by Nicole Fox
She gives me a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for Master Kian,” she says. “He saved me. He delivered me from hell and gave me a means to survive so that, when I do reunite with my husband and daughter again, I’ll be able to care for them. He’s a saint.”
Aisling sighs and then it seems as if she’s done talking for a while. She helps me out of the tub and offers me a fluffy white towel to wrap myself in.
I follow her back into the room, where she gestures for me to sit down on the chair by the window. I’m still contemplating her story and I sit without question.
She brings out a few different bottles of creams and lotions. Then slowly, she starts to massage each one into my skin, transforming it from dry and scaly to smooth and silky in mere moments. Each one smells better than the last, and I can’t help but revel in the feeling.
“So do you like working here?” I ask. It’s a dumb question, but I can’t think of a better way to phrase what I really want to know.
“I do. Very much. If I’m lucky enough to choose, I think I’d like to work for Master Kian for as long as I can. He’s a kind man.”
I raise my eyebrows, unable to agree with her. “You’ll forgive me for not having the same opinion,” I drawl.
She doesn’t smile. In fact, her shoulders stiffen a little. “Villains and heroes come in all different shapes and sizes,” she tells me. “Sometimes, one thing looks like the complete opposite.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re trying to tell me that Kian O’Sullivan is a hero in disguise?”
“I’m only trying to say that people are more complicated than they seem,” she demurs. “Do you know that for the three years I was forced to be a sex worker, there was one name I heard quite a bit?”
I feel my stomach drop. My body knows what she’s going to say before my mind does. But I have to know. I have to hear the words.
“What name?” I croak.
“Lombardi,” Aisling replies, her tone heavy. “Master Kian may have killed him decades ago. But his money is still flowing in the underworld. His sins are still living.”
I look at her in shock, wondering if I should be worried about my safety with her. There’s a vein of darkness in Aisling that runs deep. I can’t blame her for it—if I were in her shoes, I’d have gone postal years ago.
“Your father is a hero in those circles,” Aisling continues, though her expression doesn’t change. Neither does the gentle pressure she’s applying on my arms, even though I’m half expecting her to start squeezing the life out of me. “He’s revered as the don of the underworld. Half the trafficking rings in New York exist because he built them. And if he didn’t build them, he funded them.”
My stomach twists, but there’s nothing left to come out. “Oh God…”
She releases my hand. “Like I said, people are complicated. They’re not black and white. I don’t assume that you’re a monster just because your father was.”
The words are soothing. But I’m still having trouble processing the disturbing stories she’s just told me.
“Dinner will be served soon,” Aisling says, getting to her feet. “It’s time to get you dressed.”
She turns and I realize that my opportunity for escape has just presented itself. I can use any number of objects in this room as a blunt weapon. One well-placed hit across the back of her head and I’d be able to slip out unnoticed.
But two things make me hesitate.
One, I’m still reeling from the haunting story she just told me.
Two, I don’t want to play into the image that I’m a terrible human being simply because of my last name.
While I’m still thinking about my options, Aisling turns with the dress in her arms. The opportunity passes. I’m surprised to find that I’m actually relieved about that.
“You’ll look beautiful in this,” she tells me.
I get to my feet and disrobe. I slip on underwear—black panties and a matching bra that’s dressy but comfortable.
Then the dress. As Aisling removes the protective covering, I’m really able to appreciate its beauty. It’s made of a fabric that I’m unfamiliar with. So thin that it’s almost sheer, and a shimmery nude color that catches the eye, set in a pattern of criss-cross diamonds. The silhouette is fitted, ending just below the knee.
Aisling zips it up at the back for me. “It’s perfect.” She gives me an approving nod.
She spins me around to face the floor-length mirror and even I have to admit that I look good. The dress hugs my figure, accentuating how long and lean my torso is. I’ve lost weight, but the gloss of the dress helps to hide the fact that I’m looking a little too skinny.
I just stand there as Aisling brushes out my hair and applies a dab of nude lipstick. Finally, when she approaches me with a box of eyeliner and mascara, I stop her. “That’s plenty,” I say. “I don’t really wear makeup.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, sounding disappointed. “I’ll be subtle.”
“I’m sure,” I say resolutely.
She puts away her disappointed expression and brings out a pair of satin beige heels with a thick heel. Clearly, they’re designer wear, too.
“You’re ready,” she says when the heels are on. “I’ll take you to the beach.”
“The beach?” I ask, walking slowly.
“Master Kian requested that dinner we served on the deck. It offers the perfect view of the ocean.”
As we walk down the stairs, dread winds its way through my body. I want to be strong. I want to resist him. To keep hating him the way I always have.
But with every passing me, that’s getting harder and harder to do.
21
Kian
I’m expecting to be impressed.
I’m not expecting to be completely and utterly floored by the vision that approaches me from the boardwalk.
Renata is clearly unsteady in her new shoes, but she still manages to look graceful. The dress I picked out for her fits like a dream, wrapping itself around her athletic frame and highlighting her breasts to perfection. Her brown hair flutters softly in the ocean breeze as she pointedly ignores my eyes.
Aisling hasn’t followed her onto the boardwalk. In fact, I can see the maid already starting to make her way back into the house.
When Renata finally makes it to the table, she pauses in front of it, and her eyes finally meet mine.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands.
I smile. “You look lovely.”
“Do you expect a thank you or something?” she snaps. “Just because you buy me an expensive dress doesn’t mean I’ll forgive the fact that I’m still your prisoner.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Despite her words, I don’t sense the kind of anger I expected from her. In fact, I get the feeling that she’s trying to work herself up to it and failing.
That or the lack of food is starting to weigh on her, blunting the edge of her razor-sharp emotions.
“I’ll sit,” she says. “But only because I want to.”
I suppress a laugh. “As you wish.”
The table is relatively empty, apart from cutlery and side plates. But there is a small silver cloche in the center of the table between the two of us. The moment she’s seated, I pull it open, revealing the assortment of fresh bread underneath.
The smell blossoms between us instantly. She stiffens and leans as far away from it as she can.
“How about a bread roll?” I ask innocently. “Hot from the oven? There’s garlic butter and herb butter to go with it, too.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “If this is your attempt to get me to eat, you can go fuck yourself.”
I sigh. “Hmph. More for me, I suppose.”
I take a bread roll, split it, and lather it with butter. She watches me with a trancelike expression on her face, and I know it’s killing her not to cave into her hunger. Nevertheless, she persists.
Fine with me. We have thre
e courses of this left to go. I refuse to be dissuaded.
I take a bite and sigh with contentment. “Delicious.”
“Asshole.”
I smirk. “I hate eating alone. Won’t you join me?”
“No.”
“Shame,” I say, with a shrug. “Leona is the best chef this side of the Atlantic. And speak of the devil, here comes the first course.”
A pair of servers come from the main house to set plates in front of each of us. The first course is a crispy seared salmon on a bed of buttered potatoes. Renata leans back in her seat and turns her face to the ocean.
“You sure you don’t want a bite?” I ask, spearing a potato wedge and pointing it at her.
She crosses her arms over her chest and avoids even glancing toward my fork. I can’t help but be impressed by her iron will. “Just curious, how much longer are you going to do this for?” I inquire.
“Until you give me back my freedom,” she replies immediately.
“And what will you do with it?”
Her head snaps to my face. “I… I…”
“Haven’t thought past the freedom, huh?”
She narrows her eyes. “I’d get as far away as possible from you and men like you.”
“Seems like a waste.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’d be wasted on an ordinary life,” I explain solemnly. “You’re not ordinary, Renata.”
“Yeah, I’ve figured that part out over the last twenty-five years, thanks,” she retorts. “And I’ve paid for it. If ‘ordinary’ means I get to make my own decisions and take control of my own future, than ‘ordinary’ is what I want.”
“Sure. Tell me about that future, then,” I coax.
“Excuse me?”
“What will you do? Where will you go?”
“Yeah, like I’d tell you anything.”
I snort. “You don’t need to give me details. I’m not asking for coordinates. Just tell me a story. Your vision of the future, however you want it to go.”
It’s not a question. It’s a challenge. But I have a sneaking suspicion she prefers things that way.
Her eyes go dreamy. “Somewhere with an empty beach,” she whispers. “I’d find a nice little one-bedroom that overlooks the ocean. Then I could walk to work every day.”
“What kind of work would you want?”
“I don’t care,” she says with a shrug. “A waitress, a teacher… Anything that helps me pay the rent. And doesn’t hurt people along the way.”
“And that’s it, huh?” I prod. “That’s the big life? Minimum wage and a shitty apartment?”
“I’ve had enough of the big life,” she retorts. “I want a small life now. Something simple and easy.”
“But would you be happy?”
“Yes.”
I smile and shake my head. “You only think that because you don’t know any better.”
“Typical,” she snorts.
“Typical?”
“I mean it’s typical of you, as a man, assuming you know what’s better for me than I do.”
“I happen to know exactly what’s good for you,” I say. “The fact that I’m a man and you’re a woman is purely coincidental.”
She snorts aggressively. Her eyes flicker to my half-eaten plate and then back to her own untouched food. I know she’s desperate to eat, but she’s still dying to prove a point.
“But let’s not get distracted. We have the apartment, the job, the ocean—then what?” I press. “You’ll meet a nice boring guy named Bill or Harry? You’ll pop out a couple of kids and do the whole minivan-carpool, white-picket-fence thing?”
She raises her eyes to mine for a moment. “I don’t want kids,” she says decidedly. “I don’t want to bring another life into this fucked-up world. Not as long as men like you are in charge of it.”
I laugh. “Is that right?”
I notice a vein twitching in her forehead. She’s trying to figure me out, and getting more and more pissed as she repeatedly fails. “Enough of the twenty fucking questions,” she snaps. “Your turn. What about you? Are you happy?”
“Reasonably happy, sure,” I say. “But mostly because I’ve cracked the secret code to happiness.”
“Oh?” she asks, looking intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Eat something and I will.”
“I’ll pass.”
I sigh. “Knowing the secret formula to happiness isn’t worth eating a delicious meal?”
“No.”
“Alright then,” I concede. “I’ll share anyway, free of charge. The secret to being happy is… drumroll please… clean bedsheets.”
“Fuck you,” she snorts.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Clean bedsheets. You come home at the end of the day, you shower, you get into those nice, fresh sheets… Pure bliss. Nirvana at your fingertips.”
“Are you done?”
“Baby, I’m just getting started.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was expecting something more along the lines of ‘drinking the blood of your enemies, fucking their wives, enslaving their children.’”
I fake a shudder. “God, hell no. Fuck that. Have you seen the wives of my enemies? They’re repulsive.”
Renata can’t help but laugh at that. She kills it an instant later, but for a second, it was there. A sliver of joy. Or something close to joy, at least.
“You want to know the real secret to happiness, though?” I ask in a somber voice after a moment of silence has passed.
“Here comes another joke.”
I shake my head. “No. This time, I meant it. The key to happiness is knowing that it’s not a constant state of being. It’s not the kind of thing that’s permanent. Even if you achieve happiness, it won’t last. It comes and goes. You need to enjoy it while it lasts and hold onto the hope it will return when it leaves. If you accept that, then you’ll be happier because of it.”
She absorbs that for a moment. I can tell she’s mildly impressed by the personal philosophy, but she’s trying not to show it. “So you’ve accepted that you’ll never be happy for long? Sounds bleak.”
“It’s not as pessimistic as that,” I correct. “More like I understand that happiness can’t be trapped in a bottle. No one is insanely, wholly happy all of their lives. Not unless you get a traumatic brain injury or something.”
“Have you ever met anyone close?” she asks quietly.
I think on that. “My brothers, perhaps,” I suggest. “But then again, I’m assuming that from an outside perspective. Maybe it looks different from their point of view.”
“What do they have that you think makes them happy?”
“They’ve got life partners and kids,” I explain. “They’ve got goals to meet. Jobs they love.”
“And what about you?” she asks curiously.
“I’ve got goals, too,” I admit. “And sometimes I do love my job. But mostly because I’ve had no choice but to love it. It’s the only thing I’ll ever be qualified for.”
“Murdering?”
I tilt my head to the side and look at her curiously. “Do you really think that’s all I am? A murderer?”
She stops short, thinking about her response for a moment. She looks conflicted as her eyes move to the house for a moment. “Aisling is nice,” she says instead of answering my question.
“I know.”
“She told me her story.”
“Did she now? How forthcoming.”
“Is it true?”
“Which part?”
“Was she abducted and sold into sex slavery?”
I wince. That story never fails to boil my blood. “Yes.”
“And you saved her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I raise my eyebrows, partly insulted by the question. “Why?”
“What was in it for you?” she asks.
My expression hardens. “Ah, I see. You think that a
man like me would never save someone unless I had something to gain.”
“I don’t think that; I know it.”
“I’d appreciate it if you stopped judging me by your brother’s standards,” I tell her harshly. “I’ve told you before: we may travel in similar circles, but we are very different men.”
“You’re both men who like control,” she points out. “Beyond that, what else matters?”
I incline my head a notch. “True. But in different contexts.”
She frowns. “Enlighten me.”
“Your brother seeks control because he’s deeply insecure. Asserting his dominance over the vulnerable people in his life is the only way he can stroke his bruised ego. It’s the easiest way for him to feel like a man.”
“And that’s not your thing?”
“I’m not interested in controlling anyone in my life. Especially not the women. In fact, there’s no bigger turn-on than a woman who knows her own mind.”
“Do I need to remind you that, until recently, I was chained to a bed in not one but two of your houses?”
“You are not a part of my life,” I tell her. “You are merely… business.”
Her jaw tightens. This time, I’m not sure what’s going through her head.
I go on. “If I had a wife or a girlfriend, I’d have no desire to control her. The only place in which I exert dominance is… privately.”
Her eyes go wide at the implied revelation. For a long time, she doesn’t say a word. I get the feeling she doesn’t know what to say. “Control is control no matter where you exert it,” she offers at last.
I smile and shake my head. “You’re wrong about that,” I tell her. “Control in the bedroom is like a mutually binding contract. Sometimes unspoken, but not always.” I meet her eyes. “It happens only if both parties want it to.”
“So if the woman you were with didn’t want to be dominated…”
“Then I wouldn’t do it,” I say simply. “That makes all the difference, really. I may be the one in control. But you’re the one with the power.”
She stiffens visibly, but her eyes betray her. They dilate. Noticeably.
“I would hate it,” she says immediately. “I would never give up control like that.”
