Chapter 6
Brax
Several Months Later
It's been months since the Underworld touched my life.
I started wondering if Valentina actually showed up at my house or if my brain just made her up during a stress-induced blackout.
Nobody's killed me or contacted me, yet I can't shake the feeling they're watching, even though the camera is no longer in the kitchen.
And I searched all over my house, but I couldn't find anything.
One day, I returned home after a three-day O'Malley shift and went to do a load of laundry. The keypad they'd installed was no longer there.
It fucked with my head more than anything.
I'd gotten used to punching in the code Valentina entered to open the wall, yet it never worked.
And the thin door line I'd run my finger over to make sure was still there was also gone.
The new drywall is perfectly matched to the rest of the house, and even the microtexture is spot-on.
One night, Finn and Sean's uncles grilled me for hours at the pub about what Sean's involved in, and I had to lie to all of them.
I came home with so much angry energy that I tore apart half the wall and found nothing.
No wiring. No residual cuts. No studs out of place.
Just an empty apartment ready to be rented.
It was like the room never existed.
Like she never existed.
But I can't even ask Sean about any of it. The minute I bring up anything, he shuts down completely.
The biggest kicker came when he and Zara went off and secretly got married. They came home with their dad's skull branded on their bodies. It was still a fresh wound when we all found out, and the shit hit the fan in both families.
Tension's thick for everyone, but I miss my best friend and am sick of covering for him by lying to Finn. So I'm stuck in the middle of the chaos, pretending I'm not waiting for the next Underworld punch to land, but I am.
And where did Valentina go? As much as I hate her since she's an Abruzzo, I can't stop thinking about the sexy little Minx.
A week ago, I decided the Underworld figured I was no use to them and forgot about me. Then Byrne barged into my garage like a bulldozer, slammed the door open, pointed at me, and said, "You're planning Sean's bachelor party and you're going to convince Fiona to plan a bachelorette party for Zara."
I reminded him that Sean was already married.
He didn't care.
So that's how I ended up at a strip club packed wall-to-wall with neon lights, bass-thumping speakers, and bodies grinding like the world isn't on fire.
Yet for the first time in months, I let myself breathe. Sean's not getting any lap dances, but it feels good to be out with him. And our cousins and I are taking full advantage of the attention the ladies are splashing on us.
The stage lights flash pink, then blue, then something that looks like melted gold as dancers twist around the pole, hair swinging, heels glinting.
The air is thick with perfume, whiskey, heat, and sweat.
Music pounds through me, loud enough to drown out my worries but not my thoughts.
The damn ghost of Valentina refuses to stop stalking the back of my mind.
Every stripper that comes over, I compare to her.
Our cousins have taken over the VIP booth like they're kings of Chicago.
A redhead with long legs and a wicked smile straddles L.J.'s lap. Kian's buried beneath a brunette who keeps whispering things that make him cackle like an idiot. Two blondes fight for Romeo's attention, and he's loving every second of it.
For the first time in a long time, nothing feels wrong. Everything feels simple. It's almost as if life hasn't twisted into something I can't control.
Sean sits beside me, split between boredom and irritation. Every dancer who gets near him gets waved off immediately.
"Not a fun bachelor," one mutters, sashaying away.
I shake my head. "You could at least fake enthusiasm."
"I'm happily married," he claims.
"Not that I got to stand by you on your big day," I remind him, still bitter that he got married without me being his best man.
He winces. "I've said sorry a thousand times."
"Yeah, so I've heard." I finish my whiskey, and another one magically appears.
Hours blur together with more dancers, shots, and my cousin's giddiness over everything the strip club has to offer. The months of knotted tension in my stomach slowly unwinds.
An Irish-accented voice booms, "Looks like you're passing the test, lad."
All the hairs on my arms stand on end. I turn, my pulse rising.
Byrne drops into the seat beside Sean like he's been here the whole time. His red beard catches the stage lights, making him look like some aged Celtic god who walked out of a battlefield. He clinks his whiskey glass against the table. "Looks like your boys are celebrating something."
I force a nod. "Aye. Except Sean isn't having any fun."
Sean throws me a glare. "I'm already married."
I glance at the cousins. None of them even notices Byrne's arrival. They're lost in women, drinks, and bad decisions.
Sean asks, "What tests are you talking about?"
Byrne takes a long drink, then leans forward. "Loyalty to your wife."
Sean stiffens beside me. "I'm always loyal to her. And I always will be."
Byrne nods slowly. "That's right. So you pass the test."
Sean scowls at me and accuses, "You set me up."
I raise both hands, palms out. "Sorry, mate. He made me."
"Brax," Byrne says, turning toward me like he's about to hand out divine judgment, "go get a private dance."
I blink. "Now?"
"Yeah, now."
I stand, smirking. "Excuse me, ladies. I need to share the love."
They whine, pouting as I gently move them aside.
I glance around and find two dancers with long legs, big smiles, and glittering eyes. I curl a finger at them, and they bounce over, linking arms with me before leading me toward one of the private rooms where the music is softer and the lights are dimmer.
For several hours, I try to stop comparing the girls to Valentina. But deep down, under the music and the laughter, something sharp twists in my gut.
"I've gotta get out of here," I mutter, pushing DD-cup titties out of my face.
"What's wrong?" the brunette chirps.
I toss money at her. "Nothing. You're great." I hightail it out of the VIP room and look for Sean, but he's nowhere.
Great. Another night of wondering if he's coming back alive.
I stumble my way to the exit. The moment I step out of the strip club, cold air cuts through the heat still clinging to my skin. The neon sign above the door flickers, buzzing like it's trying to warn me. The muffled music fades deeper as I move across the parking lot.
The limo SUV pulls next to me. The driver rolls down the window. "Mr. O'Malley?"
"I'm going to walk."
"Not the best neighborhood," he warns.
I snort. "Not worried. Take care of the rest of the boys." I walk farther into the dark, away from the chaos, trying to blow off steam I shouldn't have.
Why can't I get her out of my damn head?
I stagger through the neighborhood I grew up in, on streets I used to hustle, passing buildings boarded up. The same alleys I used to dumpster dive for food reek of the same rot.
My stomach flips, and I wonder how I ever did it.
I turn a corner and a couple stumbles out of a bar and into a rideshare. More guests stand outside smoking, drunk in conversation and spirits.
The cloud of smoke is thick. I push through it and walk several more blocks. The hairs on my neck rise, and I freeze.
The city feels off. It's too quiet and still. Even the breeze seems to hold its breath, but it's like my instincts snap awake, one by one.
Someone's watching me.
I scan my surroundings, but the street's vacant. I tap my pocket knife and step into the alley's shadows.
A shadow peels itself off the brick wall, and my chest locks.
I'm seeing things.
Valentina steps into the faint strip of streetlight like she owns it. Her head's high, shoulders are relaxed, and she wears a red-diamond-encrusted eye mask. She fixes her gaze on me with a look that makes it hard to breathe.
She shouldn't be here, not in this neighborhood, and especially not alone, or in this dark alley. Yet here she is, as if she's waiting for me.
How did she know I'd be here?
Her black coat hugs her body. Her pinned hair exposes the deadly line of her throat. Her boots barely click on the pavement as she takes two steps toward me.
For a second, I forget how to swallow.
"Brax." Her Italian accent gives me a hard-on even though she says my name like she's snapping a chain around my neck.
Every emotion I've shoved down for months erupts at once. It's anger, heat, relief, and frustration. I clench my fists, unsure if it's so I don't reach for her or push her away.
I mutter, "You're not real. I'm drunk. Or hallucinating."
She tilts her head, eyes flicking down my chest like she's checking whether I've improved since she last dissected me. She teases, "I can assure you I'm real. Not sure if you're drunk though?"
I take a step back on instinct.
She takes a step forward on purpose.
"Where have you been?" I demand, too raw, too fast.
Her hand lands on the front of my shirt, stopping me cold.
She smooths one small wrinkle between her fingers in a slow, deliberate, and possessive way.
Heat shoots down my spine. My pulse slams so loudly I know she hears it.
"Don't ask questions you're not ready to have answered," she threatens.
I snap, grabbing her wrist. "Like hell I'm not."
A slow smile curves her mouth, so damn beautiful it makes my stomach drop.
"Good." She pulls her wrist free. "Then follow instructions."
Before I can respond, she fists my shirt near my collar and yanks me into the alley. Then she spins.
My back hits the brick wall hard.
Her body presses close enough to warm the chill seeping through my shirt.
I swear my heart stops entirely. I growl, "What are you doing?"
"Assessing." Her tone is smooth, calm. "You look intact. I wouldn't claim you're drunk. That's…useful."