by Nicole Fox
“Speaking of the devil, where is your brother?”
I shake my head. “I genuinely don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows at this point.”
“My men have been trying to track him for days,” Kian says. “It’s clear that someone’s helping him.”
“He doesn’t have as many friends as he thinks he does,” I say bitterly. “He’s probably just running.”
“He wouldn’t leave you behind.”
I snort with dark laughter. “If it was a choice between saving me or saving himself, he’d pick himself every fucking time. In fact, he has done so in the past. Frequently.”
“And yet you stayed with him.”
There’s no judgement in his tone. But I feel judged anyway.
A part of me is aware that I’m projecting. Because I know I should have fought harder, been braver. I should have left a long time ago and tried to get out of the city, away from my brother.
“I had no choice,” I say lamely, straining to believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“Everyone has a choice, Renata.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I snap. “When you’ve got money and power and a family who’s got your back, it’s easy to preach to other people about their fucking choices. I may have been born into the same kind of family as yours. But my sense of security died with my father. You saw to that. I was under my brother’s thumb. I’ve been with him since I was five years old. And when I was old enough to know the kind of man he was, it was too late.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… It means he broke me,” I say, without revealing too much.
I don’t need understanding from Kian O’Sullivan. All these men are alike. Whatever I tell him now, he’ll just use against me later. I’m not fucking falling for it.
Not even in the face of those sexy blue eyes.
I’m done with this shit. I’m done with all of it. There’s nothing for me here anymore. I need to get out now, while I still have a shot at a normal, decent life.
Fuck Yannis Rokiades.
Fuck Drago Lombardi.
Fuck Kian O’Sullivan.
There’s only one name that matters anymore.
And that’s mine. Renata Lombardi.
“Kian,” I say, raising my eyes to his, “I don’t have any information for you. And I’m not interested in staking any claim to the empire my father left behind. I just want my freedom.”
He knows exactly what I’m asking for, but he makes me say it anyway. Those eyes urge me. Go on, then, they say. Beg me for it.
I hate him for making me say it. For making me walk through every step of this corrupt dance. But those eyes flash and I know there’s no way around it.
“Just let me go,” I whisper. “Please.”
His answer is an immediate crack of the whip. “No.”
“I’ll disappear,” I press. “I’ll never come back to New York City. I’ll change my name if I have to. You can tell the world you murdered me. I’ll stay dead for you.”
He’s quiet for a long time. As though he’s genuinely considering the suggestion. But when he looks at me again, I realize he’s not even remotely entertaining it.
“You’re weak, Renata,” he says. His lips curl around my name and I feel a strange warmth spread through my legs at the sound of it. Like he’s tasting me. “You’ve been shot. You need time to heal.”
“I’ll heal somewhere else.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
“Why the fuck not?”
He doesn’t speak, but I can see the answer in his eyes.
“You still think I might come in handy, don’t you?” I guess. “I’m nothing more than a bargaining chip to you.”
“You will be protected as long as you’re under my roof.”
“And who’s going to protect me from you?” I demand.
He takes a step closer. His eyes travel over my face. There’s conflict in them, a kind of personal war he seems to be waging with himself.
Maybe I’m not the only one with inner demons that won’t go back into their cages. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—a man like Kian O’Sullivan can’t have lived the kind of life he’s lived without collecting a few devils of his own.
“For the time being, this is your home.”
I find it ironic and insulting that he would even use that word. “Fuck you,” I glower at him. “You can’t do this.”
He turns and walks towards the door. “I won’t be used anymore!” I scream. “I’m not a fucking… fucking… thing.”
“Someone will be up here soon with your dinner,” he tells me quietly. “You’ll need to eat to gain your strength.”
“Don’t bother,” I yell at his back. “I’m not eating as long as I’m your captive!”
He doesn’t respond.
“Do you hear me? I’m not eating a thing you give me!”
He turns around just long enough to give me an uncaring shrug and a frigid glare. “Your choice,” he says.
Then he’s gone.
19
Kian
One Day Later—Kian’s Office—The Hamptons
A gentle knock on my door draws my attention from the plethora of papers littering my desk.
“Come in,” I say, grateful for the distraction.
The door opens tentatively. I know already that it’s one of the staff that keeps this place running when I’m in New York. “Sir?”
“Come in, Nessa,” I say, gesturing her forward.
“Sir, it’s about the young lady,” she says apologetically.
So much for the distraction I was hoping for. I suppress a sigh. “Did she eat anything today?”
“Not a thing, sir,” she replies, as though she herself has personally failed me somehow. “I tried to coax her into eating a crust of bread. But she refused.”
“Stubborn little spitfire.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing, Nessa,” I grumble. “Don’t worry about it.”
She lingers for a moment. “Sir…”
“What it is?”
“She’s getting weaker and weaker.”
“That tends to happen when you refuse to eat.”
“Perhaps loosening her restraints might persuade her to eat?” she suggests timidly.
The fact that she’s even making the suggestion tells me that she’s concerned for Renata. But then again, Nessa has a strong maternal vibe.
“I don’t think that’ll work with her, Nessa,” I say. “But I’ll think about it.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but then thinks better of it. She knows better than to defy me so brazenly.
“Thanks, Nessa,” I say. “You can go.”
She gives me a tight smile and slips out of my office. When she’s gone, I lean back in my wing-backed chair and take a deep breath. It’s been a day since Renata and I had had our last conversation. And true to her word, she’s refused any type of meal since then. A hunger strike. Like she’s fucking Gandhi.
I have to marvel at her willpower. She must be fucking starved, but so far, she’s stayed strong. Still, it’s only been a day. And I haven’t even brought out the big guns. That’ll come in due time.
My office here is very different than the one in my penthouse in Manhattan. It’s more than three times the size, for starters. Bright and airy in a way that New York can never be. I usually love spending time in here. But for the last day, I’ve been staring at the door far more frequently than is healthy.
I don’t know why I’m keen to go and see her. Maybe it’s because I need to figure out what this weird, sometimes intoxicating, sometimes toxic connection is between us.
Because maybe, if I can figure it out, I can destroy it. Remove the distraction and get my head back in the game.
I’ve passed the point where I can claim to be unaffected by Renata. She’s well and truly in my head. And it’s made me… not sloppy, but certainly less focused.
Slamming my fist on the tabl
e, I give up the fight and leave my office. I’ve deliberately put her in a room on the other side of the house. As far away from me as possible.
Not that it’s made much of a difference. The lure is just as strong no matter where she is.
I stride into Renata’s room without knocking. She gives a start of surprise, but it twists into anger the moment she realizes it’s me.
“You’re worrying Nessa,” I announce.
She struggles to sit up, and only just manages it. “I’m not an invalid—”
“So you keep saying.”
“I don’t need to stay in bed all the time.”
I notice that there’s a stack of books by her bedside table. Apparently, she’s already gotten through a few.
“The doctor recommended bed rest.”
“Like you give a shit.”
“I want you alive.”
“Only because you can’t include me in your schemes if I’m dead.”
I give her a nonchalant shrug and slump down in the chair next to her bed. She angles her body away from me and her expression morphs into disgust.
“What are you doing?”
“Just came in to check on you.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, you’re worrying Nessa.”
Her eyes soften. Marginally, but I notice it. “She’s nice.”
“I’m aware.”
“How is it that a guy like you has so many decent people under your employment?”
I put my hand against my chest and pretend to look wounded. “I’m insulted.”
“Good. That was the point.”
I smirk. “It might surprise you to learn that I’m not the villain you make me out to be.”
“I don’t make you out to be anything but what you are.”
“Listen,” I say reasonably, “I’ll admit that I’m no saint. I’ve done horrible things. Terrible, in fact.”
She tenses a little, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Once, when I was but a wee lad, I even swapped out the frosting in an Oreo for toothpaste and fed it to my brother. But I’ve only ever given my enemies what they deserve,” I tell her. “I don’t hurt innocent people. If I can protect them, I do.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“Actually, you tried to kill me,” I remind her. “I was just defending myself.”
“Because you broke into my house.”
“To kill your brother,” I tell her. “Who you yourself have admitted is a fucking asshole.”
She bites down on her lower lip and I have to look away before my body betrays me. Like it does every time she’s close to me.
“You don’t get to decide who lives and dies.”
“The world is better off without some men, Renata,” I say softly.
She looks up. Meets my gaze. The strange connection between us feels tangible at the moment. “That’s what some would say about you,” she snarls.
“I’m sure that’s true,” I say. “And if they have the balls to make an attempt on my life, they’re welcome to try. If they succeed in killing me, then I deserve to die.”
She frowns. “That logic makes zero fucking sense.”
“So be it.”
I lapse into silence. But I can feel her eyes on me, searching my face as though she’s trying to figure me out. I’m doing the same thing with her.
“What brought you here?” she asks abruptly. “Here to America, I mean. You’re not from here.”
“It’s a long story.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’ve abducted me, chained me to this fucking bed, and you’re refusing to let me leave. The least you can do is tell me your story.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware you were that interested in hearing it.”
She tries to act disinterested. “I’m tired of reading.”
I lean back in my chair, and kick one leg up so that it’s resting on the edge of her bed. I’m mildly flattered that she even cares at this point. But it feeds into my theory that she’s as fascinated with me as I am with her. “I came here twenty years ago…”
“Because of my father?” she interrupts. She sounds curious more than bitter. But I have a feeling that it won’t take much to unearth that particular emotion.
“Mostly,” I reply honestly. “My brother, Cillian, is the don of the O’Sullivan clan. He dispatched me to New York to take care of the Italian threat.”
She frowns as though she doesn’t like how I’ve characterized her family. “Why was my father a threat to you?” she asks. Again, she sounds more curious than angry. But that could also be a result of her weakened state. The lack of food is making her look pale, ashen-faced. Her collarbones have become more prominent in just twenty-four hours.
“He wasn’t just encroaching on Clan territory. He was also undermining our allies, cutting in on deals that he had no part in. Attacking Clan warehouses and framing innocent parties.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why else?” I ask rhetorically. “To gain power. To sow distrust and misinformation among our ranks so that he could break us up from the inside.”
Her frown deepens. She’s so gaunt and trembling with weakness.
“The Clan was establishing a stronghold in New York at the time,” I continue. “We were competing with him for dominance. He wanted to exterminate us so that he could do it all his way.”
“And there can only be one top dog?” Renata guesses bitterly.
“It’s a big world, Renata. Too big for any single family to control. We don’t mind sharing—with the right allies. For instance, the O’Sullivan Clan and the Kovalyov Bratva are completely separate entities. Some would even say we ought to be enemies. But that’s not the case.”
“Why?” she asks suspiciously.
“Because Don Kovalyov and Don O’Sullivan are as good as brothers,” I explain, amazed at how easy it is to share all this with her.
“Don O’Sullivan?”
“My brother,” I say. “Cillian.”
“The one that sent you to New York twenty years ago?”
“That’s the one.”
“So you came here, killed my father, destroyed his power base, and then what? You just decided to stay here forever?”
My muscles tense instinctively. I haven’t spent a lot of time lately thinking back on the circumstances that led me to stay in New York. As it turns out, it’s not very complicated. Doesn’t make it any easier for me to talk about.
“I didn’t decide anything,” I reply. “My brother decided.”
She raises her eyebrows. I notice a faint sparkle in her eye. As though she’s thrilled to have stumbled across a sore point in my past. “And you resent him for it?”
I glare at her. “Stop foaming at the mouth. Cillian is my brother. I love him and I respect him.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Maybe, at first, I did resent him a little,” I admit. “But he had his reasons for asking me to stay here. And I understand them now.”
“What changed?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “I grew up. I matured. I realized that Cillian had looked far ahead. I was just fixed in the present. He didn’t want to be my don. He wanted me to lead in my own right.”
She looks surprised by that. “And you… didn’t want to lead?”
I frown. “Hell fucking no. Do you know what it feels like to be don? To have the weight of the world on your shoulders? For a long time, I was groomed to be don after my father.”
“But that changed when Cillian entered the picture,” she infers.
I shake my head. “Not exactly. Like I said, it’s a long story. And parts of it aren’t mine,” I explain. “But the point is that, when it became clear that Cillian was not only don material, but he also happened to want the job, I was happy to step aside.”
She looks at me searchingly.
It makes me pause. “What?”
She shrugs. “I just haven’t heard that very of
ten. A man who actually wanted to step back and give control to someone else.”
I smile. “It runs in the family. Cillian’s not the oldest brother.”
“You have another brother?”
“Sean’s the oldest, but he abdicated the throne, so to speak, a long time ago. So the torch passed to Cillian. But shit went down and he was forced into exile. I stepped up. Until Cillian appeared thirteen years later and took back what was his.”
She stares at me with wide eyes. “You weren’t kidding about things being complicated.”
I smile. “I wasn’t happy about leaving Ireland for good. Dublin has always been my home. But Cillian was right. I’m better off here. Doesn’t mean I don’t still struggle with it.”
“Do you go back to Dublin often?”
“Not as often as I would like,” I admit. “My last visit was three years ago. Life here keeps me busy.”
She nods slowly. We sink into silence for a few moments, and as we do, I realize that this may be the first real conversation we’ve had.
Which is probably not the best thing. Conversations tend to humanize people. I’m not sure that would benefit either one of us. Especially not with the dynamic we’ve got going. It’s a double-edged sword. No matter which way we swing it, someone’s going to get cut.
“What was it like, being raised by your brother?” I ask.
She spares me a cursory glance, but I know it’s because she’s trying to keep the emotions from her face. “It was hell,” she says bluntly. “Did you expect anything different?”
“I am surprised he kept you with him.”
“Yeah, well, so am I. At least, I was—before I realized why,” she says. Then she sighs deeply, and I see her shoulders sag under the weight of the nightmares she’s survived. “I was never a person to him. Never a sister. I was just something that he could use. He was only fifteen when Papa died…”
I notice the way she phrases it. Papa died. Not Papa was killed.
“Papa’s allies opened their homes to both of us. We traveled from place to place, relying on the kindness of others. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized it wasn’t kindness at all. They wanted to use us, just like Drago wanted to use me. He was bitter and filled with rage. He felt like he had been robbed of everything that was his. He hated having to ask for help. Hated having to live off other people. No doubt my father’s so-called ‘allies’ took advantage of his youth and inexperience. Sometimes, I don’t even know how we survived.”
