CHAPTER SIX
CIAN
I PACE THE length of the living room, each heavy step echoing off the hardwood floor. Her wide eyes follow me from where she’s perched on the edge of the couch, her small frame almost swallowed by the dim light of the room. She looks nervous—like she’s waiting for me to change my mind and tell her to leave.
“I’m telling you,” I say, forcing the words out evenly, “you need to stay here for a few days. Just until things die down.”
The truth is, it’s not necessary. I’ve handled worse, and I know I could handle this without dragging her into it. But there’s a pull I can’t ignore, like an invisible thread tying me to her, winding tighter every time I look at her.
“And who decides when it ‘dies down’?” she asks finally, her voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out clipped, sharper than I intend, and hangs in the air like an iron weight. Her hands tremble slightly, betraying the cracks in her armor. I let out a slow breath and walk to the chest behind the couch, pulling out a fur blanket. She flinches when I approach her, and I hate the fear in her eyes.
“Here,” I mutter, draping the blanket across her lap. The soft fabric pools over her legs, but she doesn’t relax. Not yet.
I sit down beside her, watching as her fingers twist and untwist the edge of the blanket. Her hands are small, delicate, but there’s a rawness in the way she worries the fabric, like she’s trying to unravel her own thoughts.
She probably thinks I’m no better than him—that I want to control her, cage her like some possession. The idea churns in my stomach, sour and wrong. If she were mine—and God, how badly I wish she were—I’d never hurt her. Never make her feel small or powerless.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. “Look,” I say, keeping my voice low, “I’m not trying to control you. I just… I need to keep you safe.”
“Why?” she whispers, her voice so soft it barely registers. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker of vulnerability there, like she’s searching for a reason to trust me. “Why do you care?”
Because I can’t stop. Because the thought of you in pain is enough to make my chest feel like it’s caving in. But I can’t say any of that—not yet.
“Because you're a part of my world now,” I say instead. “And that makes it my problem.”
Her gaze lingers on mine, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I think she’s going to push back, argue. But then she nods, the motion slow and reluctant.
I lean back into the couch, but the tension in the room doesn’t ease.
“So…what now?” she asks, her voice cutting through the quiet.
It’s a good question—one I don’t have an answer to. I glance at her again, taking in the way she’s curled up, her shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink into herself.
I don’t want her to feel small. Not here. Not with me.
“You hungry?” I ask, pushing myself to my feet.
She blinks, caught off guard. “You cook?”
I smirk, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “I didn’t say that. But I can order takeout like a pro.”
Her laugh is soft but real, and it cuts through the tension like a lifeline. “Takeout it is,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
As I grab my phone, it buzzes in my hand. My father’s name flashes on the screen, and the brief moment of levity evaporates. I already know what’s coming.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, stepping into the hallway before answering.
“Yeah?”
“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is a growl, low and dangerous, like a predator stalking its prey. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“He was hurting someone,” I reply evenly, my grip tightening around the phone.
“That someone doesn’t matter!” he snaps. “What matters is the fallout! You just shot the son of a man we’ve been working with for years. Do you understand the mess you’ve made?”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t care. He deserved it.”
“And if he retaliates? If this starts a war?”
“Then it starts a war,” I say coldly. “I’m not apologizing for protecting her.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and suffocating. Then he asks, “And who exactly is she?”
I glance toward the living room door. I can still see her in my mind—curled up on the couch, clutching the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
“She’s my girlfriend,” I lie, the words slipping out before I can stop them. The truth would sound ridiculous even to me.
My father exhales sharply, his disdain cutting through the line. “Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?”
The words hit harder than I want to admit, but I keep my voice steady. “Since now.”
His silence is louder than his anger. “Fix this, son. Or I will.”
The line goes dead, but the weight of his threat lingers. Fix this. As if it’s that simple.
When I step back into the living room, she’s asleep. Her small frame is curled into the corner of the couch, her head resting on her knees. The blanket has slipped off her shoulders, and her breathing is soft, steady.
For a moment, I just stand there watching her. She looks so fragile, like a doll that’s been tossed aside too many times. But I know better. There’s steel in her. Enough to survive him. Enough to survive this.
I step closer, pulling the blanket back over her shoulders. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, and I sink into the chair across from her, my gaze never leaving her face.
It doesn’t matter what it costs. It doesn’t matter how many enemies I have to face.
No one is hurting her again. Not now. Not ever.
A part of me wants to wake her up right now, shake her out of that fragile sleep, and demand answers about her boyfriend. Who he was. Whether she knew he might be tied to a gang.
The idea twists in my chest. Luna doesn’t strike me as someone who gets tangled up with men like that—men like me. She’s too soft around the edges, too...genuine. But then again, she must have known I was Mafia when she took the job. She walked into my world willingly.
Why?
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration simmering beneath the surface. I need to know more about him. About her.
His body’s probably already in the ground, courtesy of my cleanup crew. Any footage from the area? Erased. My men are combing through his circle now, hunting down anyone close to him. None of them will see tomorrow’s sunrise. As for the witnesses in the café, the Gardai will handle them. They’re in my pocket, and they know better than to dig too deep.
Normally, I’d never be this reckless. I don’t kill without planning every angle, every consequence. But back in that café, the second I saw the fear in her eyes, every shred of control burned to ash. The fucker pulled a knife, and it was over. It might as well have been self-defense.
That’s what I’ll tell myself, anyway.
I glance at her again, curled up on the couch, her breathing soft and steady. The sight of her stirs something in me, but only for a moment.
Leaving her there, I head to the bathroom. The shirt I’m wearing has blood on the cuffs—his blood—and it needs to go. Stripping it off, I step into the shower, letting the scalding water beat down on me. The heat doesn’t wash away the tension, but it dulls the edge enough to think straight.
When I’m done, I toss the shirt into the fireplace in my office. The fabric curls and blackens, the flames licking away the evidence until it’s nothing but ash. Cleaned up and dressed in black pants and a sweater, I feel like myself again—controlled, calculated.
By the time I return to the living room, she’s still asleep, her soft breathing filling the silence. I don’t wake her yet. Instead, I pull out my phone and place an order with the local Chinese restaurant. I don’t know what she likes, so I order everything: sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, spring rolls, noodles, and half the menu for good measure.
When the food arrives, I tell the house staff to leave for the night. The place feels too full, too loud with them here. I keep only the security team on site—they’ll stay out of sight unless I need them.
The dining room feels cavernous once it’s quiet, the polished table gleaming under the soft light. I set up the food, arranging the containers like I’m hosting a dinner party instead of trying to win over a woman I’ve just dragged into my world.
Once it’s all set up, I return upstairs to Luna. She stirs, a soft rustle of movement. I step into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
“Come with me,” I say, my voice gentle but firm.
Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and she blinks up at me. For a moment, she looks confused, vulnerable, like she’s forgotten where she is. Then the memory clicks, and she pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t question. She just nods and rises to her feet, her movements slow and cautious. I step aside, giving her space, and lead the way to the dining room.
When we enter, her eyes widen slightly at the spread of food laid out on the table. The faintest hint of a smile tugs at her lips, and I feel a small flicker of satisfaction.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” I admit, gesturing to the feast. “So I got a little of everything.”
Her gaze flickers to mine, and for the first time since this whole mess started, she doesn’t look afraid. “A little?” she murmurs, her voice tinged with amusement.
“Okay, a lot,” I concede, pulling out a chair for her.
She sits down, her movements still tentative, and I take the seat across from her. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unspoken.
For now, I let it be. There will be time for answers later. Tonight, I just need her to eat. To feel safe. To start trusting me—even if I don’t deserve it yet.
For someone so small, she eats like she hasn’t had a proper meal in days. And I can’t stop watching her. Every movement, every bite—it’s hypnotic. The way she tilts her head slightly when she’s deciding what to try next, or how her lips curve ever so slightly in satisfaction when she finds something she likes. She’s mesmerizing, and I know I should stop staring, but I can’t.
“I could never eat this kind of food when…”
She trails off, her voice faltering, and her gaze drops to her plate. She doesn’t need to finish for me to understand. Mark. It always comes back to him. My jaw tightens at the thought of him controlling something as simple and basic as what she eats. It’s sick.
“Eat whatever you want,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. I bite back the anger threatening to edge into my tone. I don’t want her to think I’m mad at her, but the thought of him dictating her life like that makes my blood boil.
Her fork hovers over her plate as she glances up at me, her eyes searching mine for something—permission, maybe, or reassurance. I hold her gaze, willing her to see that I mean it.
She pauses again, her brow furrowing. “Why aren’t you eating?”
For a second, I’m caught off guard by the question. It’s such a simple thing, but the way she asks it—it’s not just about the food. It’s about her need to feel normal, to share this moment with someone.
I smile, the corners of my mouth lifting, and reach for my plate. “You’re right,” I say lightly, piling some of the food onto it. “I should eat.”
Her lips twitch into a small, genuine smile, and something warm unfurls in my chest, spreading through me like a quiet fire. It’s startling, this need to make her happy, to see her smile again.
I take a bite of the sweet and sour chicken, and when I glance back up at her, she’s watching me now, her expression softer than before. For the first time, the tension between us feels less like a barrier and more like a thread—fragile but something I want to hold onto.
We eat in silence for a while, but it doesn’t feel heavy or strained. It’s a strange kind of peace, and I find myself wanting it to last. Wanting her to stay in this moment, where she feels safe enough to eat as much as she wants and doesn’t have to worry about anything else.
If I have anything to say about it, this is how it will always be for her from now on. No one controlling her. No one hurting her. Just freedom.