Revenge (4 page)

His hand came out of nowhere, backhanding her
across the right cheek. The blow made her stagger, her hip striking
the sink, her eyes instantly welling up with tears. She touched the
spot where he’d hit her, the skin flaming hot and prickling beneath
her fingers. Her stomach ached and she thought she was going to
vomit up that damn pill.

She had one crazy idiotic thought:
Karma’s
a bitch. Serves me right for thinking of slapping him
.

No. That was Vince talking, telling her she
deserved his lack of control, his anger.

With that slap, he’d just crossed her
personal Rubicon. Now it was war. “What kind of limp-dicked loser
hits his wife?”

Vince stared at her, his breathing ragged.
“Who you calling a limp dick?”

“You, you pathetic, wife-beating,
loser
.”

She saw him shudder, knew he was furious,
knew more slaps were coming. Knew she wouldn’t back down, no matter
the consequences. “Ever since we got here, Vince, you’ve changed.
You’ve become someone I don’t want to know anymore. You’ve turned
into a big bully, just like your damn uncle.
That’s
why I
hate him.
That’s
why I’m taking the pills.”

He threw his hands up and she flinched. When
he saw her recoil, guilt flashed across his face, his features
softening. His voice fell to a whisper. “I’m sorry. You know I got
a temper.”

That old excuse. Anger roared up, making her
stomach roil and her skin go hot, the pain draining away. “Face it.
You’re a wife beater. The lowest of the low. The weakest of the
weak.” She hissed her accusation, punctuating each word with the
punch of her index finger into his bare chest.

“I’m not! Jesus!” He turned away for a
second, then took a deep breath. “I won’t ever do it again.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You’re damn right you
won’t.”

He met her eyes. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”

Kate put her hands on her hips, her cheek
throbbing. “Nobody hits me.
Ever
.”

“Come on. It was a mistake. I got carried
away.” He reached for her arms, trying to pull her close.

She pushed him away. “Leave me alone.”

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes
wounded. “I’m sorry. How many times do I got to say it?”

“I can’t forgive this.”

“Damn it, Katie. You’re my wife. We’re
married. That
means
something to me. Don’t it mean
anything
to you?”

Some part of her wanted to say that it did.
But if she gave in now, he’d just do it again.
I’m gonna kill
you
. She’d never forget him saying that. She looked down at the
marble tiles on the bathroom floor, her eyes idly tracing the
honey-colored veins that ran through the creamy stone. Anything to
keep from looking at him. Anything to keep him from seeing the
truth in her eyes.

“Let me think about it,” she mumbled. She
needed him gone, ASAP, and if she had to lie, she would.

“Okay. But we got to talk about this
later.”

She nodded. She’d have to call her parents
and ask them for money to get home. She could hear her mother now.
“But Katherine, what did you expect? He’s from
Jersey
.”

“Katie, look at me.” When she met his eyes,
he said, “Look, I’m just a dumb fuck. I’m not thinking straight. I
love you. I would never hurt you.”

“But you just
did
.”

He shrugged, his eyes sliding away. “I don’t
know what came over me.”

She looked at him for a long time. The words
she spoke were thick and shaky, not the cool tone she’d intended.
Her marriage was over. And it did mean something to her. “You are
not
the man I married.
That
man would never hit me.
That
man loved me.”

His chin came up and he met her gaze again.
“Don’t say that.” His voice held a pleading note she’d heard too
much of recently.

“Just leave.”

He took a deep breath and looked like he
wanted to say something else, but she pointed to the door. “I don’t
want to hear it.”

Anger and sadness warred on his face. He took
a step toward her, but when she moved back, his shoulders slumped
and he put up his hands in surrender. “You’re pissed. I can see
that. You got to cool off, so I’m leaving—for now. But we got to
talk this through.”

“We will,” she lied. She waited until he
closed the door behind him, then she sagged against the sink, her
arms trembling. Tears blurred her vision, and she stifled a sob,
her throat aching, her eyes burning. She listened intently to the
sounds of him moving around in the other room, waiting for him to
leave. Finally she heard the outer door to their apartment close.
He was gone.

She was alone. Again.

Kate rubbed her throbbing cheek and let the
tears fall. How had their marriage degenerated so quickly? The
first three months had been great, but the last six… and now this.
She walked into the bedroom, her eyes going to the chair where the
jacket had been.

It was gone.

A chill ran through her, instantly stifling
her tears. It
had
been blood on the jacket.

If Vince was in the Mafia, if he’d killed
someone, what reason would he have to let her go?

What was to stop him from hunting her
down?

What was to stop him from killing her?

Not a damn thing.

Carlo Andretti rooted for Giotto as he tore
into his brother Giorgio. The two Rottweilers growled and snapped
at each other, their teeth and coal-black coats gleaming in the sun
as they fought over the ball Carlo had tossed in their midst.
Giorgio lost his hold on the ball, and the dogs raced across the
lawn after it, their huge paws ripping the turf. Carlo smiled at
their antics. The dogs were the best children he could ever hope
for. Smart, loyal, and unquestioning. Vicious when so ordered. And
convinced the sun rose and set on Carlo.

He corrected himself. Giotto and Giorgio were
the best children he could ever have, aside from his dead Toni, God
rest her soul. Her surviving twin, Dario, had all the initiative
and thought process of a clam.

Twins. He could have had two clever, cunning
children. But God had given him only one. And that one was
dead.

Dario would inherit everything Carlo had
worked for. Fucking shit-for-brains Dario.
He’ll just let
everything dribble through his fingers like piss
.

Unless of course Vincenzo proved himself. His
nephew seemed to have the brains and the balls to be
capo
.
He certainly had the ambition. He’d asked Carlo for the opportunity
to take out Enrico Lucchesi, and Carlo had agreed to give him the
chance. So far, Vincenzo had planted his pretty wife near Lucchesi,
to give himself an excuse to get close to Lucchesi when he was
under little guard. It was a decent plan, but it was moving far too
slowly. So he’d nudged things along by sending Enrico the box.
Vincenzo wouldn’t like it, but he’d have to cope.

Waiting out the entire year of mourning after
Toni’s death had been agony enough. When Lucchesi had taken up with
Franco Trucco’s red-haired daughter just six months after Toni’s
death, Carlo had almost broken his mourning vow and avenged Toni’s
honor. But then Lucchesi had crashed his car and the red-haired
puttana
had died. So Carlo had held back his anger for the
moment, even though the affair proved, despite Lucchesi’s
protestations of love for Toni, that he’d been a liar all
along.

Carlo never should have agreed to the
wedding. But Toni had desperately wanted Dario back, worthless shit
that he was. And he was Carlo’s only son. Agreeing to the wedding,
ending the feud, getting Dario back, had seemed like the right
thing to do at the time. But letting Rinaldo and Enrico Lucchesi
live had been a mistake.

A mistake he didn’t intend to continue, now
that his Toni was dead and her death properly mourned. At least he
had the satisfaction of knowing he’d respected his daughter’s
memory, even if Lucchesi hadn’t. Toni couldn’t fault him for what
came next.

“Don Andretti.” Carlo heard Massimo’s gruff
voice behind him. He took his eyes off the tussling dogs and turned
to watch his man approach. Massimo was a large man, but
well-dressed as always, his dark double-breasted suit hiding some
of his bulk. A true Mafioso, Massimo’s fine clothes added to his
swagger. The smirk on Massimo’s face only enhanced the impression
of a man who thought he owned the world. Carlo forgave him his
arrogance; it was well-earned. Massimo never let him down, never
failed his assignments. Unlike Dario.

“How did it go?” Carlo asked.

Massimo chuckled. “Lucchesi and his guards
about shit their pants. You should have seen it. I thought the
young one was going to shoot himself in the balls.”

Carlo laughed. “
Bene
, Massimo,
molto bene
.” He clapped Massimo on the back. He was glad
he’d waited for this particular day to send his message, glad he’d
let Lucchesi get complacent, comfortable. He’d be easier to kill
that way. But first, Carlo wanted to have some fun. Death by a
thousand cuts was far preferable to something quick. Lucchesi might
disagree, but fuck him. He and his father had thwarted Carlo at
every turn; in some ways, the son had been worse than the
father.

But now it was Carlo’s turn to make the
Lucchesis suffer. To make them feel what they’d done to him, to all
of them. To make them see they were leading the ‘Ndrangheta down
the path toward oblivion.

And he’d never forgive Enrico for not taking
better care of Toni. He hated Rinaldo, but that was business. His
hatred of Enrico, that was personal.

It was the dream that had decided him, in the
end. The dream where he opened a box and found Toni’s delicate
little hand inside, severed neatly at the wrist. He’d had that
dream only twice since Dario’s kidnapping. Once the night before
Toni’s wedding. And then again early this morning, on the
anniversary of her death.

He’d warned Enrico when he married her. He’d
warned him what would happen. And now it was time to make good on
that promise.

No one spoke. When Enrico and the guards
boarded the private jet, he took a seat at a table by a window, and
Antonio and Ruggero sat across the aisle. They’d learned by now it
was best to say nothing when he was angry, to not speak until
spoken to.

Crossing his arms, Enrico stared out the
window as they taxied down the runway. He kicked the table leg in
front of him and swore. Of course it didn’t give. The table was
bolted down. Curling his toes experimentally, he was fairly certain
none were broken.

Antonio looked at him questioningly, maybe
hoping to be sent to the galley for some ice. Enrico looked away
from him, dismissing his silent entreaty. If he was suffering, so
would they.

The plane picked up speed as they lifted off.
Soon they were soaring above the chaos that was Rome. The Eternal
City teemed with the beautiful and the ugly at the same time.
Making a slow circle above the dense jumble of buildings below, the
plane eventually headed north, to Milan.

Foolish. So damned foolish
. His father
would never forgive him for being so reckless. And he couldn’t
forgive himself. He was not the sort of man who believed a Mafioso
had to prove himself every minute of the day. All he had to do was
prove himself prudent. Prudent would keep him safe. Prudent
wouldn’t get him or his men killed.

Enrico noticed Antonio peering at something
in the back. Following the direction of his gaze, Enrico’s eyes lit
upon the pretty flight attendant. Of course it was a woman.

He opened his mouth to chide Antonio, then
closed it. The attendant had dyed her hair a deep auburn, and now
she reminded him of someone
he
couldn’t ignore.

Kate Andretti. The married woman he couldn’t
get out of his mind. The woman he’d be seeing later today. The
woman he could not have, could not allow himself to have, even if
she were agreeable. And yet she’d plagued his thoughts since their
first meeting.

Enrico had been upset when the director of
the Lucchesi Home for Children, Dottor Laurio, had hired an
Andretti three months ago. But short of informing the director that
he’d inadvertently hired the wife of an enemy, there was nothing
Enrico could do. He’d carefully maintained the fiction with Laurio
that he was just a businessman, and he wasn’t about to tell the man
otherwise.

But once Enrico met Kate, his concerns
evaporated. Her exotic looks—auburn hair, striking green eyes,
alabaster skin—piqued his interest, but her manner was the thing
that bowled him over. Competent, intelligent, kind: all qualities
that reminded him very much of Antonella.

He’d spoken to Kate a half-dozen times,
making several unscheduled trips to the orphanage to do so. Not
that that was far out of the ordinary. Providing handsomely for the
children made him feel, at least in some small way, that he was
balancing the scales with God, with the universe. Bringing some
measure of happiness to the world instead of more misery.