Page 5 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“That was stupid, Rocco. And by the way, you’re fired.” Dante says flatly, as if dismissing an incompetent employee rather than a man he just shot.

A new chill settles in my spine. Dear Lord, does he own this place? Was that why he could rent it out at short notice? Boldly touch me in front of the staff? My cheeks burn with embarrassment at the memory of what we were doing before the Irishmen arrived. It almost feels like a lifetime ago.

Dante’s eyes scan the room, finally settling on a thin man cowering a few tables away. “You over there, Johnny, is it?” he calls out.

The man raises his head, his face as pale as the tablecloths. “S-sì, signore,” he stammers.

“Go and help Rocco,” Dante orders, balling up a napkin and tossing it across the room. “Pressure and ice.”

Johnny scrambles to comply, fear etched into his features. Dante crouches down again, his demeanor shifting once more, becoming almost gentle.

“Baby, come on,” he coaxes, extending a large palm toward me.

Oh, hell no.

I recoil in horror, staring at his hand as if it might transform into a venomous snake. “You—you just killed those men,” I croak.

Dante’s smile is almost indulgent. “Addy, you heard them yourself. They were clearly suicidal. I was merely a means to help them along the path they desperately needed to take.”

I nod mechanically, as if he’s making perfect sense. “Of course. I heard them.” My mind latches onto a detail, eager for anything to make sense of this madness. “So . . . you speak Gaelic?”

He shrugs. “A little. In this line of work, I have to.”

“The line of work being . . .?” The words barely escape my dry throat.

He says nothing, but I hear him loud and clear. I’m not sure if it’s the muscle ticking in his jaw or the way his eyes quickly flicker to the dead men on the floor, but suddenly, I get it.

It’s official. I’m in hell. And Dante is the devil.

Chapter Two

Adele

PRESENT DAY

The elevator slides open with a soft ding, ushering me onto the Forensics Floor of the Boston DA’s office. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on the empty corridor.

Outside, rain pelts heavily against the windows, transforming the cityscape into a gray, watery blur. I’d cycled to work this morning, so there was no avoiding the deluge.

I quickly shed my raincoat, hang it in the cloakroom, then undo my ponytail and shake out my thick red curls to dry. Then I start heading down the corridor and toward the glass double doors.

Halfway through, my sneakers slip on a wet patch on the polished blue linoleum. Flailing wildly, I catch myself at the last second and manage to remain upright, but I end up landing awkwardly on my right foot.

My stiff right hip protests with a sharp twinge, and I wince.

“Shit,” I mutter, eyeing the puddle someone tracked in. I slip a hand inside the waistband of my boot-cut jeans and quickly rub the knot of tense muscle beneath the jagged scar on my right hip.

I blame the stupid dream for this. It’s the same nightmare I’ve had since I was five. The one with the masked gunman, the acrid smoke, the coppery taste of blood, and my mother’s screams fading to silence.

Having the dream meant I overslept. Oversleeping meant missing my morning walk. Not walking meant my hip would stiffen up, making me more clumsy and likely to stumble.

Thinking I might need an exorcist to get rid of that particular nightmare for good, I adjust my messenger bag strap and carefully navigate the treacherous floor, making a mental note to inform housekeeping that the newest way to die is currently gathering on the corridor of the Forensics floor.

The quiet hum of equipment and a faint chemical smell greet me as I push open the heavy glass double doors, take a deep breath, and steel myself for another day of office politics and ethical tightropes. The pressure to make evidence fit into a certain narrative is sometimes simply too great not to cave under.

As I reach up to take my lab coat from the rack by the door, I hear the familiar drawl of Tim Carter, my coworker.

“You’re late for our coffee date, darling. It’s already cold.”

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