25. Kieran
Chapter 25
Kieran
T here’s something therapeutic about unleashing soul-crushing aggression on a one-hundred-and-ten-pound heavyweight bag.
My bare fist connects with the bag’s vinyl shell, and I relish the ripple of pain that reverberates through my arm.
One, three, five, two.
Hissing, I strike again, trying to block out the last five hours. It’s a nightmare. It has to be. I wanted Summer. Wanted her body. Wanted her for my daughter. But most concerning, I wanted to share more with her.
After Laura, I swore I’d never fall for another. What a damn sappy fool I am.
The door to the practice room beside the underground ring squeaks open, and I pause my glorified boxing session to see Cormac leisurely walk in.
His head dips to look at my knuckles, ripped open and bleeding, and he shakes his head. I don’t hide them, though I have the urge to whip them behind my back. Instead, I wipe the blood on the front of my white button down.
“She still at it?” I ask, moving to grab a towel for the sweat dripping into my eyes.
“Aye. Hasn’t let up since ye locked her in there. Pretty sure the entire block can hear her.”
They can’t. I’ve had this whole place soundproofed. No one can hear the roar of the crowds below, or the rowdy frat boys drowning in a vat of beer while watching the game at the bar.
I smirk, but a frown takes over when I remember. “Did she eat?”
“No. Lizzy sent a burger and fries, but she rushed the guard outside her door when he brought us in.”
She’s feisty and pissed, and the knowledge of that warms the blood in my body. I’ve always been intrigued by Summer pushing back at me. Few do. But the idea of her fighting back—I stifle a groan.
What am I going to do with her? No doubt Salvatore will be here soon, and even my hate for Riku can’t top my disdain for her father.
He’s aligned with the Bratva, and while I don’t have a formal alliance with Luka, it goes unsaid. He needs me, I’m there. I need him, and he’s there. I’ve already called upon the Bratva as a precautionary step with Riku in my city. Luka is ready and willing to step in whenever I require it.
It’s a blow to my pride, realizing the Yakuza grew their numbers underneath my nose. My father would be ashamed. Regardless, the Bratva has my back, and that makes the Cosa Nostra a willing ally. How do I withhold his daughter from him? How do I manipulate the chess pieces?
I move to a water bottle I have stashed on the bench in the corner and pour the remaining third over my face like a brute. I’m burning up and suspect it’s not from the hour-long session I just completed.
Cormac eyes me, hands in his jean pockets.
“What?” I push the water up into my hair and rustle it around until it’s almost dry.
His tweed jacket bunches together as he brings both hands together in front of him.
“What ye going to do with the lass?”
Hell if I know.
I should get rid of her, but I’m half worried I’ll have withdrawal pains if I do. Plus, what does that say about me as a father? Would I want Aoife to be handed over like stolen property? I punish the men who take aim at innocent young women, not facilitate it.
After a quick glance at the clock on the wall, I finally respond. “Right now, I’m going to bring her a new burger and make sure she eats somethin’.”
Jogging to the locker rooms, I speed through a cold shower and pull on my clothes again, not bothering with my hair. In several minutes, I’m standing in front of my office door while sluggish pounds bang on the door every thirty seconds or so. The fact she’s still banging on the door at this point is impressive.
I key in on the pad and open the door.
It doesn’t budge. Dropping my shoulder, I ram the door, thinking she’s set a chair or something against it.
“Ow!” Summer shrieks, and I wince when the door suddenly gives way, and she rolls out of the way like some ninja.
I roll my eyes and force open the door so hard it bangs the wall behind it.
I step inside, looking to where Summer now gets up. Her hair has fully fallen from its clip, and her eyes are red and puffy. She scowls at me when I offer her the to-go container of our house burger and fries. Shaking the contents in front of her must trigger her because she swats at the container until it falls to the floor. But that’s not what garners my attention.
I snatch her wrist and yank her toward me.
“Kieran! Stop!”
I force her hand where I can see it and growl at the blood on her knuckles. “What’s this?”
She retracts her hand. “You trapped me in here.” Her voice is raw, hovering just over a whisper. I scan the walls flanking the door where several Summer-sized fist holes have been punched through the drywall.
Huh. Fighter indeed.
“I’ll have Cormac bring some medical supplies.”
“Don’t bother,” she deadpans.
I turn, extending my arm to close the door. Her nostrils flare when I stride over to her and seize her hand. Her knuckles are swollen with patches of skin torn away, exposing bright red cuts scattered across her skin. Summer’s eyes flick down to her fist and she pulls at her fingers. I don’t let go. In fact, I tug her into me.
Sweat beads on her brow, strips of her silky hair stick to her reddened face. She narrows her gaze on what appears to be my jawline, and the combination of her bleeding hands with her snarling attitude—she looks almost savage.
I’m acutely aware that her scent reminds me of fresh squeezed orange juice and fresh misting seawater crashing against a beach. There’s an urge to kidnap her and fling her on my yacht, never looking back. Fool! There are bigger events at play.
A knock on the door has me clenching her hand too tightly, and her pulse quickens.
“Boss?” Cormac’s tone is solemn.
“Go away.” He knocks again. “Now, ye bleeding eejit.”
Summer tilts her head and quirks her brow. “Wow. Your leadership qualities are fantastic.”
“Almost as good as yer ability to keep yer identity hidden.”
Her face squishes together as she tries to hide her wince.
Low blow, Kieran.
The door bursts open, and I drop Summer’s hand as Cormac strides through. “Boss. Salvatore is here.”
Summer’s fight dies instantly. The redness in her face gives way to a ghostly white, even those pink luscious lips look washed out. With a sharp inhale, she backpedals, her steps seeking refuge deeper into my office.
I nod toward Cormac and pull my jacket around my front to button it. He steps out, and I move to follow, gesturing to Summer to move before me.
“Please, Kieran. He’ll marry me off. He’ll ship me somewhere that benefits the Cosa Nostra and the Cosa Nostra only. It’ll be a sixty-five-year-old bastard that uses me for his own pleasure, and I’ll be locked in his house, beaten to submission. I won’t have a life. I won’t see my sister. My students.”
The image she’s conjured up infiltrates my brain and I snarl. “Ye don’t see yer sister now,” I say, running over the scenarios in my head.
She glares at me. “I won’t have a life.”
“Ye don’t have?—”
“Don’t say I don’t have a life. You know I do.” Her breath hitches under the weight of emotion while the sheen of unshed tears pool at the edges of her lower lids. I’m drawn to the deep pools reflecting the meager office lighting, and the hurry to speak with Salvatore is forgotten as I watch those tears suspend in a delicate balance, never quite spilling over.
It’s in those bright clear irises, in her fragile state, and in the silence in her eyes—ironically speaking volumes—that I decide what I’m going to do. Her life is over as she knows it.
“Let’s go.”
She flinches as I demand it, and she sulks out of the room following Cormac.
As I follow her, I wonder what Salvatore’s face will say when he sees his daughter for the first time in seven years. Will it be a relief? That she’s been found safe and unharmed—well, besides the years of trauma and neglect he seems to have racked up between Luna and Isabella.
Or will it be anger? Because she chose to defy him; to seek out a better life for herself and map her own future. Perhaps he will surprise us all with a bout of sadness, although I sincerely doubt it. Maybe Salvatore will wrap her in his arms and apologize for everything he’s put her through and promise her a better life. One of freedom.
I’m not sure why the last option causes a creeping darkness to settle in the pit of my stomach, and it feels like a one-two punch to my chest. The sensation is so dominant I clear my throat and thump a fist on my sternum.
If the Buscetta family was truly sorry, it would be healing for Summer, but that would mean she’d most likely leave Boston. She’d return home to New York where her sister and brother-in-law live with their two sons and never look back.
Summer stops dead as she walks around the corner of the dining area. To keep from running into her, I place both my hands on her trembling shoulders. When she doesn’t continue, I gently push her, guiding her through the tables until I’ve deposited her mere feet away from Salvatore and step beside her.
Salvatore’s peppered hair from when I last saw him is gone. Replaced by a head of thick silver, slicked back and parted to the side. His face is clean shaven, nose still unmistakable—guess he didn’t take up his wife’s affinity for getting work done.
He stands wide, wearing an off-white suit with a black undershirt underneath. A gold cross chain I’ve never noticed him wear before, hangs around his neck. However, when I finally meet his stare, I smirk.
He leaches a hardness that rivals Summer’s. She grimaces as each passing second seems to render her more powerless to plaster an expression of disdain until she finally looks away.
“Isabella.” Salvatore’s voice booms in the pub, and Lizzy, who’s yet to make herself scarce, startles and drops a glass on the bar.
“It’s Summer now,” she says.
Salvatore looks between his two guards, both dressed in black suits. Never understood why the Cosa Nostra or Bratva always felt the need to wear prissy shite.
“We’ll see about that. Let’s go.” He makes to turn.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I left that life. I’m no longer a Buscetta.” Summer crosses her arms, and my eyebrows raise at her tone.
Unfortunately, before I can open my mouth to interrupt this ridiculousness, Buscetta says, “But it seems you found your way back into the life whether you wanted to or not.”
Summer and her father stare at each other, and the silence mirrors that of the ominous quiet before a volcanic eruption—perhaps the calm before the seismic activity in this case.
“Grab her.” Salvatore’s words prompt Summer to shift backward and over closer to me.
Perfect. She’s playing the part she doesn’t know she has perfectly.
Both Cosa Nostra guards scurry forward, but halt when I raise both my hands. “Ah, Salvatore. I believe I can’t let ye do that.”
The urge to shield her, protect her, grows with each appraising look Salvatore gives his daughter. This has to work.
“And why the hell not,” he clips out, adjusting his shoulders and rolling his neck.
I wrap a hand around Summer and pull her into my side. She hesitates a moment before submitting.
“What ye think, love? Should we tell him the news?”
Summer stiffens beside me, and from the corner of my eye I see her glance up, her brow furrowed. I keep my gaze fixed on Salvatore, whose narrowed eyes and scrunched forehead are almost comically intense.
“What is this, Kieran?”
“Summer and I are engaged,” I say casually. Summer slackens at my side, and I finally allow myself to peer at her. Her eyes are stretched wide, and they dart back and forth between mine like she’s trying to place what’s going on. She must figure out what I’m doing because she nods at me, then shifts her nod to her father as well.
“No. She’s Cosa Nostra. I made a deal with the Cartel years ago—I will uphold that promise.”
“Please. It’s been seven years.” I release Summer and shove my hands in my pockets while striding closer to where Salvatore stands dead still. “Besides, I wasn’t aware she was Cosa Nostra before I proposed.”
Buscetta’s gaze flits to her empty left hand. “And when was this?”
“I proposed just this past weekend. On me boat.”
It’s quiet, but I make out Summer’s scoff under breath and the words, “Ye mean yacht,” in her best Irish accent.
Salvatore straightens, a muscle twitching in his temple. “This is unacceptable. You know now who she is. She belongs to the Cosa Nostra.”
Summer steps forward. “I belong to no one.”
I tsk. “Oh, but ye belong to me, love.”
Summer growls, and I almost laugh, entertaining all the snide remarks she’s biting back.
She tries again, though. “I’m no one’s property.” She ushers as much command into her voice, but all it does is break the stoic expression I’ve kept on my face.
I chuckle. “Ye’re mine.”