by Fox, Nicole
I choke back laughter. “I was fighting for my life, you son of a bitch.”
“Allegedly,” he jokes. “How do I know you weren’t just kicking back on a beach in Hawaii with a model and a bottle?”
“That’s a Kovalyov kind of move,” I hit back. “Us O’Sullivans do things differently.”
“So you’re an Irishman again, eh? They haven’t re-kicked you out of the clan yet?” Artem asks. “Esme bet me you’d last a month. I said twenty-four hours.”
“Liar! Your wife would never bet against me. She loves me.”
“She’s good at pretending.”
“To be the one sleeping with you, she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?”
His laughter dies. “Too fucking far.”
I laugh anyway. “Don’t mess with the master, Don Artem.”
“Seriously, though,” Artem says, switching gears abruptly. “How are things over there?”
I take a deep breath. “Well… Shit hit the fan almost from the moment I stepped foot on Irish soil.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Turns out the shit with the Kinahans is a lot more complicated than anyone knew, including Kian.”
“What happened?”
I fill Artem in. I start from the beginning and talk him through every last detail. From the second I walked out into the Irish sun to see Saoirse at the airport, all the way up to the moment Da and Ma were dragged away by Kinahan thugs. I leave out the part about springing Saoirse from jail at gunpoint.
He doesn’t interrupt me even once. My only indication that he’s still on the line is the slow and even breathing from the other line.
When I’m done, he sighs. “For fuck’s sake, you really know how to stir shit up, Cillian.”
“One of my many talents.”
“But did you say it was Saoirse?”
“Yup.”
“And this would be the same woman that you were madly in love with at eighteen. The one who’s honor you were defending when you threw that smug bastard off the roof. The one you were forced to leave behind. That Saoirse?”
“That’s the one.”
“Jesus.”
“Right?” I sigh. “Talk about coincidences.”
“Esme would blame fate.”
I smile. Artem’s wife is one of the good ones—her belief in woo-woo shit like “fate” notwithstanding.
“Sounds like something Esme would say,” I laugh. “What would you say?”
“That life’s a bitch,” he replies predictably. “And sometimes, the universe likes to fuck with us for shits and giggles.”
“You missed your calling as a poet.”
“And you missed yours as a rodeo clown,” he fires back. “Now, tell me you didn’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like break her out of jail.”
“Why do you enjoy setting me up for failure?” I demand.
“Goddammit, Cillian,” he mutters. I can picture him rubbing his temples in frustration.
“What would you have done?” I ask pointedly. Artem falls silent and I nod emphatically. “That’s what I thought. It’s easy to talk shit to me about what I should and shouldn’t have done. No one knows what she meant to me. What she still means to me.”
“Actually, I do now. Now that I have Esme,” Artem concedes. “You’re right. I would have done the same fucking thing.”
“I know you would have.”
We sit in silence for a moment, weighing everything that that means.
When I first met Artem, he was like me—hardened, haunted, eager to crack skulls and make people submit to him.
We spent years spilling blood. Establishing our dominance. Preparing him to be don of the Kovalyov Bratva one day.
But Esme has changed him. Made him a more considerate man. Softer in some ways. Stronger in others.
Like I said, she’s one of the good ones.
“So what was it like—seeing her again?”
“It was a total mind-fuck,” I answer honestly. “Turns out I caught a glimpse of her at the airport when I first arrived. I was sure I was hallucinating. I mean, what were the chances?”
“Doing what?”
“She was running away.”
“Seriously?”
“Couldn’t make this shit up if I tried,” I say bitterly. “She was trying to escape her fucking abusive asshole of a husband.”
“She’s still married to him?”
“I don’t think she has a choice. She doesn’t think she does, anyway.”
“She was trying to run away,” Artem points out.
“Yeah, but then she got caught and dragged to jail,” I remind him. “I guess that was the sick fucker’s way of teaching her a lesson. Now, she’s convinced she needs to go back to him or it’ll just get worse.”
“Classic abuse victim mentality.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “Now you see my problem. I’m trying to save someone who refuses to be saved.”
“She’s been with the motherfucker for years,” Artem says. “It takes time for those kind of mind games to lose their power. What did you think, she’d take one look at you and forget all her fears?”
I roll my eyes. “Jesus, you’ve been wifed up for only a short time and now you’re a fucking marriage therapist?”
“Fuck you.”
I grin.
“And stop grinning like a fucking idiot,” he adds.
I laugh. “How did you know I was grinning?”
“Stupid question, don’t you think?” Artem shoots at me.
“Fair.”
We fall into another easy silence for a few seconds.
I take a deep breath. “I wish you were here, man,” I say honestly.
“You have Kian.”
“Kian is… He’s my brother,” I say. “And I love the shit out of him. But he and I have a lot of lost time to catch up on. The brother I grew up with, the one who knows who I am today is in California.”
“If you need back up,” Artem says, “just say the fucking word.”
I know he means it, too. He’d be here with an army on the first flight out if I needed it.
“Thanks, brother.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” I say. “But I’ve got it covered.”
“Is that strategy talking?” Artem asks. “Or pride?”
“It can be both.”
Artem laughs darkly. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your humor along with your looks.”
“Ha! You’re just jealous.”
“Of what, exactly?”
“The fact that I came back from the dead even better-looking than before.”
“God help us all. Is there something in the water over in Ireland?” Artem inquires.
“I speak only the truth,” I say solemnly. “Don’t believe me? Just ask your wife.”
“My wife tends to see only the good in people,” Artem replies. “She doesn’t see ugly.”
“That must be true. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have married you.”
“I take it back,” Artem seethes. “You’re on your own.”
I laugh. “I should go. I have more shit I need to sort through.”
“Right,” he says, before a chuckle escapes him.
I take the bait. “What’s funny?”
“I was just thinking… We’re both dons now,” he explains. “Ironic, really.”
“I know. Who would have thought you’d end up being don?” I tease. “I mean, Budimir was the one who had the vision necessary for leadership.”
“Asshole. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”
“Kiss your wife for me.”
“Only if you kiss Saoirse for me.”
“Asshole.”
Artem chuckles, we say our goodbyes, and the line goes dead.
I run my hands over my face and look around Da’s office. There are a bunch of pictures of the O’Sullivan dons that came before. My grandfather, my great-grandfather, a
ll the generations of men before them.
But there’s no image of Da.
Certainly not of Sean nor me.
Though I notice a space in the corner of the portrait wall. It looks like it’s been cleared specifically for another portrait. Kian, maybe? I’ve never been the type to care about ceremonial shit like that.
True, the gravestones had bothered me a little, but only because they’re so fucking passive-aggressive. That’s always been Da’s style.
I get up and head out of the office.
I need some real sleep, but instead of going to my room, I detour to the room I know Saoirse’s in. The door has been locked from the outside, as per my instructions. I wonder if she’s figured that out yet.
When I unlock it and slip inside, Saoirse’s fast asleep with all her clothes still on.
She’s sleeping soundly, exhaustion having pushed her deep under. She looks peaceful in sleep. Younger, too. Maybe she’d look just as young in her waking state if her head weren’t so full of worries.
I have to resist the urge to touch her, mostly because I’m pushing the creep meter enough just by being in her room.
Instead, I just stare down at her soft features, marveling at the classical beauty she probably doesn’t even know she possesses.
She’s the one that turned me away all those years ago.
But somehow, I still feel as though I’m the one that failed her.
“Don’t worry, Saoirse,” I whisper softly, watching her eyelashes flutter gently through a dream. “I left you once. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
38
Saoirse
The Next Morning
I wake up choking from the ghosts in my dreams.
I jerk upright, feeling the pressure around my neck release suddenly as consciousness chases away the demons inside my head.
My fingers graze over my neck, and I look around with well-rested eyes.
I’ve slept well. That’s… surprising.
I’ve never been a good or a deep sleeper. Too many things to be afraid of, I suppose. So the fact that I’ve managed it in a new, unfamiliar place is nothing short of astounding.
I get out of the bed and glance around the room. I’m alone, but it doesn’t feel eerie.
It feels cozy.
Sheltered.
Safe.
But there’s still part of me clenched tight. Part of me that doesn’t trust that any of this is real or that it would ever happen to someone as cursed as me. That part refuses to relax the final distance.
I glance out the window at the luxurious view of the gardens surrounding the lake. The skies are bluer than I’ve ever seen. But maybe that has more to do with perception than reality.
It’s not like I appreciated things like how blue the sky was before now. Before reconnecting with Cillian.
I drop my face into my open palms and sigh. He’s gotten into my head already.
Of course, it’s not as if he ever really left.
Wrenching myself away from this stupid merry-go-round of thoughts, I move for the door, determined to get out of this place before Cillian finds me.
I’m certain that seeing him will make leaving a hundred times harder.
Better to slip away without a goodbye.
But when I try the door, it refuses to open. The handle doesn’t even rattle. Doesn’t even budge.
It’s locked.
A wave of shock courses through me as I realize that I’m trapped in here. Quite literally.
And all the fear, all the uncertainty—it all immediately metamorphizes into fury.
How dare he lock me in here?
I rail at the door, pulling down hard on the knob to try and force it open. I don’t actually believe I’ll succeed, but it’s the only outlet for my frustration right now.
“No! No! No!” I hiss under my breath as angry tears prick at my eyes. I’m straining as hard as I can at the thick door and the unyielding handle. “I won’t let you—”
“Jesus Christ, Saoirse! Calm the fuck down.”
I freeze. “Cillian?” I whisper.
“I’ll also accept ‘my knight in shining armor,’” he replies, voice muffled through the door. “But ‘Cillian’ works, too.”
I hear the door click open to reveal Cillian standing there with puffy eyes. Behind him is a rather uncomfortable-looking chair with a low back rest, planted firmly in front of my door.
“I have so many questions right now.”
“Fire away,” he says amicably as he lounges against the doorjamb, blocking my path out of here.
“Did I just wake you up?”
“As a matter of fact, you did. Not particularly pleasantly. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Does that mean you were sitting outside my bedroom door the whole night?”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t want you ravaging me in the night,” he jokes. “And I knew that was inevitable if I slept in there with you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You…”
“You know it’s true.”
“For God’s sake, Cillian,” I groan, “can you be serious for five minutes?”
He smiles. “What makes you think I’m not serious?”
“Goddammit! Why are you sleeping outside my room, Cillian? And why was I locked in?”
“I locked you in because I knew you’d try and sneak out the first chance you got,” he points out matter-of-factly. “And I slept outside your room because I wanted to make sure you were safe. Felt like a fair compromise.”
“What happened to ‘This is a secure compound?’” I point out, throwing his own words back in his face.
“I thought so, too,” he replies. “But then we were ambushed by the Kinahans and my parents were dragged away to who-the-fuck-knows-where. So I wasn’t taking any chances.”
I’m touched. There’s no denying it.
But I still don’t want him to know that. I don’t want to encourage this. Any of it.
He’s not my knight in shining armor. He’s not protecting me. He’s not back in Ireland on a rescue mission.
Because no one can rescue me. I’m too far gone to be saved.
I frown. “You shouldn’t have locked me in.”
“I just wanted to make sure I could speak to you before you left.”
“About what?”
“About your chances out there,” he replies. “Versus your chances in here with me.”
“Cillian…”
His voice takes on an odd urgency I’ve never heard from him before. It freezes every thought of mine in place.
“I know you think you have to go back to him, Saoirse. But let’s face it: by now, he’s got half the police force out there looking for you. Not to mention the Kinahans. It’s safer for you here.”
“You just want me to stay with you.”
“Wow,” he says, recoiling with mock shock. “Someone certainly has a big ego.”
I almost smile. “I can’t stay here forever, Cillian.”
Even though, in my heart, I’ve never wanted anything more.
“I’m not asking you to,” he replies. “I’m just saying that the situation is precarious at the moment. It’s best you stay put until we have a better idea of what’s happening. And who’s after you.”
He doesn’t have to try and convince me.
Truthfully, he never has.
He had me at the first smile.
“Well?” he demands.
“Well what?”
“Are you gonna keep acting like you don’t want to stay or are you just gonna cut the dramatics and give in to the inevitable?”
I sigh. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Stop it; you’re making me blush.”
I shake my head. “You’ve always been skilled at twisting insults into compliments.”
He shrugs and pushes past me as he enters the room. He goes straight for the bed and plops himself down there.
&
nbsp; “Fuck, that feels good,” he says with a relieved sigh. “Remind me never to spend the night in a chair ever again.”
I close the door and follow him to the bed. But I don’t sit down next to him, of course. That way lies danger.
I just stand there, a few feet away, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that it’s hard to stop looking at him.
“Who asked you to post up on guard duty?”
“You did. When you started fighting me on every single fucking decision I make.”
“When it pertains to my life, I think I have every right to voice an opinion.”
“Maybe I know what’s best for you.”
I glare at him, my expression turning cold instantly. He seems to realize what he’s just said, because he gets to his feet and gives me a strained look.
“Okay, that came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“I just… I want to protect you, Saoirse.”
“Yeah? Because that’s what Tristan says to me all the time. That he wants to protect me. But I know what he really means—he wants to control me.”
Cillian goes silent, and I almost regret saying that.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “That was below the belt.”
“No,” Cillian says thoughtfully, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes. “No, it wasn’t. You’ve spent your whole life being told what to do by a man. Why would you have any desire to listen to another?”
He’s right.
That’s exactly how I feel.
I’m so floored by that that I barely notice Cillian moving closer to me.
When I do notice, he’s standing only inches away. His eyes catch mine. Hold me captive.
He’s a blond Adonis. Age has only made that truer. Those eyes are bright and alive, the slope of his jaw sharp enough to slice my finger open. I want to touch him more badly than I’ve ever wanted anything.
“Can I ask you an honest question, though?”
“Yes,” I hear myself whisper.
“How do you feel when he says he wants to protect you?”
“I feel… claustrophobic,” I reply. “Trapped. Chained.”
“And what do you feel when I say that to you?”
