Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(88)

Dom laid a hand on my shoulder and I faltered with surprise. ‘You did the right thing, Sophie. We all know that.’

I clamped my mouth shut. I was afraid of what I would say next – of all the things still unsaid between us in that moment – Jack, my father … ‘So, we’re going into hiding?’

‘Until New Year’s Eve.’ A glint had returned to Dom’s eyes. ‘Donata’s expected at the mayor’s yacht party for the countdown. If she shows up, we’re going to take her head.’

I swallowed back my revulsion. ‘Another coup.’

‘We keep pressing forward,’ said Dom, confidently. ‘When you have the advantage, you run with it. We’ve almost won.’

‘What a great feeling.’ My voice was entirely hollow.

‘You’ll get used to it, Sophie. Although,’ said Dom, gesturing at my face, ‘a word of advice? You look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards, so I would suggest you spruce yourself up a little before we move out.’ He twirled his finger around in the air, gesturing at my scowling face. ‘Give us something pretty to look at.’

I swatted his hand away. ‘Once a dick, always a dick, eh, Dom?’ I stalked past him, making a beeline for the bathroom, my thoughts kicking into gear and whirring at a million miles a minute. Where were we going? And why had no one told me? There were no texts on my phone.

I got dressed and packed up all my things like Dom had told me to. I didn’t have that much anyway, just one suitcase and a backpack. It was the day after Christmas, and I had never felt less cheerful. I still hadn’t come face-to-face with him yet. And I would have to, because he was in this house, too, and wherever we were going now, we were going together.

I dragged my suitcase out into the upstairs hallway, pausing to take a breath. I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and even though I felt more nauseous than hungry, my body was feeling the lack of nutrients.

When I straightened up again, Nic was hovering at the top of the staircase. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he was leaning just a little on his right leg. His hair was coiffed and gelled in dark waves, and his eyes were bright. He looked incredible. Totally and utterly unaffected.

I wanted to claw his eyes out.

I reined my temper in, swallowed the threat of tears, and stood across from him with my chin raised.

He nodded at my suitcase. ‘Do you need a hand with that?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure? You don’t look so good.’

Say it, I dared him with my eyes. Address it.

He hesitated, a word caught on his lips. He pursed them and swallowed. ‘We’re leaving in half an hour. The drive is pretty long, so you might want to eat first.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

He narrowed his eyes a fraction but didn’t contradict me. Coward, I thought. His bedroom wasn’t on this floor. There was no reason to come up here, except to talk to me, and now he was here, he wouldn’t utter a word about it.

‘Was there something else?’ I said tightly.

He took a step forward.

‘Don’t,’ I said warningly.

He stopped. His hands were still in his pockets. There were no circles under his eyes, no lines of exhaustion, nothing tugging at his features.

‘I had to do it, Sophie.’

‘Did you?’ I asked.

‘He was a threat. A Marino.’

‘So am I.’

‘No,’ he said, more firmly. ‘You’re a Falcone.’

‘He was my dad, Nic.’ My voice cracked. ‘We were just talking. He shot Jack.’

Nic frowned. ‘He had to go. He was expecting it.’

Rage surged inside me. I pressed it down, down, calming myself. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

He had the audacity to hold my gaze. ‘You live by the sword, you die by the sword.’

‘You’re not sorry,’ I said.

‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘Right.’ I gritted my teeth. ‘Well, that’s it, then. I don’t have anything else to say.’

‘Are you dismissing me?’ he asked, the ghost of a grin forming on his face.

‘Yes,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want to look at you right now.’ ‘You killed Felice,’ he pointed out.

‘You know that was different.’

He didn’t have an answer to that.

He turned around, and then paused, one foot on the stairs. He looked at me over his shoulder, his voice hard when he said, ‘Do you forget sometimes, Sophie, that it was your father who murdered mine?’

I came towards him, until there was just a yard between us. With acid in my mouth and fury raging in my heart, I kept my voice as steady as I could. ‘I suppose I forgot that your heart will always beat for revenge first, and love second.’

‘Unrequited love,’ he clarified.

I gaped at him. ‘So you did it to punish me? You did it because I couldn’t love you back – the way you love me?’

‘I did it because Luca couldn’t,’ he said simply.

I stepped backwards, away from his smell, his face, his eyes. It would take a long time to conquer this feeling of betrayal – no matter what logic dictated, no matter any of it.