My phone buzzed. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Matteo. “Yes.”
“Ms. Connelly and Ms. Barone are here.”
Tightness pinched my chest. I’d fucked things up Thursday night but hadn’t had the balls to do anything about it. Now she was at my club?
“And?”
“They seem—” He coughed and cleared his throat. “They seem determined to put a dent in your vodka supply. Thought you’d wanna know.”
Anna drunk at Vesuvio. My teeth clenched. I knew what happened there; it was my club, for Chrissake. Matteo wouldn’t have called unless those two were really tying one on. Which they probably were. Girls’ night, or some such nonsense, caused by yours truly.
“Understood.” I glanced sidelong at Vito in the driver’s seat. We’d just left Terme and were heading west out of the city to a high-stakes poker game. “I’ll be there shortly. Keep an eye.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vito took the next exit. “Where?” he asked.
“Vesuvio. Siobhán and Anna are upstairs.”
“Christ.”
“We’ll only miss a hand or two.”
He gave me withering side-eye.
I shrugged. “I want to see them home safely.”
What a crock of shit. I wanted to see her, period. I should have stayed away. I knew that. But for the first time in my life my willpower wasn’t enough. Somewhere along the line, sometime after I’d met Anna, my need for comfort and partnership had overtaken my need to control and protect. Her accusation had cut, but she wasn’t wrong. And being with her had become as necessary as oxygen. As necessary as blood.
Vito turned the car around and headed east. Streetlights glinted on the drive to the North End amplified by the humidity in the crisp midnight air. My phone vibrated again in my pocket.
I took the phone out and frowned at the screen. “Siobhán?” Silence. “Siobhán? Are you there?” Nothing. My stomach turned over.
Muffled grunts. Shuffling. The unmistakable crack of a gun.
My heart leapt into my throat. “Something’s wrong. Move!”
Vito slammed on the gas, and the car lurched forward. He blew through a stoplight and took the next corner on a dime. I pressed the phone to my ear, trying to make sense of the muted sounds coming across the open line over the harried rush of blood in my ears.
Another gunshot.
“Cazzo!”
We were almost there, but what if it was too late? Panic tightened my insides.
“Come on!”
More indistinct shouting.
The Range Rover screeched to a halt in front of Vesuvio. I threw open the door.
Siobhán darted across the street. “Anna!” she cried.
Anna stood on the far side of the street staring back into the club.
Siobhán shrieked her name again.
Anna spun around, her face contorted in shock and confusion. She staggered forward, unsteady, but swiveled her head to watch the door as she ran into the street, completely oblivious to the oncoming car.
A horn blared. It combined with the car’s screeching tires to announce my worst nightmare.
The driver tried to veer from where Anna stood frozen in the middle of the street, arms lifted as if she could block the oncoming impact.
“Anna!” I shouted into the night.
The corner of the bumper slammed into her middle and tossed her into the air. Her tiny body tumbled over the hood and fell limp onto the street. The back of her head bounced off the frozen pavement, and she went completely still, arms and legs strewn at unnatural angles.
“Call an ambulance!” Panic and helplessness fueled each movement. I ran to her, reached for her, desperate to gather her into my arms and protect her.
I pulled back. What if her neck was broken? My stomach heaved. I pressed my fingers to her wrist instead. She had a pulse, and her chest rose and fell with her breath.
“Grazie a Dio,” I mumbled. “Anna.” My voice shook as badly as my hands. “Anna. Please.”
Blood trickled from her mouth. A bruise purpled the side of her face. I frowned. That wasn’t from the car.
I looked up, trying to piece together what the hell had happened. A man stood on the sidewalk outside Vesuvio. He was dressed in all black, a gun held loosely in his hand. He stared at me, crouched over my Anna’s broken body.
Rage launched me off the pavement and across the street, and its heat blazed through my eyes. The man paled and ran back through the entrance.
The club was dark except for the neon exit sign at the rear. It backlit another man standing in the middle of the room. He lifted his gun and shot me twice in the stomach.
The bullets tore through my abdomen and out my back, a searing path that ripped a howl from my lungs. I stumbled, and my hands flew to the bloody wounds.
I’d been shot before; nothing prepares you for the impact or the burning pain. But I caught my breath after only a heartbeat, my blood and adrenaline fueling my body’s accelerated healing. It surged with the unnatural strength released by the rage coursing through my veins.
Hot, manic fury took control, and my fangs descended in an unholy promise. “You’re a fucking dead man!”
I sprang across the distance like a feral animal and knocked the gun from his grip. I held his head with my right hand and drove my left fist into the side of his stunned face. It crushed his skull at his temple, and he fell to the floor, dead.
The man I’d followed into the club looked on in horror. I fixed my attention on him, and he lunged for the emergency exit at the back. I reached him in no more than a heartbeat, grabbed his arm, and spun him around to face me. I gripped him by the throat and clamped down on his windpipe. His fingers tore at mine, clawing for air, and I squeezed.
“Who sent you?” I snarled.
His eyes went wide, bulging out of his face.
I pulled back. I needed to find out who’d hurt my Anna. “Who! Sent! You!” I bared my fangs.
Tears slid down his cheeks as he clawed at my hand. The sharp smell of urine pierced my nostrils. He opened his mouth and tapped my hand. I loosened my grip.
“Sh—Shaughnessy,” he croaked.
Rage spilled over, and I howled a barbaric scream containing all the anger that had been building since I’d found out about Luca and my absolute terror at the thought of losing Anna.
“Did you touch her?” I bellowed, and my unrelenting grip turned deadly.
He opened his mouth but couldn’t answer; I’d crushed his windpipe. It didn’t matter; I saw the answer in his eyes.
My fingers dug into his neck, burrowing into flesh till I clenched my fist around its insides. Blood oozed between my fingers and streamed down my forearm. With a jerk, I ripped out his throat. His body crumpled to the floor. My breath came hot and fast, and I tossed the man’s throat onto the bloody mess of his corpse.
“Marco.”
Blood dripped from my fingers, but it was nothing compared to the river of blood that would flow in the wake of my vengeance against the Shaughnessys.
“Marco!”
“What?” I snapped and spun around.
Vito stood in the doorway, but I didn’t wait for an answer. I pushed past him and ran to where my Anna lay in the street.
Siobhán hovered over her still form, softly weeping against the back of her hand. I nudged her out of the way.
“Vito!”
He crouched on her other side and lowered his voice. “One alive. You killed the two that got away. The rest are dead.”
“I want answers,” I growled.
Anna’s breath was shallower than when I’d left her. I grabbed her wrist. Her heartbeat was fading. Where was the fucking ambulance? I started to panic; I couldn’t lose her.
Siobhán watched us, tears streaking through her makeup. The driver of the car that hit Anna paced nervously behind her, his hands tugging at his hair.
I shot Vito a look. “Get them out of here. And get me a clean shirt.”
He nodded, and I gave him a moment to clear the area before I turned my attention back to Anna.
I had to save her. I couldn’t let her die.
Faced with a life without Anna, faced with losing the only woman I’d ever loved, I realized how stupid I was to deny us a future. She’d wanted me to bite her. She’d been furious with me for denying her the right to choose, because she’d already chosen us. She’d accepted this life, accepted me, and that was all the permission I needed.
I tapped her lightly on the cheek, careful not to jostle her, but I had to coax her back to consciousness. I shouted her name and struck her cheek harder. I needed her awake for this dammit!
She groaned.
“Grazie a Dio.”
I shrugged out of my suit jacket, furiously wiping the gunman’s blood from my hands. I tore off the remains of my bloodied shirt, and my fangs descended for the second time that night.
I pierced the skin at my wrist, deeply to make sure the blood would flow. It ran down my arm. I pried her lips and teeth open, held my wrist over her mouth, and my blood streamed onto her tongue.
“Come on, amore mio. Swallow for me.”
She grunted and groaned, but instinct prevailed, and she swallowed before she choked. Once. Twice. Her head jerked back and forth, face contorting, and she slammed her mouth shut.
The wail of an ambulance sounded in the distance.
I squeezed her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. “One more, Anna. One more mouthful, amore.”
Blood drained out of my wrist into her mouth. When it was full, I held her lips shut, forcing her to swallow instead of cough. Her body lurched like she was going to throw up. I smoothed the hair off her forehead and held her in place. “Ti prego, amore mio. Ti prego.”
Finally, her body relaxed, and she swallowed.
The wail of the siren grew louder.
Anna’s body slackened, and her head rolled to the side. Unconscious again, but at least with three mouthfuls of my blood inside her. “God, I hope it’s enough.”
Vito shoved a fresh shirt in front of my face. I lost the undershirt full of bullet holes and blood and pulled the long-sleeved polo over my head just in time.
The medics arrived in a flurry and pushed me out of the way. I stepped back and shoved a hand into my hair. A drop of blood hit my face. I wiped it from my cheek and licked my wrist to staunch the bleeding. I stood helpless while the medics took Anna’s vitals.
Thin fingers landed on my arm. I didn’t need to turn to know it was Siobhán. I scented her perfume and felt the worry in her shaking touch.
“Marco.” Her voice was small, barely above a whisper. “She’s going to be okay. She’s so strong.”
They strapped a brace around her neck and placed an oxygen mask over her face, and my chest constricted, making it hard to breathe. They transferred her onto the spinal board, and I ground my teeth to prevent myself from shouting at them to be careful.
“Who are you trying to convince, Siobhán?”
She sniffled.
I turned to her, unable to watch the paramedics lift Anna onto the stretcher.
Siobhán’s face was wet with tears, her black eye makeup smeared in their wake. Her pale blue eyes were red and puffy, but they bored into mine with all the determination of one of my fiercest men. “It wasn’t the Shaughnessys.” Her voice dropped an octave, and there was steel in her accented words, so hard and so final, I didn’t dare question them.
I searched her face for the source of her conviction.
“They’d never come this far north. And never into your territory. Just like you and Vinnie would never set foot in Southie. It’s not done.” She’d dropped the affected accent I knew she used, and her harsh South Boston pronunciation made the words land with unquestionable impact.
My mouth snapped shut, and I narrowed my eyes.
She smiled sheepishly like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar and brushed an errant hair off her face. She edged closer and lowered her voice. “Before I tell you this, know that my loyalty lies with you.” She stared up at me, eyes wide and waiting for acknowledgement. I nodded. “My mother’s name was Shaughnessy, but I never wanted that life.”
I grabbed her arm, hauled her forward, and shoved my face into hers. “What the fuck, Siobhán?” I growled, teeth bared, control hanging by a thread.
She opened her mouth to say something, but the clatter of the stretcher screamed for my attention. I looked over my shoulder. The medics hoisted Anna into the back of the ambulance.
I faced Siobhán, furious, but I didn’t have time to deal with her shit. “We’ll talk about this later,” I snarled, a promise I intended to keep.
She nodded, and tears spilled down her pale cheeks.
“I’m with her,” I called and jogged to the back of the ambulance, a don’t-fuck-with-me look plastered on my face. The medic lifted both hands in surrender. I climbed in after him, sat on the bench, and took Anna’s limp hand in mine.
Sirens blared and rounded the corner. Two black-and-whites.
“Vito!” He looked up. “Deal with it.” He nodded, and the driver closed the ambulance doors. Seconds later, we sped off to Mass General.
* * *
The surgeon sat next to me in the waiting room at seven in the morning.
“I’m not going to sugar coat it,” he said. “There was a lot of damage. She was bleeding internally. Her spleen ruptured. Five broken ribs and a punctured lung. On top of that, she has a concussion, probably from hitting the ground. She made it through surgery—she’s tough, I’ll give her that—but the next twenty-four hours are critical.”
His clinical explanation made me want to strangle him. I focused on caging my anger, knowing he’d probably saved her life.
“Can I see her?”
“Yes. She’s sedated, and you’re only allowed fifteen minutes in the ICU, but you can see her.”
“Where is she?”
“Down the hall.” He turned and pointed. “Room two fifty-one.”
Without another word, I left him for Anna’s room. The heart monitor beeped and blinked, the glowing display of signals and numbers bright against the room’s low light. She looked so fragile lying there, tubes coming out of her nose, the side of her face black and purple with bruising, IVs taped to each arm leading back to bags of fluids and sedatives. I sank into the chair next to her bed and rested my elbows on my knees, my chin in my hands.
How the fuck had I let this happen? My carefully controlled world was crumbling around me. Luca stealing from his own family. The Source racket at risk from the feds. The Irish starting a turf war. And now this…
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’d wanted to shelter her, keep her light away from my darkness. Instead, she’d been caught in its relentless undertow.
You can’t save everyone, Marco. No matter how hard you try.
And the Lord knew I’d tried. I’d done everything I could to keep Anna safe—had her tailed, forced her to use a driver, even told her we couldn’t have a future—and it still wasn’t enough.
I’d failed her. Just like I’d failed Tony and Gina. Like I’d failed Luca. Like I’d failed myself.
I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes. Gina was right. The tight rein I held over my empire was a charade, a way to convince myself I had control when in reality, I had none. All I had to do was open my eyes to see the evidence of my hubris lying before me, unconscious, bruised, and broken.
“Mr. DeVita,” a nurse said from the door. “Your time is up.”
I stood, humbled, hurting, and hoping I’d get another chance. I brushed Anna’s hair off her forehead and placed a kiss there. She was the love of my immortal life, and I’d never forgive myself for pushing her away.
The fluorescent lights outside the ICU had my eyes straining to adjust, and a dull headache formed behind them, exhaustion, worry, and the fallout from my prior rage all needling my skull. I needed to feed. I’d drained myself at Vesuvio, and my hunger for blood pressed down atop every other burden like a dead weight.
I didn’t want to leave her, but there was nothing to do but wait. I should call Vito for a bag of blood. I should call Jeff, let him know what happened. He could call her parents.
The waiting room had one of those espresso vending machines that had popped up in Europe a decade ago and finally made its way to the States. I punched in my order for a double espresso and leaned my forehead against the cool glass while the machine ground and whirred my liquid energy into reality.
“Marco?”
I sighed, long and slow. “Go home, Siobhán. This is not the time.” My voice was raspy and exasperated.
“I need to know how Anna is doing, how you’re doing.”
The machine stopped gurgling. I raised my head and lifted the plastic guard to retrieve my coffee.
Siobhán had changed into track pants, sneakers, and an oversized sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and without makeup, her wrinkles were more pronounced, the smattering of freckles across her nose visible. Her complexion was paler than usual, her face drawn and worn.
I brought the paper cup to my lips. The coffee scalded my tongue, and I welcomed its bitter burn. “She’s out of surgery. Stable in the ICU.”
“Thank God.” Her shoulders relaxed, but the rest of her vibrated with tension. A tear slid down her face, and she wiped it away. Her bottom lip trembled, and she hugged her arms around her waist like she was trying to comfort herself.
She was in bad shape, but I’d had enough of betrayal. Siobhán was a member of the family who’d hurt Anna, an inconvenient truth she’d managed to hide from me for years. I ground my teeth, my exhaustion the only thing caging my temper.
“I thought I’d gotten away from this shit. I thought I’d put it behind me.” She trembled and hiccupped a sob. “But it follows me wherever I go.” Her thin frame shook, and she devolved into tears.
Goddammit.
A couple and an older man were the only other people in the waiting room, and they stared at us with concern and suspicion. There was a door halfway open across the hall. I placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her forward.
The room was empty. I shoved her inside and closed the door. She leaned against the edge of the bed, wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, and looked at me, sad, glassy eyes filled with remorse.
“My mother was Paddy Shaughnessy’s youngest sister. Ciarán is my first cousin.” Her eyes held mine without hesitation.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I straightened from where I’d been leaning against the door and stepped forward. “The general manager of my flagship property is a first cousin to the boss of the Irish mob?” My jaw tightened under the strain of controlling my rage. “Are you fucking kidding me, Siobhán?”
“No. I—I meant to tell you, but—”
“But what? You forgot?” My voice dripped with bitter sarcasm, and I took another step forward. “I brought you into my family. I trusted you with my business. Seems like something you should have shared before now, don’t you think?”
“No,” she said, firm and clipped. “It’s not. I want nothing to do with being a Shaughnessy. I spent my childhood in that shit, and I never want to live like that again. I moved to Ireland to get away from them. Took voice lessons. Did everything I could to distance myself from this shit exactly.” Her voice rose through her rant, her pale face splotchy with emotion and wet with tears.
She reached for my hand, but I snatched it away, unable to reconcile how much she’d kept from me with how much I’d trusted her.
“Please,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “Please, Marco, you have to believe me. I didn’t know who you were when I started working for you, and by the time I figured it out…” She tried for my hand again, and I was too tired and too stunned to care. She wrapped her thin, bony fingers around mine. “It’s not like I could wander up to your office—Hey, Marco, you should probably know…” She shook her head and wiped the tears from either side of her face. “It doesn’t matter. That part of my life is over.”
“You and I both know it’s never over for people like us. If you grew up like I did, you know that.”
Her eyes locked with mine, and her lips pressed into a tight line. She didn’t want to admit it any more than I did, but I was done pretending, and what I’d said was the honest-to-God truth.
“I may not be involved in my family’s business, but I know how these things work. What happened last night? That is not how these things work. So…” She grimaced. “I called Ciarán.”
“You did what?” The words burst out of me, my shock at the entire conversation reaching new levels. I pulled my hand away, but she grabbed it back.
“Please, Marco. Let me explain. I came here to tell you. I wouldn’t have called him if I thought it would cause trouble, but I knew he didn’t order that raid. And when I told him what happened…” She squeezed my hand tighter, eyes blazing with sincerity. “It wasn’t Ciarán. Those men weren’t Shaughnessys.”
I seethed, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched trying to contain my rage so she wouldn’t see me turn.
“We’re the same age, Ciarán and I. Our parents raised us as brother and sister. Tried to pass us off as twins.” Her face softened. “He would never lie to me.” She shook her head. “Not me.”
Through the fog of my exhaustion and worry, the survival instincts I’d honed over decades working for Big Frankie kicked in. She was telling the truth; I could see it in her eyes. But could I trust her? And who would gain from attacking Vesuvio? My brain cycled through countless possibilities.
“Trust me on this, Marco. You can trust me. You took me into your family, and my loyalty has been with you ever since. It wasn’t Ciarán, but someone wanted you to think it was.”
The chain of events fell into place and told a story I didn’t want to believe, but deep in my gut I knew who to blame. The white-hot flame of betrayal sped through my insides like wildfire. It burned away any remaining affection I had for my adopted son, leaving behind nothing but the scorched earth of our past.
A primal scream ripped free of my lungs. I spun away from Siobhán and hurled my coffee against the wall, black remnants splattered across beige paint. My chest heaved trying to control the rage, but I lost the battle. I turned my back to her, panting, devastated, and unable to hide the blazing fury in my eyes.
“Keep this to yourself,” I growled over my shoulder, hand poised on the doorknob.
“Marco, I—”
I tilted my head enough to see her face out of the corner of my eye. More tears spilled onto her cheeks.
“I don’t want to know what happens next.” Her mouth twisted in a strained effort not to cry. “Please. I don’t want to know what you do to him. Please don’t tell me.” Her voice wavered through the earnest plea, and her shoulders shook through silent sobs. She suspected the same man.
I nodded and walked back into the waiting room. It was time to call Vinnie.