Page 50 of Vows of Blood

Luca shirks out of his holster next, hanging it on the back of the chair as casually as removing a tie. I stare at it as it swings and settles against the wood with a dull thud, reminding me exactly who I'm dealing with.

"How was it?" I ask, pretending not to be bothered by it. "At the hospital?"

He crosses to the sink and rolls up his sleeves, exposing strong, veiny forearms dusted with dark hair. He splashes water on his face, running damp fingers through his hair, and I hate that I notice the way his shirt clings to his back, the breadth of him blocking out the light from the window.

"Maeve O'Sullivan wants blood." He reaches for a towel and turns to face me. "Preferably mine, but she’s willing to hold fire for now and give me some time to find the hitman. Hopefully Finn falls into line."

Hopefully. My gut twists at the thought that Luca’s in real danger.

Luca though, doesn’t seem as worried as I am. Dropping into the chair, thick thighs spread wide, he leans back, closing his eyes for one unguarded moment, allowing me to admire him.

He was always handsome, but now he’s beyond good-looking, he’s devastatingly gorgeous. Hard muscles, tanned skin, black eyelashes and brows, and thick hair I can remember touching all the time. It’s hard to believe a man like this was once mine, once wanted me.

But, I remind myself, glancing at his gun, this man is not that man anymore.

After a slow exhale, Luca sits upright, catching me staring. I drop my gaze back to the delicious pasta in front of us, heat creeping up my neck. The tension radiating off Luca is impossible to ignore. He’s like a storm cloud sitting across the table.

For a few minutes, we eat in silence. The food is incredible, but I barely taste it, my mind still reeling from the absurdity of this situation, and yet the utter normalcy of sitting down to eat with a man who was once my everything.

"So what happens now?" I ask finally.

"Now I kill the shooter before the Irish start a war," Luca says it so matter-of-factly that I know he’s not being dramatic. This is the reality he’s facing.

"And if you don't?"

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "That's not an option."

Perhaps I should leave him alone. We’ve both had a long few days. But this might be the only chance I get to speak to him with nobody else around. If they find the shooter tonight, I might be handed a check and shown the door.

“Do you ever wish you had escaped all of… this?”

Luca’s brown eyes, unblinking and wild, lift from his plate, staring at me like he can’t believe I had the nerve to ask him this question. But I knew his heart back then. He didn’t want any part of the family business; he wanted to walk away and hand it over to Nico and Enzo.

“This…” he sweeps his hands around at our luxurious surroundings, “isn’t too shabby.”

I wait, knowing that deep inside, Luca doesn’t really care as much about these material things as an outsider might think. As he moved his arms, my attention drawn to his bulging biceps, he stares back at me. "Don’t you wish you’d done better for yourself?"

His words cut like a knife, and seeing my appalled reaction, he holds up a hand, backtracking a little.

But instead of letting him explain what he meant, my exhaustion and anger get the better of me.

"Because working as a waitress is so shameful versus, oh, I don't know, robbing and murdering for a living? You said you never wanted to be like your father, but I guess money talks."

"Like I had a choice.” Luca's jaw ticks. “You never showed, and when he found out, he made damn sure I knew exactly what would happen if I ever tried to leave again."

He tosses out the accusation so casually that it takes a minute for my stuttering brain to realize he's blaming me.

"I did show. But you already left."

He gives me a withering look before returning to his meal. "Don't try to bullshit me, Sienna."

"You weren't there. I was." I shove back from the table and stand, indignation setting my blood on fire. "I hammered on the door. I went window to window. The place was dark."

Scenes from that night flash into my mind once more, me screeching to a halt outside the lake house, rushing head down through the pouring rain to the porch, pounding on the door, all curtains drawn and lights off.

"Don’t lie to me,” he roars, banging a fist down so hard on the table, the cutlery jumps. “I know I was there, because I was there for three fucking days."

The words hang in the air between us. I don't understand what he means, but I know he’s telling the truth.