Page 82 of Broken Blood Ties

“Let’s go.”

She flinches as I demand it, and she sulks out of the room following Cormac.

As I follow her, I wonder what Salvatore’s face will say when he sees his daughter for the first time in seven years. Will it be a relief? That she’s been found safe and unharmed—well, besides the years of trauma and neglect he seems to have racked up between Luna and Isabella.

Or will it be anger? Because she chose to defy him; to seek out a better life for herself and map her own future. Perhaps he will surprise us all with a bout of sadness, although I sincerely doubt it. Maybe Salvatore will wrap her in his arms and apologize for everything he’s put her through and promise her a better life. One of freedom.

I’m not sure why the last option causes a creeping darkness to settle in the pit of my stomach, and it feels like a one-two punch to my chest. The sensation is so dominant I clear my throat and thump a fist on my sternum.

If the Buscetta family was truly sorry, it would be healing for Summer, but that would mean she’d most likely leave Boston. She’d return home to New York where her sister and brother-in-law live with their two sons and never look back.

Summer stops dead as she walks around the corner of the dining area. To keep from running into her, I place both my hands on her trembling shoulders. When she doesn’t continue, I gently push her, guiding her through the tables until I’ve deposited her mere feet away from Salvatore and step beside her.

Salvatore’s peppered hair from when I last saw him is gone. Replaced by a head of thick silver, slicked back and parted to the side. His face is clean shaven, nose still unmistakable—guess he didn’t take up his wife’s affinity for getting work done.

He stands wide, wearing an off-white suit with a black undershirt underneath. A gold cross chain I’ve never noticed him wear before, hangs around his neck. However, when I finally meet his stare, I smirk.

He leaches a hardness that rivals Summer’s. She grimaces as each passing second seems to render her more powerless to plaster an expression of disdain until she finally looks away.

“Isabella.” Salvatore’s voice booms in the pub, and Lizzy, who’s yet to make herself scarce, startles and drops a glass on the bar.

“It’s Summer now,” she says.

Salvatore looks between his two guards, both dressed in black suits. Never understood why the Cosa Nostra or Bratva always felt the need to wear prissy shite.

“We’ll see about that. Let’s go.” He makes to turn.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I left that life. I’m no longer a Buscetta.” Summer crosses her arms, and my eyebrows raise at her tone.

Unfortunately, before I can open my mouth to interrupt this ridiculousness, Buscetta says, “But it seems you found your way back into the life whether you wanted to or not.”

Summer and her father stare at each other, and the silence mirrors that of the ominous quiet before a volcanic eruption—perhaps the calm before the seismic activity in this case.

“Grab her.” Salvatore’s words prompt Summer to shift backward and over closer to me.

Perfect. She’s playing the part she doesn’t know she has perfectly.

Both Cosa Nostra guards scurry forward, but halt when I raise both my hands. “Ah, Salvatore. I believe I can’t let ye do that.”

The urge to shield her, protect her, grows with each appraising look Salvatore gives his daughter. This has to work.

“And why the hell not,” he clips out, adjusting his shoulders and rolling his neck.

I wrap a hand around Summer and pull her into my side. She hesitates a moment before submitting.

“What ye think, love? Should we tell him the news?”

Summer stiffens beside me, and from the corner of my eye I see her glance up, her brow furrowed. I keep my gaze fixed on Salvatore, whose narrowed eyes and scrunched forehead are almost comically intense.

“What is this, Kieran?”

“Summer and I are engaged,” I say casually. Summer slackens at my side, and I finally allow myself to peer at her. Her eyes are stretched wide, and they dart back and forth between mine like she’s trying to place what’s going on. She must figure out what I’m doing because she nods at me, then shifts her nod to her father as well.

“No. She’s Cosa Nostra. I made a deal with the Cartel years ago—I will uphold that promise.”

“Please. It’s been seven years.” I release Summer and shove my hands in my pockets while striding closer to where Salvatore stands dead still. “Besides, I wasn’t aware she was Cosa Nostra before I proposed.”

Buscetta’s gaze flits to her empty left hand. “And when was this?”