Page 1 of Tattletale

PROLOGUE

FIONA

“You know what I want, Fiona?”Luca asks, weaving his thick fingers into my knotted hair from behind. He pulls my head up from the pillow.

“I don’t care,” I whisper weakly.

“I want to take these chains off.” He releases my hair, and my face lands back into the soft pillow. Luca tugs on the handcuffs that are binding my wrists behind my back. “I could fuck you properly without your hands bound together.”

Turning my face so my nose is no longer buried in the pillow, I take a deep breath. But it nearly makes me gag. The room is stuffy, and it smells like sex. Luca’s cum is slowly dripping down my lower back. It takes all my self-restraint not to vomit all over the satin pillowcase.

“Then take them off,” I bite out.

“Last time I did that, you hit me. Can you promise to play nice?”

“No.”

He laughs, then climbs off, jostling me and the mattress. I keep my eyes forward, staring blankly at the heinous red wallpaper and the golden Accardi family crest painted on thewalls. I have a coping mechanism. If I don’t look, it’s easier. If I can’t see it,it’s not real.

The light switch clicks as Luca enters the bathroom. Then, the faucet runs. He’s washing himself clean of me.

To any other woman, Luca is probably considered handsome. He has a strong jaw and full lips, and his nose and cheeks are carved from sleek, masculine lines. His body feels heavy when he’s on top of me, the weight from his large frame filled with thick muscles.

When I’m alone, locked in this room, which is my current prison, I fantasize about the way I’d slit his throat. A bullet wouldn’t be enough for the man who slaughtered my family right in front of my eyes. Too quick. Too clean. One day, when I kill Luca Accardi, I want to watch the blood drain from his body. I’ll make it painful. He’ll scream like my family screamed. I hope he hits the ground even harder than my father did.

I held Pappa as he took his final breath, telling him it was okay. I’d protect what was left of the O’Leary clan. I promised I’d spend the rest of my life honoring what he built. But they were empty words. I’m barely eighteen. More of a girl than a woman, Pappa always reminded me.

When we lost my mother, I was ten, and my sister, Saoirse, only seven. After a car accident, he was suddenly alone in the world to raise two young daughters. For a while, I cooked, cleaned, and cared for my baby sister as best I could at ten years old. Pappa was lost in grief. For months, he sat stoically in his armchair in front of the fireplace. He barely moved from that stiff, red chair. He hardly ate or slept. I didn’t think he’d ever crave sunshine again.

But finally, after months of the painful ache, he joined me for a walk in the hills. It was in the middle of July, and our beloved homeland of Ireland was the warmest it’d be all year. We walkedsilently for a quarter mile before Pappa stopped to scoop up something from the dirt trail.

He gently closed his fist, protecting whatever was inside before squatting down so we were at eye level. I’ll never forget his words, eight years ago…

“My little babe, I need you and your sister to stay small like this forever. That way I can keep you close, right in my palm, and protect yeh. Understand?”

I nod, my eager, ten-year-old eyes fixed on his fist.“Yes.”

For the first time in months, he cracks a small smile.“You want to see what it is?”

When I nod again and hold out my hand, he places a small cricket in my palm. I expect it to eagerly jump away, free from my father’s clutches. But the brown cricket is immobile.

“Pappa? You killed it?”I ask.

“No, Fiona. He’s feigning death. Clever little fella. Waiting for the perfect moment to escape.”

I shake my head slowly, my blond ringlets grazing my cheek. Rotating my wrist, I try to move the cricket, but it seems glued in place.“No, Pappa. It’s dead. I think—”

It leaps, leaving me speechless. In one single bound, the cricket is out of sight, chirping its victory. Its song of freedom fades as it disappears deep into the field.“I would’ve kept it,”I say. “Given it a good home, and plenty to eat.”

“Hmm,”Pappa replies.“No, Fiona. It’s cruel to cage a cricket. They belong to the earth. When it’s warm enough, they fill the air with songs. Very underestimated little creatures.”

“They are wee things, Pappa. What could we possibly underestimate?”

He points to my open hand.“When I was a lad, a swarm of crickets banned together and cleared half of my grandpappa’s farmland. Most of the harvest was massacred. What was left, rotted. We went hungry that winter. Little babe, crickets aren’t intimidating on their own. But in numbers, they can be devastating.”

I smile at him, understanding his metaphor.“Stronger with its family?”

Pappa ruffles my hair.“Aye.”

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