Page 23 of Veil of Vengeance

I can feel a pair of eyes on the side of my face, but I refuse to look up. Emiliano clears his throat, and with a sigh, I finally look at him.

The asshole has one thing working for him, for sure—his looks. Other than being Capo, of course. I raise an eyebrow, prompting him to say what he wants, but he just continues to stare.

“What?” I blurt out, unnerved by the way he’s looking at me. He just shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his seat.

“I have a question.” God, could I sound any more demanding than I do right now. His gaze comes back to me, and the corners of his eyes tighten.

“What is it?” He doesn’t seem to be happy about my sudden curiosity.

When will you let me go?Is what I want to ask, but instead, I ask, “Why are you going to New Hampshire?” I just want to go back to my family. I want to see my sisters and hug them. Kiss my mom and Nonna and tell Marco that I love him. Eat my mochi ice cream in peace while reading my cheesy Matteonce books.

“We,” he says.What?I frown as I look at him. “We are going to New Hampshire. You’re coming with us,” he elaborates.

No. Despair claws at my throat as the tears fight to build up, but I just push away the feeling.

“I want to go back to Chicago,” I say, and he gives me a blank stare, his fingers tapping against his desk.

“Let me make myself clear, I don’t give a fuck what you want.” My jaw clenches when he condescendingly adds, “Princess.”

I narrow my eyes, fists balling in my lap.

“I didn’t do anything!” I argue. The corner of his lips tilts up into a harsh smirk as he leans over the desk.

“I don’t think you understand. I don’t give a fuck what your involvement is in your Dad’s business. You are guilty in my eyes by association.” His eyes are cruel, a snarl morphing his handsome face. I dig my nails into my thighs, my throat closing up.

When I go to protest, the elevator doors open and Romiro stalks in, pushing a cart with food and drinks, snapping the tension in the room. The smell of warm bread fills the space. Notes of sweetness and saltiness intertwine and reach us.

He comes to a stop in front of us with the cart positioned in front of me. There is an array of three different kinds of bread, some caviar, and pule cheese. There are also three different desserts, water, and some sort of juice.

“Let’s eat,” is all he says before he begins to transfer the plates onto Emiliano’s desk. We eat in silence, but I can’t concentrate on anything other than the questions brewing.

* * *

We’ve beenon the road for the past hour and a half. I don’t know where we’re headed, but Romiro keeps bugging Emiliano to stop at a gas station. We see a huge sign pointing to a gas station that’s coming up in a few miles, and Emiliano steers the car into the lane to head into the gas station.

“How come you don’t have a driver?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He shrugs. “I do, but I prefer driving myself.” His eyes stray back to the road before Emiliano looks at me sternly through the rear-view mirror and adds, “Don’t think about pulling any kind of shit. No one will help you.”

I roll my eyes, already tired of his repetition. The man has nothing to say to me other than threats. And like I previously thought, it’s kind of losing its edge.

As the car comes to a stop outside of the gas station, Romiro gets out, muttering something about his poor bladder, while Emiliano stays in the car. He rolls down his window and takes out a cigarette pack.

Extending his arm back to me, he offers me a cigarette, at which my nose wrinkles and I shake my head at him.

I watch him put the cigarette between his lips and pull out a lighter in the shape of a dagger. He lights the cigarette and takes a couple of puffs before blowing the smoke out of the window.

“Why did you take me instead of just attacking, since you could come and go from Chicago as you please?” My question comes off selfish. I don’t want him to attack and hurt my family. I would die for my family.

His eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror once more. They look colder than they did a couple of seconds ago. They narrow as he blows out another puff of smoke.

“If I’d just attacked the Outfit just like you suggested, then I wouldn’t be getting what I want.” He seems so set on getting revenge on the Outfit, but for what? I don’t know.

“And what is it that you want?” It’s a risky question to ask since his mood seems to run hot one second and cold the next. Silence chases the question away, and we sit there, him watching me and me watching him. Something passes through his eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something, but then clams his lips shut. Tension settles into each crevice of the car, making it almost unbearable. Until the car door opens and breaks the moment.

“Man, gas station toilets are the fucking worse,” Romiro grumbles, his frustration and disgust clear as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Are you done?” Emiliano asks him as he puts the butt of the cigarette in the console. Romiro simply nods.

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