Page 2 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

JOHNNY/GIANNI

Providence, Rhode Island

Present Day

M y shift at the docks ended over an hour and a half ago, but instead of clocking out, I stayed to run shipments with the second crew.

As expected, that went over like a hand grenade.

My boss argued with me about trying to squeeze her for overtime pay until I assured her I was simply working extra hours to make up for the time I was taking off.

Shockingly, she bought it, which disappointed me. I thought Alice was sharper than that.

Then again, people see what they want to see.

Shifting the forklift into gear, I turn the wheel, making a hard left away from the half-emptied cargo ship toward the warehouse. As much as I try to focus on my last moments on the job, I can’t. Even the roar of the engine isn’t loud enough to drown out the warning that’s occupied my mind .

“Don’t say a word to anyone the rest of the day. Keep your head down, and meet me in the port parking lot at six.”

Owen Holmes is a little high-strung but not one to act irrationally.

However, as I walked toward the warehouse this morning, I heard the panic in his voice.

I saw the proof in the text he sent me. This sudden upheaval is about more than the man I betrayed walking free.

It’s the unraveling of a spider’s web of deception and broken alliances.

It’s the black swan no one predicted and everyone should’ve seen coming.

“This whole fucking thing has been a setup.”

A slight understatement. Once I clicked on that link, everything simultaneously fell into place and completely shattered.

Killing the ignition, I drag the back of my hand across my forehead and check my watch.

5:41 p.m.

Keeping my head down and rage in check has taken everything in me.

It isn’t in my nature to maintain a straight face when there’s a knife in my back.

Unfortunately, vigilante justice will only further tangle this twisted web of two-faced fuckery.

So, instead of taking this barbed wire bullshit to its source, I’m forced to grind my teeth to every tick of the clock.

Anticipating it. Dreading it.

Because once six o’clock hits, my life in Providence is over . Leaving Rhode Island is the only way to ensure Becca doesn’t become another bloodstained warning.

I climb out of the forklift, clenching my jaw as my feet hit the ground for the last time.

Stop thinking about her and focus. But the more her name spins inside my head, the harder I grip the lift keys.

All I can think about is the way her long blonde hair looked splayed out across her pillow this morning, and all I can see is that damn white sheet wrapped around her body, cocooning her from the avalanche about to bury her alive.

By now, I’m sure she despises me more than she ever did her father.

Something unfamiliar pulls at my chest—something that feels a lot like conscience, regret, and a four-letter word that doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. It’s that word that starts my feet moving, slowly at first, and then at a pace matching the erratic thump inside my chest.

Less than ten feet from Alice’s office, I stop.

No use in clocking out when I’m not coming back.

Returning to the forklift, I toss the keys on the seat, then walk away without looking back.

Halfway to the parking lot, I check the time again.

5:56 p.m. Keeping a close watch on my surroundings, I weave through the maze of cars, but there’s no sign of Owen’s SUV.

I’m not sure why the prince of punctuality is late, but I’m not standing around with my dick in my hand.

With a quick glance over my shoulder, I head to the far-left corner of the parking lot. Once I’m settled behind the wheel, I fight the urge to turn the ignition and hit the gas.

I’ll give Owen the benefit of the doubt, for now .

The car’s silent as I open the glove box and wrap my hand around the grip of my 9mm.

It molds to my palm like a faded memory.

Releasing the magazine, I verify it’s fully loaded before shoving it back inside the grip and locking it in place.

However, experience draws my gaze to the open compartment where two more cartridges sit, taunting me.

“Fuck it.” Grabbing both spare magazines, I shove one in each pocket. “Better to be over-prepared than underground.”

The thought lingers as I shove the gun into the waistband of my pants and cover it with my shirt.

Swinging my work boots onto the asphalt, I exit the car just as I hear gravel crunching behind me.

I spin around to find Henry bent over with his hands on his thighs, his pale face flushed with exertion.

Like me, he’s dressed in his work clothes, the dimming May sun having turned his button-down shirt into a second skin. He’s dry heaving like he’s been waterboarded, rather than put in a normal day’s work. I have no clue how the idiot has driven a forklift for twelve weeks without impaling himself.

“You look like shit.”

He glances up, his eyebrows drawing together. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Home.” Holding his stare, I drive my heel behind me and mule-kick the door shut. “Would you like to follow me, or is there another GPS tracker on my car I need to dismantle?”

He cuts me a soured glare. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“Give me one reason I should.”

Rising to his feet, he shoves his fingers into his brick-toned hair and tugs at the roots. “Because Owen texted me, you stubborn asshole. He got tied up closing down the office, so he asked me to get you out of here.”

“Sure he did.”

Clenching his teeth, he pulls his phone from his pocket and shoves it in my face. “Look, I know you don’t like me, and trust me, the feeling is mutual, but will you let me do my damn job for once?”

I narrow my eyes at the text on the screen.

Ran into some trouble. Get J out of Providence now. I’ll explain later.

He’s right. I don’t like him, never have. Owen may get on my nerves, but he’s earned my respect. When he speaks, I listen before disregarding everything he says. Henry, however, I’ve always ignored like the redheaded step-fuck he is.

“So he had time to text you a new plan, but he couldn’t spare ten seconds to clue me in?”

“I’m not happy about being stuck with you either, Malone.”

“Marchesi,” I counter darkly. Fuck Johnny Malone. I’m done hiding behind a plastic persona.

He yanks his hand from his hair and clenches it by his side. “Will you keep your voice down?”

“Why?” I slide my phone from my pocket with a low laugh.

“Who’s going to hear me … the Rogue?” Because they don’t fucking exist. This has all been a heavily veiled chess match with a brilliantly plotted endgame.

My father has forced my hand by backing me into a corner.

Any move I make will cost me something … or someone .

Henry cuts the distance between us in half, his gaze locked on the phone in my hand. “Still, I’d rather not tempt fate if it’s all the same to…” The splotchy red stain on his cheeks deepens as I punch out a familiar number. “Who the hell are you calling?”

I flash him an icy smirk. “My probation officer.”

“You’re wasting time. I already told you Owen’s tied up at the office.”

I’ve been told a lot of things since arriving in Providence. Failing to verify ?each and every detail is the reason I’m standing in a dockside parking lot with a wolf at my door.

I drag the phone to my ear, keeping my expression blank as it kicks me into voicemail. Damn it, Owen. Frustrated, I disconnect the call, Henry’s thin lips curling into a smile I want to punch off his face.

“Satisfied?” he says, motioning to the white-knuckled grip I have on my phone. “Or would you like to give Marcello even more time to plan your demise?”

This guy’s riding a thin line with me. Luckily for him, his comment swerves my anger toward a much darker path. “So it’s true? Not a single charge stuck?”

“Not even a parking ticket. Look, Owen sent me the link, too,” he says, casting me a hesitant look. “Seeing that damning evidence between Marcello and Reese blindsided the hell out of me. I know how you must be feeling.”

“No, you don’t.” I don’t even know how I’m feeling. My chest is burning, but I don’t know if it’s with vindication or vengeance.

He palms the back of his neck and releases a long exhale. “You’re right … I don’t. But you need to put that shit on ice and think like a Marchesi again. Because the reality is ‘Deadpan Don’ is back at ground zero.”

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw clicks. I hate that damn name. The paparazzi crowned my father with it ten years ago, turning him into an untouchable murderous celebrity. The bastard could duel with the Devil at midnight and have his pitchfork mounted on his wall by dawn.

That’s why Owen’s nuts are in such a twist to leave Providence tonight.

Because of me, the “Deadpan Don” had his own ass mounted to the wall for once.

I grabbed the brass ring and handed my father to the FBI on a silver platter.

But they fucking dropped it, and now, we’re screwed.

A Marchesi doesn’t forgive, and he certainly doesn’t forget.

He tortures and gets even. Now that I know who’s really been running Providence, the risks have tripled.

For me, for Owen, for Henry, and especially for Becca .

“Gianni…” The sound of my name drags me out of the past, planting my feet back on the asphalt.

“You’re a ticking time bomb.” The corners of Henry’s mouth creases with frustration.

“The longer you stick around delaying the inevitable, the more leverage you’re giving him.

He targeted one woman to get your attention.

Don’t think he won’t play the same card twice. ”

The hatred rushing through my veins stills. My father orchestrated Victoria’s murder because I refused to play by his rules. His counterattack toward Becca won’t be as merciful. He’ll torture her until she begs for death, then gift wrap and hand-deliver what’s left.

“Fine,” I relent. “Let’s go.”

But just as I turn to reach for the door handle, Henry snatches the keys out of my hand. “I’m driving,” he announces, slipping in front of me and opening the driver’s side door.

In one wide step, we’re chest to chest, my hands clenched by my side to keep from wrapping one around his neck. “The hell you are.”

He meets my hardened stare. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is my job. So will you please let me do it instead of going off half-cocked and getting us both killed?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before ducking his head and sliding behind the wheel.

Once we get where we’re going, I’m going to throat punch this bastard.

Glaring at him, I round the hood and yank the passenger side door open. “You’re a fucking dick, you know that?”

He starts the ignition, his focus never leaving the windshield. “About time you noticed.”

I’ve never been one for pointless conversation, but ten minutes is a long stretch of silence, especially when riding shotgun in your own car. Every thirty seconds, or so, I side eye Henry to see if he’s blinked, but it’s like he froze the moment we left the docks.

Leaning toward the dashboard, I crank up the volume on the radio. “So, where is he meeting us?”

He turns it back down, his stare cemented on the windshield. “Who?”

“Owen,” I say, reaching for the dial again. That gets his attention. He glances at me, irritation flaring in his eyes as I turn it up as loud as it’ll go. “I assume he arranged a meetup for all of us.”

Henry is quiet for a moment, returning his hand to the wheel and attention to the road. “Don’t worry about it. Just know it’s far away from Providence.”

Anytime someone tells you not to worry about something, it should be the only damn thing you worry about. I’m not a man who settles for vague, half-assed answers. However, I’m also not a man who yells “fire” until I’ve seen the flames for myself.

Provided I’m not the one who lit the match.

I’m sifting through hours of conversations for something to debunk this growing unease, when I hear a wail that reignites the pounding in my chest. Sirens. My head snaps up in time to catch the flashing red lights of three firetrucks as they speed past us.

“What the hell?” Henry murmurs.

My blood runs cold. Four months fade away, and I’m right there again. I taste the ash in the air. I smell the lingering stench of smoke and ammonia. I see the crime scene tape outline. Then, I’m dragged away from that destroyed street corner and slammed back inside the car.

That’s when I know what’s felt “off” all day.

“Turn the car around.”

Henry lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

“I’m serious, Starling. Turn around and follow those trucks.”

“What the…?” He stares at me for a beat before shaking his head. “On second thought, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“Henry—”

“Forget it.” He holds his hand up. “I’m not chasing firetrucks back to a place I’m busting my ass to get you away from.”

“Then let me put it another way.” Drawing my gun, I shove the muzzle against his temple. “Turn the fucking car around, or I’ll pull this trigger and do it myself.”

All the color drains from his face. “Threatening a U.S. Marshal is a death sentence.”

The final remnants of Johnny Malone slip away as I tighten my finger around the trigger. “So is defying a Marchesi.”