Page 21 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“Right.” He studies me again intently before asking if I’m alone.

“Yes, I’m alone.”

“And are you Irish, Addy?”

I shake my head so fast that I dislodge my bun, causing my thick curls to tumble down my back. “I’m American.”

Apparently sick of our conversation, he rummages through my bag and removes my wallet. He pulls out my driving license.

“Adele O’Shea,” he reads out loud, noting my Boston address. His eyes swing back to me with shock and a glimmer of something that looks suspiciously like recognition.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m pretty sure we’ve never met before, but his face smooths into a frighteningly cold mask that makes me shut my mouth.

“You’re coming with me, Red Wine,” he growls, and then his hands become iron bands around me as he hoists me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Chapter Six

Dante

The roar of engines and blaring horns pulsates through me as I stand on the pitch-black overpass, watching a monstrous gridlock engulf the I-90.

Forty-five minutes. Forty-five fucking minutes, and the wreckage hasn’t moved an inch. The Irish scumbags were just pulling out of Urban Elixir when we gave chase and finally managed to turn their expensive asses into scrap metal with a well-timed four-car pile-up.

I bark into my phone. “What the hell is happening? Those pieces of metal are not further apart from each other than they were half an hour ago!”

The idiot on the other end, who is probably a temp filling in for the Traffic Control Operator, mumbles about clearing the road in another thirty minutes.

I snap, “You’ll be clearing your desk for life if that highway isn’t up and running in ten. Do you understand?”

I hang up, shove the phone back into my breast pocket, and swipe away the rivulet of blood trickling down my left temple and onto my suit jacket. More quickly replaces it, so I reach into my jacket for a handkerchief to staunch the flow.

I don’t remember getting the scratch, but it’s an insignificant price to pay, considering the magnitude of the crash. One car managed to escape, but the other two weren’t as lucky.

As I descend the pitch-black incline of the overpass and back to the Marston, the sound of a gunshot reaches me.

Sal had better not be getting carried away down there.

I usually prefer interrogating in a closed space, where I can control the environment, but tonight we don’t have that luxury. Still, it’s some small comfort knowing the Marston is ours, so getting the lights and cameras down was light work.

I return to find Sal standing before a kneeling Irishman, his other three friends sprawled on the ground, lifeless. Pietro must have left to check the perimeter again because I don’t immediately see him.

“Salvatore. I leave you at a hotel with four guests, and in two minutes, three of them are dead. What does that say about our hospitality?”

Sal shrugs. “Two were already dying before you left. And one was chatting shit.”

“And that one?” I cock my head at the only man left out of the four we captured.

“We only need one voice to sing, and his accent isn’t so thick,” Sal says, and I just huff and shake my head. As if the accent would be an issue for Sal or any of us.

An unspoken rule in our world is that you learn the languages of friends and foes alike, or you don’t survive long. Be it the lilt of the Irish, the harsh consonants of the Russians, or the rapid-fire Spanish of the cartels.

But Sal is playing games, as usual.

“You’d better hope you’re right about his singing voice,” I mutter, then take a few steps toward the kneeling man. He’s a big fellow with a ruddy complexion and a shock of dirty blond hair. His eyes, though filled with fear, maintain a defiant glare.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, my voice deceptively calm.

He says nothing, just glares back at me with a stubborn set to his jaw.

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