Page 3 of Revenge
Once I look, I find it impossible to look away. I’m blasted by his good looks. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a Roman nose, and a square jaw. Large hands that look like they could inflict great damage.
Or pleasure…
He takes the cigarette from my fingers and tosses it into the water. “Well, then.” He holds out his palm like a gentleman.
I’m suddenly dizzy as I contemplate taking it. As if I know, somehow, that if I do, my life will never be the same.
“Come on.” He tips his head away from the rail like he has some plan. “Let's see if we can get you into some real trouble.”
Chapter One
1964 (7 years later), Newport, RI
Antonio
“Your time is up.” Clad in a tuxedo tailored to fit my broad-shouldered frame, I lean against the brownstone church wall of St. Mary’s Cathedral. There’s no gun in my hand. I don't need one.
Benedict King knows me. He knows why I’m here. That I represent the don of the Beretta family. He probably also sees I have men stationed everywhere around the churchyard, mingling with the eight hundred guests streaming in for the society wedding of the season.
“Please, please.” The man holds up plump, shaking hands. Sweat drips from his hairline. “It's my daughter's wedding. Just let me walk down the aisle with her. Please allow me to get her married before you kill me.”
My upper lip curls at the mention of his precious daughter. “Who says I'm not here to kill her, too?” I ask casually.
Terror flares in the fat man's eyes. He blinks rapidly, his pupils tiny pricks of black in his pale blue eyes. He's in a white tux, as if he's the virgin being sold off in matrimony today, rather than his spoiled daughter.
“Don't touch Dahlia.” Spittle flies from his mouth.
“The moment you fucked the Berettas, your life, your wife’s life, and your daughter’s were forfeit. And I'm here to collect.”
A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. “You can’t–”
“Benedict! Where have you been? The ceremony’s about to start!” Barbara King–or Babs, as the society column calls her–comes rushing around the corner then stops short when she sees me. One look at her husband, and she realizes things are not right. “Who are you? What's going on?”
I give her a shark tooth grin. “I’m the guy who’s come to kill you, Babs.”
She sways on her feet, color draining from her face.
“Catch her before she faints,” I tell her asswipe husband.
Benedict’s reflexes are slow, but he does manage to grab his wife’s elbow before she topples.
“Benedict,” she sobs. “What’s happening? What did you do?” She searches his face.
He stares back at her, his expression conveying his dismay. His regret. The horror of what’s about to happen. “The money I lost in the Shellingham deal, Babs. It was borrowed.” He glances at me.
Babs turns a slow, terrified gaze on me. “From the mafia?” she croaks.
“That’s right, doll,” I say. “And the Yacht King missed his window to make it right with Don Beretta. So it’s not going to be the happily-ever-after you had planned for your beautiful Dahlia today.”
Just saying the girl’s name makes my upper lip curl with disgust. The girl I shouldn’t have touched all those years ago.
But this is the day I finally get my revenge.
Make the Yacht King and his precious debutante pay.
He doesn’t remember me. Why would he? I was just the guy he pinned as the blue-collar brute in a monkey suit at his daughter’s coming out ball. Probably one of a thousand guys whose lives he’s ruined.
“Wait! Isn’t there anything we can do?” Babs begs. “The yachts? Benedict, give him the inventory! It must be worth a fortune!”