No, it seemed hopeless now. But the news was fresh. The situation was still frightening. What I needed was to calm the hell down and think this through.
I sagged into the wall, letting its captivating presence support me.
Silence roared around me. Even the busy streets were muted. At least I wasn’t crying. That was good.
“Okay, new plan,” I hissed, drawing myself up. “Stay mad. Keep fighting.”
That was manageable. I had twenty-two years of hell to fuel my rage. It was enough to drive me for the next decade or so.
Shooting a glance at the door, I let out a ragged breath. There was no way in hell I was going back in there, smiling at the guests, and helping make sure the evening wrapped up smoothly. Nope. I was going home early.
As I started walking, I realized it was the smart choice. Thesafechoice. Better to get home and in bed before my father showed up. I didn’t want a lecture, private words on how this was going to happen. That conversation loomed in my future like a funnel cloud. If I skirted around it when it decided to descend, the damage might be minimal. I could take shelter, protect myself from the storm that was coming.
I shoved my fingers through my hair. Short, unpainted nails scored my scalp. The claw clip loosened, and I tugged it free with a vicious yank. The wind picked up as I emerged from the alley. It blew soothingly against my face, lifting my hair and caressing my burning throat.
Maybe, if I screamed into a pillow, it would release some of the pressure there.
We lived almost a mile away from Mama Ana’s Bar & Grill. I knew this path like the back of my hand. Walking on autopilot, I nearly missed the shout from the abandoned lot. But the instinct every city girl had, that inner voice of self-preservation, slammed into me.
My heart jumped to my throat.
I instantly dropped into a crouch by the broken chain link fence. Beyond was a stretch of fine rubble where a building had been torn down years ago. A gaping eyesore that no one planned to build on, to invest in this unused piece of real estate for the foreseeable future.
There were two shapes, one large and stalky, in the lot. The other? A giant. They squared off, not ten paces from a hole in the fence that I would have walked past in just a few steps. Before I could dart across the street, one of the shapes spoke.
“We don’t want the Irish here!” It was John Corvino. His voice was a snarl, packed with that hot-blooded Italian temper.
Dammit, Gio, what are you doing?
I knew him. Knew that he was a rough, temperamental blockhead, and one of my father’s worst soldiers. John was nothing but trouble.
Trouble and lewd glances.
The Morelli men weren’t stupid enough to touch a capo’s daughter. Not without invitation—which every well-brought up girl knew not to invoke. But in the dark? I didn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. A big guy like John? Yeah, my puny arms would have better luck making the brick wall budge.
The second shape finally spoke. “You followed me out here to say that? You’re stupider than you look, lad.”
The deep, smooth rumble of that voice made me pause. Little shivers whispered over my skin. It was a beautiful voice. The cadence velvety and the sound arresting.
John spat.
Idiota.
The Made Man began to speak, but the words turned into a grunt as the larger shape moved. Without the moon or the glow of streetlights, it was hard to make out the small movements. But John’s muffled cry of pain was unmistakable.
The shapes locked tight. Violence rippled through the night.
An arm moved back. Something metallic flicked in the air before it plunged forward.
John screamed—or tried to. Something was blocking his mouth.
Again, the giant’s arm struck. And then, on repeat, it happened over and over.
The larger man was stabbing him!
My hands slapped over my mouth to silence my own scream. Every muscle locked tight. I couldn’t run if I tried. But it wasn’t the murder that froze me in place.
It was the murderer. A silent gasp escaped my throat.
