminals.” I had to stop and force air into my lungs before I could continue.
“Vincenzo cut Paolo's throat.” I had to swallow hard to carry on.
“He also stabbed my father seven times. Seven times, Declan.”
“What the hell! Let me get this straight.” Declan's voice went hard. “He killed your father, and then years later, he started dating you? That's beyond fucked up, Bella. That's evil.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out hollow. “Vincenzo said—” The words caught in my throat, threatening to choke me. “He said my father was never meant to die. Called him collateral damage. Like Dad was nothing.”
“Jesus. What an asshole,” Declan spat.
Anger blazed through me. “The man I loved and was going to marry murdered my father and looked me in the eye every single day for nine years, pretending he knew nothing. Pretending—” A sob caught in my throat, threatening to break through.
“Pretending he loved me. Maybe he did love me, in his sick, twisted way. I don't know. I'll never know.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating with everything I'd just confessed.
“What did you do?” Declan's voice was barely a whisper, like he was afraid of the answer but needed to hear it anyway.
I inhaled a shaky breath that did nothing to steady me.
“I confronted him that night in our kitchen. I screamed at him, called him a murderer, a liar, asked him how he could kill my father and then touch me, kiss me, and pretend he loved me.” My stomach turned.
“He tried to calm me down at first, used that smooth voice that had worked on me for years.
He said I was being hysterical, that I didn't understand how things worked in his world. Like I was a total idiot.”
My hands trembled. “I told him I was going to the police. He said I was being ungrateful, that he'd given me everything—a restaurant, a home, a future. Like those things somehow balanced out murdering my father. He grabbed me by the throat and started choking me.”
Declan's fingers pressed into my arm like he was trying to save me from the horror.
“I fought back. Damn hard. Because I knew he was going to kill me.
He'd murdered before, he'd do it again. I knew the truth of who he really was, so he had to eliminate me, too.” The words tumbled out faster, like I needed to get them all out before I lost my nerve.
“I managed to kick him in the groin and scramble out of his grip. But he grabbed a paring knife from the counter and stabbed me.” My voice went flat.
“Jesus,” Declan breathed.
“Right here.” I touched the spot through my wet dress, feeling the tender, swollen wound beneath the fabric. “And I just snapped. I grabbed the carving knife off the counter and I... I—”
The words stuck in my throat like broken glass.
Declan squeezed my arm gently as if he needed me to say it.
“I stabbed him in the stomach,” I said flatly. “The blade went all the way in to the handle. The shock on his face … in his eyes.” I shuddered.
The silence that followed felt like I was drowning in dark water.
“He collapsed to the floor, blood pouring through his fingers.
I didn't call an ambulance, Declan. Or try to stop the bleeding. I just left him there to die.” The confession hurt more than any wound I'd suffered.
“I grabbed my passport and a wad of cash from the safe, threw some clothes in my backpack, and ran.
I didn't even take the car because they always track their cars. I just ran through the streets until I found a bus station.”
Declan stayed so still and silent beside me that I couldn't even hear him breathing. He must’ve been horrified. And now he knew what kind of person he'd risked his life to save.
A murderer.
“It took me a month to get to Australia,” I continued.
“I traveled through three countries, only used cash, and stayed in hostels where nobody asked questions.
I thought I'd be safe out here at Koolaroo.
Thought the distance would be enough, that they'd never find me in the middle of nowhere.” A broken laugh escaped me.
“But those men chasing me worked for Vincenzo and the mafia family.
The mafia never forgets, Declan. They live for revenge.
It's not just about business to them, it's about honor.”
A sob burst from my throat, and tears burned down my cheeks. “They're never going to stop until I'm dead.”
Declan shifted beside me, and his arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
He didn't say anything. Didn't tell me it would be okay or that I'd done the right thing or the wrong thing.
He just held me while I fell apart in his arms. His wet shirt was cold against my cheek, but his body was warm, solid, and real.
“I'm sorry,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. “I'm so sorry, Bella. For all of it.”
And somehow, those simple words split open a grief I'd kept locked tight since the moment I'd heard Vincenzo confess to murdering my father. I pressed my face against his shoulder and cried. Really cried.
I cried for my father, who'd died because of someone else's greed.
For my mother, who'd wasted away from cancer while I’d still been too young to understand loss.
For my Aunt Madonna, who'd raised me and loved me and would never know what happened to me.
For the naive young woman I'd been before I’d learned that the man I loved was a monster who'd destroyed my family.
For everything I'd lost and could never get back.
Declan just held me through it all and let me break.
Still, even through my tears and grief, one thought circled my mind like a shark in dark water—the real reason I'd chosen to hide at Koolaroo. The story my mother had told me on her deathbed, when the morphine had helped the secrets spill out.
But I couldn't tell Declan that I planned to murder again.
And that my target was his own father.
Frank Branson.