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He’s gone.
I sat, naked and kneeling, on the bed for a while after, wishing he’d reappear in the doorway. But I knew better. He wouldn’t be returning. Not for a while, anyway.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before I fell onto the pillows. I pulled the blankets under my chin, curled into a little ball and rid myself of whatever tears remained.
Chapter Seven
Emma
The very next morning, I broke my promise.
I was standing in the foyer in nothing but one of Jack’s dress shirts, staring at a framed photo on the side table. I tapped my spoon against a plastic carton of blueberry yogurt, contemplating.
Shannon had taken the photograph on New Year’s Eve. It was a shot of Jack and I right when the ball dropped. We were locked in a kiss, unaware of the camera. Jack’s giant hand encompassed my jaw, tilting my head to the side in the way I loved. The tiniest bit of tongue glistened, the lights of the nightclub dyeing our skin a neon purple. Our mouths were turned upward in silly, buzzed smiles.
Fiagaí circled my legs as I studied the couple in the frame. Was I still the same woman? Because the woman in that picture had been content to take whatever Jack could give her. She’d sworn not to push him too far, not to delve into the details of his work or past.
I loved Jack, but he was only letting me love half of him.
“Don’t use the subway, never go anywhere alone, Eoghan is yours to command.”
Jack had left me in the dark, without so much as a single explanation. I knew there was a threat, but I wasn’t sure what to look for. How long would I have to glance over my shoulder, searching the streets for unidentifiable enemies? How long would Jack be gone? When would I hear from him? Would anyone bother to let me know when it was safe again?
Two hours later, those questions still plagued me as I sat on the stiff mattress in room 1523 of the Booker Hotel. I took a cab, having confirmed that Eoghan was tracking my MetroCard usage. It was the simplest explanation for why Jack was able to find me so fast whenever I used the subway.
I scrolled through my phone while I waited, although I didn’t have any notifications. Jack would still be in the air, and my family thought I was in Greece. I hadn’t had the time or the energy to fill them in on all that had occurred. Instead, I poured through my camera roll. Images of Jack. Of both of us together. The aqua sea in Santorini. A snapshot of him fighting in the octagon. A selfie from his birthday. A candid I had taken while he slept in bed, the winter sun kissing his bare chest.
Anything to distract me from the wait—but it took a mere thirty minutes for Don Luca’s men to show. Without a word, I stood and allowed them to place a cloth bag over my head, holding my wrists together for them to tie. I’d been through the process just once, but I knew the drill. I left my purse and cell phone behind as the men pulled me from the room, taking me to him.
Jack thought he was protecting me by keeping me out of the loop, so I was forced to seek answers from the very last person I wanted to see. The man I thought I’d never return to, although he’d said he would leave his door open for me—figuratively, of course. If anyone knew what was going on in the underbelly of this city, it would be him.
“Hello, little one.”
Another hour had gone by. I’d been shoved into an idling vehicle and driven in silence to the don of the New York Mafia. Luca Nicoletti was as immaculate as ever. Dressed in a luxurious buttoned shirt and slacks, he appeared youthful despite his age, his handsome features reeking of foreign aristocracy. The don was a dragon slumbering beneath human skin. I, in turn, donned my mask as well.
“Do you know who’s been murdering the Irish?” I asked, seeking to skip his pleasantries. It was worth a shot, but I should have known better. I was on his time. It didn’t matter how badly I wanted answers. He might have been a monster, but he was also a stickler for manners.
Don Luca gestured for me to sit, his smile oozing with wickedness. We were in his study adjacent to the billiard room. His large mahogany desk was clear apart from a small laptop, but that was closed. The walls were lined with books and awards, commendations from his many donations to local charities and law enforcement. It was racketeering at its finest.
I sighed, planting my butt on a plush leather armchair. Don Luca did the same, claiming a seat across from me. His expression was almost one of pride, as if he were delighted I’d come to see him. It made me ill.
“Amara,” he called into the other room. I was surprised to discover we weren’t alone. “Make Emma and me something to drink.”
“It’s nine in the morning,” I protested. Don Luca didn’t seem like the type to indulge so early in the day. He was a busy man.
His grin widened. “Amara makes a delicious cappuccino.”
I glanced at the entryway to the billiard room. I could hear glasses being set down and feet shuffling on the hardwood floor.
“Can she hear us?”
The rest of the Mafia didn’t know why Nicoletti and I were meeting. He liked to keep it private. If they knew what I did, they would turn on him.
“She is my niece,” he explained, always taking care to enunciate his words, English being his second language. “She knows all about our little…arrangement.”
Meaning she knew her uncle had paid to have his own daughter murdered. She knew he’d had Jeremiah Murray framed to get access to him in prison, then he’d had Murray killed to kickstart a war. She thought, as the don did, that I had a letter in my possession that could take him down. That I was holding it over his head in exchange for safety.
Don Luca watched me with practiced scrutiny, twiddling his thumbs in his lap. He had one ankle crossed over his knee, his lean form a picture of ease.
