Page 4 of The Mafia Assassin’s Redemption (Mafia Obsession #2)

FOUR

harry

Every day since I ran away at ten years old, I’ve been waiting for that monster, Quinn, to show up again. To finish me off.

It’s stupid because I’m sure he’d have found me by now.

For years, the fear of possibility haunted me, the screams and fire. The gunshots. The man with the cold blue eyes and curling black hair. Taking me, hurting me.

Quinn. It’s Quinn.

Those words are etched into my brain.

Along with his I’ll take care of you in the morning.

Shh. Run.

Those new ones, too. The ones that were spoken by the stranger in the alley. Was he another monster?

I shiver, even though my coat’s thick. There’s a coldness snaking through my insides, plunging me into a deep freeze.

I fucking hate Quinn with everything I am. He took my father. Probably killed my mother, too.

Shh. Run.

Why the hell did the voice in the alley sound like Quinn’s? That Irish accent? Was I imagining it ?

Jesus, when am I going to learn that not every man with an Irish accent is him?

In the alley, nausea surged through me like a tidal wave, and everything in me lurched into a place of such awareness, even my nerve endings tingled.

That electric touch when the stranger’s hand slammed against my mouth lit fires inside of me and set off memories I didn’t want to recall.

Death. Murder. Mayhem.

He killed Bernardo.

But I did what he said. I ran and didn’t look back. I ran to Father Luigi. Not too long after, men stormed into the church. Three of them. Two stood by the door. The third stormed up to me.

Salvatore.

I didn’t even need an introduction, I saw the resemblance.

You killed my brother. That’s what he said.

N-no, I didn’t. Someone else… That’s what I said, stumbling like a fool.

Who?

Shame burns hot in my cheeks. I could have lied, given out the description of Quinn as I remember him. Or just said he was some Irish guy.

But I didn’t, and all the man said to me was, If I find out it was you, I’ll come back and shoot you myself, little girl.

That’s when Luigi stood up and positioned himself between us. This is a house of God. I won’t have that talk in here. Remember your place. Respect the Lord and His home.

Salvatore took a step back, apologized to the priest, and left.

I wanted to ask him about Lara. He didn’t seem worried; he didn’t seem to think of her at all.

Then again, he came about his brother. Word of the shooting traveled fast.

And Lara? God… She should be a long way from here at this point, if she showed up to the address I gave her.

I did what I could to move her to the next stop in her new life.

And now?

And now my thoughts are all over the place. If she went home, I can’t do a thing about it. Or maybe he’s got a replacement in the wings. Some do, some don’t even bother looking for the ones who leave. If the woman’s gone, and their private searches turn up nothing, they have a replacement.

A younger model.

A better one.

A more obedient one.

I take in a breath, trying to calm my racing heart when I stop outside my uncle’s brownstone in Prospect Park. It’s modest, but still has two stories and is big enough for a single man. In a way, I wish I’d grown up here.

The neighborhood’s nice, and I don’t think Uncle Anthony has anything to do with the mafia. I’d have been safe.

A shiver runs through my veins. I want to blame it on the cool wind, but I can’t. Because I know everything that’s happened in the past days drags me back in time where the paranoia of my childhood threatens to crush me.

I pull open the black wrought iron fence that opens to the small courtyard. I walk along the path that leads up the front steps. This place represents safety, like the church. When Uncle Anthony came to Ireland, I was seventeen and he brought me here to New York.

And through my contacts with the church and the school there, I found Father Luigi and that lifeline of helping others .

Because maybe one day I’ll help enough that memories—full memories—will come back.

Although Sister David told me that the missing ones from my past might be in God’s protection.

Maybe she was right. Or maybe I’ll just find release from the ones I have.

Maybe I’ll be able to find peace and open the flower shop I’ve dreamed of since I was young.

Mom wanted one. I always loved flowers. They always smelled so good and were so bright and cheerful, and even as a young child, I wanted to be surrounded by everything pretty.

Instead, it’s been horror and monsters and helping save women in the small way I do.

Maybe I won’t ever have that shop or find peace or those missing memories.

But I have the church and Father Luigi and my work.

It’s enough. For now, at least.

I ring the bell.

“Uncle Anthony,” I say, pretending the threats and the killing in the alley didn’t happen, pretending I’m fine. I smile and throw my arms around him.

He hugs me back, and there’s only the merest hint of a smile in return. For some reason, my stomach flip-flops.

“Hazel, so good to see you.” He gestures for me to come in.

I trail him down the polished wooden floorboards of the hallway to his living room and blink in surprise.

A tray of nuts and some wine bottles sit on a nearby table. He pours me a white burgundy, my favorite, from an ice bucket and hands it to me. Then he picks up his tumbler of rum.

“Are you expecting guests? I didn’t know it was a dinner party,” I say, ignoring the fact it doesn’t smell like someone’s been cooking or even had catering brought in.

And Anthony loves any excuse to cook, so why would the place smell like lemon cleaner?

I take a sip, the wine flat on my tongue. “I didn’t dress for the occasion.”

“Sit, please.”

I settle on the edge of his leather sofa, my knees pressed together. I suddenly realize I still have my coat on.

My consummate host uncle forgot to ask for it, which he always does without fail. Until now.

“I-is something wrong?” Dread knots my gut. I squeeze the stem of my wineglass.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Harriet,” he says, calling me by a name he’s only used once, when he told me how although I’m named Clarita, my mom decided I looked more like my middle name, Harriet. Then it became Harry for short.

“Hazel,” I say, my mouth dry.

He shuts his eyes. “Hazel, sorry, I’ve been thinking a lot today. Since the phone call.”

A rush of adrenaline spikes in my blood and I almost spill my drink. “Phone call?”

“It got me thinking about the past. All the danger we deal with.” He shakes his head and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re in trouble, Hazel.”

He’s heard about the shooting. I can see it on his face. I don’t know why he’s got the room ready for guests, and I don’t know if I want to know. Because… who would be coming? Protectors? Some weird intervention group?

“I’m okay, really. I didn’t see who?—”

“No, you’re not. The Ricci family aren’t good people to get mixed up with. The rumor is they’re blaming you for that hit on Bernardo.”

My head swirls. “How do you even know about all of this? You’re not?—”

“I know enough about organized crime,” he says gently. “And the blame means a hit on you. ”

“What?” I recoil and the wine sloshes over the edge of my glass. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Except help Salvatore’s wife escape his clutches. And all those other women, too.

My chest gets tight. What will happen to them if I’m not around to save them?

“I made some calls and we have help coming in.”

“Help? How?” I gulp down air. “I don’t need help. I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent.”

“The mafia doesn’t work that way. The fact that you’re innocent is why they’ll put a hit on you.

They have nothing to lose. They know nobody will retaliate.

They can operate with zero repercussions.

” He shakes his head. “And what if your past comes out, Hazel? Harriet? My sister and brother-in-law were killed?—”

“Mom might have made it out,” I interrupt, realizing I sound hopelessly na?ve.

“People looked for you. It’s why you use a different name. I don’t have any real link to you, unless they dig deep. So I got help to protect you.”

“What kind of help?” My eyes narrow.

“The priest you work for is mafia-friendly?—”

“No. Don’t drag Father Luigi into this.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “There are rituals within the mafia that are more binding than the law. Like marriage, but not the typical kind of marriage. This particular type comes from the old world, and these ceremonies are rarely performed unless there is a proven need for protection and prevention of an all-out war.”

The doorbell rings and my eyes widen.

He stands. “I’ve arranged what’s known as a blood marriage. It’ll keep you safe from the Ricci family. Nobody will be able to touch you.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap. “I’m not getting married. That’s insanity.”

But Anthony doesn’t respond. He just turns and walks back toward the front door, leaving me alone in the living room, contemplating a quick escape. I hear voices at the door. They float down the hall and my skin starts to burn.

Marriage? I’m not marrying anyone.

“Uncle Anthony? I’m not doing this,” I call out.

He walks in and another man follows. My chest tightens even more, like a vise is squeezing my lungs. I struggle to suck in air.

The man is handsome, with curling black hair and piercing blue eyes. Every visible inch of his skin up to his chin is covered in tattoos.

He looks familiar, very freaking familiar.

Then he speaks. “If you marry into a powerful mafia family under the laws of a blood marriage, you’ll be untouchable.”

Oh. God. He’s Irish.

“Who are you?” I choke out the words.

“Callahan Murphy. Head of the family. And this is the man you’ll be marrying. My brother, Torin.”

I grab on to the arm of the couch. The world swims and black spots burst into life in front of my eyes as a third man walks into the room.

I can’t speak. I’m too consumed by the huge rush of hate and fear that simultaneously crash over me.

This man is more than familiar.

I know him.

Devastatingly handsome with midnight-blue eyes.

I’ve seen him before.

I’ve shot him before.

“It’s you.” I can barely hear myself speak.

The wineglass slips from my shaking fingers and shatters on the floor.

It’s him.

The monster.

Quinn.

The man I hate.

Marry him?

Fuck no.

I’m going to kill him instead.