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“It’s funny you use that word, Emma. Mutilate. Because my friend Tony Greco, the one your Irishman killed, could be described the same way. Face and ribs broken, bullet hole between his eyes, washed up like a piece of trash on the beach at Dead Horse Bay.”
I shuddered, but kept quiet.
“No, Emma, that is not why I called. I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Then why are we speaking?” I asked, holding my breath. If he asked for evidence, I didn’t have anything. And I couldn’t forge Nate’s suicide note. Not only was it immoral to feign Nate’s last words, I knew in my heart that Don Luca would be able to tell.
“I rang to let you know that, if I am forced to choose between sparing your lover’s life or the Babau’s, I will not hesitate to slice Jack O’Connell’s throat myself. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Panic. My heart, once frozen, raced to catch up on the beats it had missed. I couldn’t find my voice to reply. I had to stop Jack from getting to the Babau—and I had to do it on my own. I couldn’t tell Eoghan about this conversation without him filling Jack in on everything. This was an open threat against his boss.
“Emma, I am waiting for you to tell me you understand,” Don Luca prodded, impatient.
“I understand,” I answered.
“Good. As always, it has been a pleasure speaking with you, Emma.”
* * * *
Jack
It was after two in the morning when I got home. Emma was still awake. She sat at one of the bar stools in the kitchen, typing furiously into her cell phone, tongue caught between her teeth.
“If you’re texting me because I haven’t called today, let me apologize before your thumbs fall off,” I said with little humor, pulling the revolver from its holster at my side. I dropped it in the drawer next to the five-range.
Emma jumped up at the sound of my voice, relief washing over her. She’d obviously seen the news and come to the correct conclusion. It’d been a long day.
“I was talking to Ella.” She looked wary—like she couldn’t decipher what mood I was in. I felt terrible about putting her on edge, but my control was slipping. We both knew it. Hell, everyone did. “She’s coming to the city this weekend, so I need to go home for a few days.”
Nodding, I poured myself a drink and took a sip. I was already tipsy. Sweeney had cleared out his pub in Murray Hill and I’d been there since midday—strategizing, planning, making calls, dealing with yet another grieving family.
Emma’s gaze burned a hole in my profile as I stared at the city view, drink in hand. Manhattan hadn’t changed, but it looked less vibrant to me. Central Park lay beneath the dizzying lights like an abyss.
“Who was he?” Emma asked, her tone blanketed in empathy. I ached to wrap my arms around her, to lay my head on her chest. She was ready to comfort me, but I couldn’t bring myself to accept it.
“A Sweeney,” I answered. “New recruit. He was only nineteen.”
I tore my gaze from the view and looked at Emma. She was so warm and inviting that it made my heart hurt. She wore black silk pajamas, her hair falling in natural waves.
She was still slight, but her muscles were showing definition. Mick had informed me Emma was throwing herself full throttle into fitness. I was proud of her. She was far too selfless to begin with. Even if it was as simple as exercising and eating better, she deserved it. She deserved more than that—more than anything I could give her.
She was out of her seat, rounding the counter that separated us. She took the drink from my hands and set it down. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I killed one of Nicoletti’s men to save face. I knew the consequences, and I killed him anyway. I thought I could handle his retaliation.”
She placed her hands on either side of my jaw, massaging the tension there. I’d been grinding my molars all day, fighting the growing rage. And fear.
“I have hundreds of lives in my hand, dovey,” I continued. She lay her head against my chest while I talked. “Someone dies, and it’s on me. Hundreds of lives, Emma, and the only one I give a shit about is yours.”
She looked up at me, frowning. “I’m safe, Jack. Please don’t worry about me so much.”
I scoffed. “That’s like telling me not to breathe. Every second we’re together, you’re risking your life. And the worst part is that you think I’m worth it. You think being with me is worth putting yourself on the line. I’m a horrible, fucked-up human being. You should’ve never given me the time of day.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, her hold on me tightening. We were so attached to each other it was sickening. I knew the consequences of our relationship the minute it started, but I brushed them off. Now I was dealing with them and I wasn’t ready for it—just like I wasn’t ready for a war with the Mafia.
“You had a hard day,” she offered, her voice low, trying to bury her sadness. I was doing a terrible job at keeping her happy. She hadn’t had a genuine smile on her face in weeks—and neither had I. “I can’t even imagine the stress you’re under. But that man was killed by the Babau, not you.”
I didn’t even bother asking how she knew about the Babau. I had probably let it slip when she was within earshot or she’d overhead someone speaking at the Emerald.
