My Saturday night was going about as well as expected given Marco’s latest and most infuriating foray into tyranny. It took nearly an hour for me to finish my slice of reheated pizza and Caesar salad between sporadic bouts of crying, the latest spell triggered by the Mike’s Pastry box still sitting on the counter. That one dragged every last tear out of me. Deflated, I poured myself a glass of Chianti and sank into the corner of my couch to watch my fake fireplace dance to Dean Martin and stroke Sophie’s long, soft fur.
More than sadness or even frustration, I was disappointed, in the situation and in Marco. As much as I wanted to diminish my feelings and relegate them to lust, I couldn’t lie to myself. I’d finished lying to myself when I’d gone on sabbatical, and I wasn’t going to start up again now. We were good together. We had the chemistry and the connection to build a solid, fulfilling future, and he’d ruined it with his over-protective, caveman bullshit.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table, a short, intense earthquake that made me jump and spill wine on my sweatshirt. “Shit!” The screen lit up, and I craned my neck to see the number, hoping it was Marco and hoping it wasn’t.
I sighed, heavy with disappointment and relief. I set my wine down and picked up the phone. “Hey, Siobhán. What’s up?”
“What are you doing?”
“Not thinking about Marco.”
She snorted. “Right. And I’m not thinking about Luca.”
I chewed the side of my fingernail. Siobhán didn’t have a clue about the whole Luca debacle yet. What a mess.
“Wanna go out? Not think about them together?”
“Sure. I could use a girl’s night. Where to?”
“Duh. Vesuvio.”
I groaned.
“Don’t worry. Marco won’t be there. He’s at Terme hosting a dinner for some big muckety-mucks. Come ooon.” The long whine of her on made me laugh. “I don’t want to pay for drinks.”
“All right, all right. Vesuvio it is. Gimme like thirty minutes to get dressed.” I fingered the messy pile of hair on top of my head. “And do something with this mop.”
“Yes! Thank you! I’ll grab a cab and pick you up.”
“See you soon.”
I curled my hair and brushed mascara onto my eyelashes, but it failed to hide the puffiness from crying. I decided on the low-cut red sweater that always drew Marco’s eye, a new pair of faux leather leggings, and heels high enough even Siobhán would raise her eyebrows, determined to feel fabulous regardless of how miserable I felt. Thirty minutes later, I walked out of my condo on a mission to have fun and stop brooding over unapproachable blood demons with a foot in the Italian Mafia.
I scooted into the back seat of the cab, and Siobhán, effortlessly stunning as usual, scanned my ensemble. “Damn, girl! Let’s do this!”
The line to enter Vesuvio extended the entire city block. We climbed out of the cab, and Siobhán led us straight to the entrance, bypassing the velvet-roped line of patrons.
“Matteo,” she purred and flashed her starlet smile at the bouncer, one of Marco’s immovable centurions complete with sunglasses.
He nodded. “Ms. Connelly.” He addressed me with an equally formal nod. “Ms. Barone.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised he knew my name. In fact, knowing Marco, every bouncer, chauffeur, and doorman on the DEI payroll probably knew my name, blood type, and shoe size.
He held the door open, and we crossed the threshold into a wall of bodies and heat.
A DJ spun house music from turntables in front of the empty fireplace. Men and women in cocktail attire sipped drinks as expensive as their clothes and gyrated to the hypnotic beat under a dizzying array of dancing lights.
Eric the bartender spotted us above the crowd in front of the bar. Siobhán flashed a ruby-red-manicured peace sign, and he lifted his chin and winked.
“Can’t beat the service,” I shouted over the music.
She smiled mischievously. “Now you know why I come here.”
Eric raised two martini glasses filled with a hazy, clear liquid and garnished with fat olives. I licked my lips. Siobhán wedged her way through the crowd and reached between heads to grab our drinks. She handed one to me, and I almost groaned with my first sip of dirty martini. Salty, smooth, top-shelf perfection.
She led us to the back of the bar near the roped-off winding staircase. A bar top protruded from the wall in the tucked away corner where the speakers faced away from us and gave us a reprieve from the heavy bass.
Siobhán swigged her martini and set it on the counter. “Talk to me. What’s going on with Marco? That’s an all-men-can-fuck-right-off outfit if I’ve ever seen one.”
I rolled my eyes. “I wanted to look fabulous, that’s all.”
“Mission accomplished,” she said dryly.
“As for Marco? He’s just being Marco, I suppose.”
“Lemme guess—over-protective, over-bearing, and unreasonable?” She raised an eyebrow and bent her mouth in a look that said, “I told you so.”
I avoided her eyes and sipped my drink.
“Well, the damage is done. But…” She sighed. “It’s cause he’s into you, Anna. Really into you. And…” She looked askance, as if weighing her words.
“And what?”
“And men like Marco don’t do dating lightly.”
I snorted. “Understatement. I don’t think he does anything lightly.”
She tipped her martini glass toward me before taking another sip.
“He doesn’t…” Siobhán knew about Marco and Luca’s Mafia connections. That much was clear. But the existence of blood demons? Doubtful. “He doesn’t want to pursue a long-term relationship.”
“Did he say that?”
“Not in so many words, but he thinks his life is too dangerous for me.”
“Uh…” Siobhán looked around as if she was missing something. “Isn’t that up to you to decide?”
I threw my arms in the air. “Thank you!”
“Made men. They’re all the same. They think because they run their little empires, they get to run our lives, too.” She scoffed and slammed back half of her drink.
“How do you know so much about this?”
“Let’s just say I wasn’t always the refined businesswoman you see standing in front of you. Luca may be an asshole, but he’s right about one thing. There’s a lot of truth and history wrapped up in this accent.” She let her guard down with that last statement, and the harsh vowels of Southie emerged from beneath their polished, vaguely British veneer.
She hid it well, but Siobhán had the hard accent that came along with a hard upbringing in a hard neighborhood. Knowing the tension between the Italians and the Irish, I wondered how much that had played a role in Luca and Siobhán’s volatile relationship.
“Was that the problem with you and Luca?”
“Him being over-protective and wanting to run my life?” She scoffed. “No. It was never like that with us,” she said, and a sad smile took over her face.
She stared into her drink for a moment before pulling one of the olives off the toothpick with her teeth, careful not to mar her bright red lipstick.
“I thought he was someone different. He thought the same about me. I flew off the handle. So did he.” She shrugged. “And now we have a completely dysfunctional relationship.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast before taking a hefty swig.
I took another drink myself, and the vodka burned as it trailed down my throat and settled in my stomach. The martini was going down way too fast and way too easy.
“It’s okay you have a thing for him, Siobhán.”
“No, it’s not. Who has a thing for players?” She took the toothpick and remaining olive out of her drink and pointed it at me. “Players who don’t even like you. Players who actively dislike everything about you.” She ate the olive and drained her drink. “That’s messed up.”
“Consider you’re talking to someone pining after a man who told her they had no future together.” God, that hurt to say out loud. Siobhán winced, and I finished my martini. “You know what’s the worst part about the whole thing?”
“What?”
I leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll have to go back to having boring sex.”
“Oh God.” She grabbed my arm, and a horrified expression crossed her face. “Was that what you were doing before Marco? Having boring sex?”
“Terrible! I can’t go back to that any more than I can go back to teaching. I can’t.” I shook my head. “I won’t!”
Her eyes widened. “This requires more alcohol.”
The second martini went down as easily as the first, and responsible middle-aged adults that we were, we slowed our roll with the third. I had enough trouble standing in high heels, I didn’t need any added challenges.
We danced in our corner to the music, free of troublesome men and inhibitions, and in a blur of vodka, dancing, and laughter, 12:30 a.m. and last call came out of nowhere.
“You’re not done, are you?” Siobhán asked, eyes sleepy with alcohol. “Do you want to go home?”
“Nope.” I glared at my martini glass, its emptiness a personal affront.
She cocked her head toward the winding staircase, which now had a bouncer standing in front of its velvet rope.
“Really? We can go up there?”
“Hell yeah, we can go up there.”
“Awesome.”
Siobhán grabbed my empty, put both glasses on the bar, and with an off-kilter twirl, pointed at the bouncer. “Upstairs!”
I laughed and half-danced, half-stumbled up the winding steps.
Cigar smoke stung my nostrils. The vents were working overtime to pull the thick smoke into the chimneys, but in the presence of a full gambling house, it was a losing battle.
All six card tables worked in earnest, hundred-dollar-bills stacked in piles next to each seat. Waitresses hurried between tables and booths, and a topless dancer spun suggestively on the pole in front of a few men chatting and placing bets with one of the servers. Marco’s men dotted the periphery, all muscles and sunglasses and intimidation.
Siobhán and I grabbed the last two seats at the bar and ordered another round of drinks. The smell of cigar smoke and leather combined with the dim lighting and soft music reminded me of Marco and the first time Siobhán and I had gone to Vesuvio for drinks. I’d already been smitten. I was still smitten.
No more lying to yourself, Anna.
All right. I’d fallen in love with Marco sometime between our first dinner and the night he showed me off in front of Boston’s high-society, pride and adoration beaming through his million-dollar smile. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but I was sure it had happened, because every time I thought of a future without him, the space he occupied in my heart ached with emptiness.
I sighed and spun on my stool to face the card tables. Whatever. I didn’t need one more person telling me what I should and shouldn’t want from my future. That part of my life was over. Marco needed to come correct. And if he refused? Good riddance. I wasn’t about to try and make something work with a man who thought he could make my decisions.
A loud thump drew my attention to the back door. Two muffled thuds. The guards closest to the back straightened and signaled to the guards at the front.
The door swung open and slammed into the opposite wall with a bang. It startled me so severely I slid off my chair and landed on my knees. I scrambled, pushing the hair out of my face, and gripped the barstool.
Men dressed in black and wearing ski masks charged through the door pointing handguns and shouting.
Some of the poker players shot up from their seats and lifted their hands in the air. Others sat back, mouths agape, palms flat on the playing surface. The dealers spun around, eyes darting to where Marco’s men froze in place. The dancer pressed herself against the wall and covered her breasts with shaking arms.
Siobhán stood in front of me. The pale fingers of her left hand quivered even as her right hand reached behind her back, took the cell phone out of her jeans pocket, and handed it to me. My hand shook so violently I almost dropped it, but I managed to hold on, hiding it beneath my palm against the top of the barstool.
“Don’t fuckin’ move and don’t even think about going for your weapon or I’ll put a bullet through your fuckin’ head.” The masked man’s voice was thick with the Boston accent.
I couldn’t see much from my crouched position behind the barstool, but on my right, two men shoved stacks of bills into duffel bags.
Behind her back and out of anyone’s sight, Siobhán’s fingers formed a two, a three, a one, a five. I activated the screen and typed in the numbers.
Glass shattered behind the bar to my left, and I instinctively covered my head. The harsh clash of glass on glass continued, but I lifted my eyes to Siobhán’s glowing home screen.
“This is a message from Ciarán Shaughnessy.” The same accented voice boomed above the smashing and crashing of bottles. “There’s no gaming in this city the Irish don’t run, and we’re here to make sure the DeVitas get the message. Capisce?” He spat the Italian word like it tasted foul, and the rattle and hiss of spray paint replaced the sounds of breaking glass.
The first two attempts to dial Marco’s number failed. I rose from my crouch needing to brace myself on the stool so I could get it right. His name appeared after my third attempt, and the call tried to connect.
“I thought I said, don’t move.”
The man backhanded me before I even saw him approach. I reeled from the shock of the blow, and the phone clattered to the ground. I’d never been hit before in my life, and the impact combined with three dirty martinis made my knees buckle and vision blur. His hand clamped around my biceps to keep me upright, and he squeezed so hard I was sure it would bruise. Tears stung my eyes, and the metallic taste of blood coated my tongue.
He tugged on my arm until my body was pressed into his and lifted his gun between us, turning it over like I hadn’t seen it. He leered at me, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the glint of metal under the broken bar lights.
“Listen,” he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear, and I flinched. “When I fuckin’ talk, listen, or she’ll get more than a hand across her face.”
The room came back into focus around the gun, a fucked-up backdrop to the weapon my captor used like a classroom talking aid. The men who’d been cleaning off the card tables emptied the register while another finished spraying “Shaughnessy” in neon yellow paint across the wall opposite the bar. Three masked men held Marco’s security at bay, pointing pieces at their heads. Siobhán stared at me in horror, pupils dilated, but her lips pressed into a thin line as if an inner turmoil and untapped rage boiled just below the surface waiting for the right moment to explode.
A flash of movement caught the corner of my eye and a loud crack ripped through the space—a gun discharged.
Chaos.
One of Marco’s men moved so quickly, he couldn’t have been human. He shoved a gunman’s arm up and another crack rang out through the bar, the gun firing into the ceiling. A waitress screamed even as Marco’s man snapped the gunman’s neck.
Siobhán spun around and kicked the man holding me between his legs so hard he dropped his gun with a pained grunt and doubled over clutching his crotch.
The rest of Marco’s men moved like lightning, their unnatural speed and strength finally cluing me in to the reason they all wore sunglasses—blood demons.
Matteo’s voice hollered at us from the top of the stairs. “Siobhán! Anna!”
We spun around to the front of the room.
“Run!” He bent another attacker’s arm at an unnatural angle. The man cried out and released the gun from his limp, broken arm. “Get out of here! Both of you! Run!”
Siobhán and I didn’t need another reminder. We hightailed it to the twisting stairwell, suddenly sober despite all the vodka, and hurried down the stairs. We skidded to a halt once we reached the front, our escape thwarted by the locked door.
“Shit!” I cried.
Heavy steps landed behind us on the metal stairs. “Come here, you fuckin’ bitch!”
“I don’t think he liked you kicking him!”
I fumbled with the deadbolt, finally twisting it enough times to unlock the door. I pushed it open, and we spilled out of Vesuvio into the cold, dark night. I glanced over my shoulder, and my attacker stalked toward us, mask forgotten, cold fury in his blue eyes.
Siobhán bolted across the street. “Anna!”
I couldn’t pull my attention away from the man coming for us. I stared at him, frozen.
“Anna!” she called again, and the shrill in her voice snapped me out of my shock and back into the reality of survival.
I darted into the street, eyes still locked on the man stalking toward us.
The squeal of tires and a car’s horn blared. My head snapped around. I stopped for no more than a heartbeat before a flash of white metal slammed into my hips and threw me into the air.
“Anna!” Marco’s voice pierced the night with terror and rage. It carried over the sounds of my body tumbling across the hood of the car and was the last thing I heard before my back and head hit the pavement and my world fell into darkness.