Page 87 of Perfect Vengeance

To hear him say he loved her after what he’d confessed made a mockery of everything they’d shared.

How was this even possible? He had to have been so young when her father died, probably no more than twenty-three. How could she love and hate someone so much at the same time?

Absently, she rubbed her arms as the chill from the cold tile floor began seeping into her. Never in her worst nightmares could she have imagined Jack was behind the death of her father. He’d admitted it, and she had to accept it.

Her body shook with renewed sobs, and she pulled her knees to her chest, tucking into a tight ball and trying to muffle the wounded animal sounds emanating from her throat.

She lay there for several minutes until her sobs lessened and she could think somewhat clearly again. She’d get through this. After losing her parents, she’d reinvented herself and made a new life. She could do it again.

If only her heart didn’t hurt so badly that she wanted to cut it from her chest with a knife. Life would go on, because it had to. Even while she was dying inside.

Pushing from the floor, she rose on unsteady legs and rested her palms on the vanity. The face staring back at her in the mirror was red and wet with tears. She licked her lips, imagining she could still taste his as he’d kissed her with a passion she never knew existed.

“No,” she said, softly at first. “No, no, no!” She cranked on the tap, splashing water in her face, as if she could wash away his taste, his scent, everything about him. It didn’t work. Every poignant memory was permanently burned into her mind and her very soul.

More tears stung the backs of her eyes. Crying over something she couldn’t change was a waste of…well, everything.

She grabbed a towel from the ring on the wall. When she pressed the fluffy terrycloth tightly to her face her heart gave another painful squeeze. He must have used this towel, because she could still smell him on it.

Low ringing filtered into the bathroom, dragging her out of her pity-fest. She went into the foyer and dug the phone from her shoulder bag. A number with the 718 area code lit the screen. Normally, she’d let unknown numbers go to voicemail. A niggling feeling she couldn’t explain had her swiping to take the call.

“Hello?”

The barest intake of breath came through the phone. “This is Maria. Maria Falzone.”

Gina tightened her grip. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but even she’d begun to think Maria would never reach out to her. “I’m glad you called. Are you all right?”

“Um, yes,” she said in a hushed tone. “But I can’t take it anymore. I want to leave my husband. If he ever finds out I called you, he’ll kill me. Please, can you help me?”

Leaving Maria alone with that bastard husband of hers a moment longer wasn’t an option. A lot of logistics had to be set in motion to make this happen.

“Are you really ready to leave him? Today?” Many people needed more convincing and time for the full implications of leaving their spouse to sink in before actually going through with it. Others simply made the decision and were ready to act on it immediately. She hadn’t figured Maria Falzone to fall into the latter category.

“I’m not sure,” Maria said, her voice hesitant. “I think so. Yes.”

“Where are you?” She opened a drawer in the foyer table and pulled out a pen and pad. “I can pick you up at noon.” She had to call Linda Hernandez and make arrangements so there’d be a spot for Maria at the Center and a plan in place to protect her.

“No! We’re leaving for the airport at ten o’clock to go to Florida. I can’t spend another minute with him. I have to get away from him now.”

“All right. Stay calm.” The quick timeframe wasn’t ideal, but she’d make it work. “Do you have a car?”

“No.”

“Where are you now?”

“Staten Island. At my father-in-law’s house.”

Gina’s hand stilled. Maria was calling from Franco Falzone’s mansion in Todt Hill on Staten Island.

“I can walk somewhere nearby and meet you,” Maria said. “Willow Swamp Park, by the entrance to the bike trail. Do you know where the park is?”

“Yes.” She glanced at the clock. It was seven thirty. “I can be there by nine. Will you be able to slip away?”

“I have to,” she whimpered.

“I’ll be there. I promise.” She jotted down the location. “And Maria? My name is Gina.”

“Thank you, Gina.”