My Irish Mafia King

Chapter 13

Thirteen

LUCY

" T hank you so much for asking, Mrs. Rochester," I say, a bright smile on my face as I speak with one of my regulars. "Clover is doing much better.”

"That's wonderful to hear, dearie," she says, popping five dollars in the tip jar. "Get her a treat from me."

"I will. Thank you so much."

After last night, it feels crazily easy to slip into this mood. It's like the aftershocks of the orgasm have left a lingering effect, my head feeling light, my body tingling with the memory of the closeness. Maybe we can make it through this...

The only sour spot is Ronan sitting across the street, watching the bakery like a hawk, a constant reminder that something terrible could happen at any moment. But I get through the whole day without a disaster.

Near closing time, my heart skips with misguided excitement when I see Killian approaching. He walks into the empty bakery, looking at me with undisguised desire.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Sure.” I turn to Toby. “Could you watch the bakery?”

Killian and I head into the back.

“Good day?” I ask.

Killian frowns. “No,” he replies. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to avoid taking you to a ball.”

I laugh at the absurdity. “I’m sorry…”

He grins, rolling his eyes. “I know. It’s a joke, isn’t it? My uncle is throwing a ball and wants everyone there… that means me, that means Ronan. I can’t leave you unprotected. So, Cinderella, there’s only one solution. You’re coming with me.”

“Is this your romantic way of asking me on a date?”

He takes my hands, pulling me in for a hug. Waves of heat and belonging wash over me each time we touch. The effect is more intense after last night. He sinks his hands into my hips and holds me like he owns me. Then he speaks in Gaelic, intensely, poetically, his voice lilting almost like he’s singing.

Even if I can’t understand what he’s saying—I catch a couple of words—it’s like he’s casting a spell on me.

“What did you say?” I whisper.

“Things I can’t say in English.”

I take his face in my hands, staring into his eyes, getting lost in them like the old cliché and not caring. “ Try .”

“I said this can’t be forever. I said this will end soon. But, a chuisle mo chroí , while this star is burning, I want it to burn bright. I want to savor every moment. I want to forget that, when this is done, I might be dead. Or worse—a mafia king. It would be wrong of me to touch you ever again.”

“Don’t I get a say?”

I throw myself into his arms, kissing him with a passion that surprises even me. I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly. As we kiss, I can feel my pendant pressing against my chest, his body pressing against mine, both of us aching like we want to melt into each other.

“I got you something,” he says breathlessly.

“What?”

I kiss him again before he can answer. It’s like I’m getting addicted to it.

He puts his hands on my hips, pushing me gently, smoldering. “You know what’s going to happen if you keep going.”

“What’s that, hmm?” I say.

He smirks. “Somebody’s getting more confident…”

“You bring it out in me. But be warned. I might make promises I can’t keep.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket, bringing out a small ring box. “I’ve spent the day meeting with men who I believe will be loyal to me when the time comes. I spent the day visiting them in their businesses and homes, laughing along with their jokes and planning for the first shot. But between all that chaos, I got my woman something.”

His temporary woman. I almost say that, but I don’t want to spoil the mood… which might be crazy because he’s the one giving me so many mixed signals. One second it’s ‘this can’t last’ and the next he’s being so romantic. My soul aches.

I take the ring box, open it. “A Claddagh ring,” I whisper, looking down at the jeweled heart in the silver band, a crown above it and two intricately carved hands framing it.

He smiles, touching the ring pendant hanging around my neck. “This one should actually fit you,” he says. “You’re going to wear it at the ball. It’s important I keep my cool.”

“How will this help keep your cool?” I ask.

“Do you know about the meanings behind the ring?”

“Sure,” I tell him. “If I wear it on my right hand with the heart facing out, that means I’m single. Right hand with the heart facing inward… I’m spoken for. Left hand facing out, I’m engaged, and facing in, I’m married.”

He nods. “At the ball, you’ll wear it on your right hand with the heart facing in. Everybody there will know that you’re with me, that we’re in a relationship.”

“As a show,” I say.

“Yes, as a show,” he growls. “I wish it could be different, but… But you need to listen to me on this.”

“What if I refuse to go?” I ask.

“Then I won’t go, either. My uncle will take it as a slight. He’ll argue I’m not respecting him as Don. The battle will begin.”

“Is the ring really that important?”

“It’s going to be hard enough to keep my cool at this damn thing,” he says huskily. “If I look over and see another man fawning over you, I’ll snap. You’ve seen what happens when I snap.”

I get a flash of the violence, the savagery he inflicted upon Shane.

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“That’s who I am,” he says. “Think about it anytime you’re pissed at me for saying we can’t do this forever.”

“You and your mixed signals…”

“Put the ring on,” he says.

“Is that an order from the mafia king ?”

He grabs my arms and pulls me close to him, staring down with so much heat, I think he might lay me on the table and tear off my clothes. He looks like a man on the very edge of control, struggling not to lose it. “I’m doing this for you. I’m doing this because I know if I look over and see some guy chatting you up, I’m liable to put a bullet in him. I’m doing this because I am part of the mafia, even if I’ve never wanted to be. I’m doing this because there’s a demon in me and it’ll wake—again—if another man even imagines he has a chance with you.”

I put my hand on his chest, first meaning to push him away. But when I feel his heart hammering beneath my palm, I dig my nails into his firm chest through his shirt and pull myself in for another kiss.

It’s somehow hotter than the others, imbued with more meaning, with more intensity.

“You were my lucky charm that stopped the storm,” he whispers. “At the ball, you’ll be my lucky charm again. Here…” He takes the ring from me with surprising gentleness, then slips it onto my finger, turning it so it’s facing the right direction.

“I have nothing to wear at a ball,” I tell him. “Everyone there will be rich and have fancy outfits and I’ll look out of place.”

“I’ll take you shopping,” he says. “Anything you want, it’s yours. In the short time we have together, let me treat you.”

“I wish you’d stop reminding me we’re on a clock.”

“I’m not reminding you. I’m reminding myself. Otherwise, I’ll let myself think of impossible, painful things.”

“Well, I get it,” I tell him. “You don’t have to keep reminding me. And I can’t go shopping. I need to keep the bakery running.”

“You’re open nights?”

“The stores will be closed,” I protest.

He gently takes my hands. “ A stór , I’ll have the owners open them. Take you on a private shopping trip. It’s even better; I get you all to myself.”

Again, I get that split feeling, like there are two people warring inside me. One wants to tell him I don’t want some princess adventure. He can’t make me ignore how doomed this is with romance and things . But another part is… okay, sue me. Yep, I’m excited.

“Do you know the story of Niamh and Oisín in the Land of Youth?” I ask.

“No, but I’m sure my lucky charm will tell me…”

“Niamh begged Oisín not to leave, told him things would never be the same, but he was determined to see Ireland. He promised he would come home to her. But when he returned, three hundred years had passed. Nothing would ever be the same again. He would never see his love again. I’ve been reading Irish folklore, and lately, that one sticks out to me.”

“I can see why,” he says huskily.

I curl my arms around him again and lay my cheek against his chest, clinging to him. He doesn’t need to ask why I brought up that story. He knows I’m talking about us, the ticking that’s in the background of every interaction, every hug, every kiss, every love-filled word, Gaelic or English. He knows that he’s Oisín, and one day, I won’t be here for him, or he won’t be there for me.

“Let’s enjoy tonight,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head. “The ball will come; the war might come. But not tonight, beautiful. Tonight, nothing can touch us. It’s just me and you.”

Just like it was years ago, sheltering in that cave, when, to my young and terrified mind, it felt like the entire world was against us and there was only one man who could save me. But that was when I was a child.

I’ve changed since then. I’m not na?ve anymore. Maybe he’s right. Maybe tonight is the only time we’ll have to just be together.

Am I going to waste that by dreading the future?

“Just me and you,” I whisper.