30. Kieran
Chapter 30
Kieran
I find myself angry. Pent up with frustration of more than one kind. I’ve no doubt scared Summer, and I shudder at my inability to have kept my hands to myself. She was so sexy in that dress. So much so, I didn’t care about the price tag or that I don’t have a time in mind for when she can wear it. It didn’t matter. She needed the dress, and I … I needed to see her in it.
After that I was a goner.
Bleeding hell. I was not prepared for that dress. More specifically, Summer in the dress. Not touching her was impossible. Made worse by her melting into me. If she’d pulled away, or if I had made her uncomfortable, I would’ve stopped.
But she didn’t.
Her chest pounded against my hand. Breathy whimpers and not so silent gasps heightened my own reaction to seeing her like that. Wanton, and achingly beautiful.
The way she had trembled beneath my exploring touch yet didn’t cower under my scrutiny …
Shite.
I’d picked Luxe Atelier not only because Summer deserves the very best in Boston but also because it’s where most of the Italians, Yakuzas, and corrupted politician’s wives shop. News that Summer, also known as Isabella Buscetta, was here with me for a new wardrobe will start floating through the underground circles no later than tonight. Sarah, while snotty, has the biggest mouth there is, and I’m pretty sure she’s involved with several men from each of the established organizations in Boston.
The wind bites my nose as we exit the boutique. Dusk has nearly faded away into city light illuminated dark, and while I’m sure Summer would prefer to go home, I want more time with her.
The comment about Target stuck with me, and while I love seeing Summer dressed in the clothing from LA, my thoughts shift to her all red-nosed and sickly answering the door in sweatpants. That look almost rivals the one where she’s in Versace.
Hell. I’m supposed to be proving to her that she can stay here, not chase her away with my obsessive need for her in my life.
I always thought it would be an organization to bring me to my knees, not a bleeding Buscetta.
Palm on her back, I direct Summer toward my Audi. I open the passenger door for her and watch as she slides in, dressed in her wrinkled jeans and pink sweater. She looks even more frazzled than when she came into the shop, and I preen at the thought it may be because of me.
“I know ye need some other basics, so we’ll make a quick stop before heading home,” I say in the car’s stillness once I’ve climbed in.
Summer doesn’t look at me. Instead, she stares at the open pore oak dash clutching her chest. The cream Nappa leather practically swallows her, but having her here, in my car, feels right. I torture myself with visions of her in the front seat and Aoife in the back on our way to the marina for a weekend on the yacht.
Who am I kidding? She doesn’t want this life—she ran away from it. How can I make her see that she belongs here in Boston, part of Aoife’s life, part of mine?
Starting the car, I pull away from the curb where my car has sat over the time limit and take the grand total of two roads toward Target. I can’t help but increase the span between each glance at Summer. I’m waiting. Watching for her reaction.
And I’m not disappointed.
When we pull into the parking lot, that obnoxious bullseye glares at me, but Summer’s face goes from indifference to surprise, her mouth parting and brows creasing.
“Here?”
I shrug and then turn the wheel into a faraway parking spot. “Figured since ye mentioned it.” Parking the car, I turn it off, shifting to smirk at her. “Unless it’s beneath ya.”
She snorts. “Who needs fancy boutiques when you have the dollar section.”
A sly grin spreads across her mouth and my mind reels that all it took was pulling into the parking lot at Target, of all places, to bring out her playful side with me. Definitely not something I’d expect from the spoiled Cosa Nostra daughter I know she was growing up.
Over the years, on my occasional trips to New York, Luna would tell me stories.
I reach over to unbuckle her seatbelt, and my hand grazes her hip causing her to shift in her seat. Unable to help it, I glance at her lips.
My phone rattles in the center console. Cormac.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Boss. Riku is putting four fighters in the next fight. We crunched the numbers and we’ll be underwater unless we have another fighter for us.”
I fist the steering wheel, allowing my eyes to creep over toward Summer sitting on her hands. She watches a distracted mother load groceries into her trunk while the young boy sitting in the cart sticks a lollipop in his hair.
“I’ll do it.”
Cormac stutters. “Wait, no. That’s not what I meant when I called.”
“I’m doing it.”
Cormac curses, and a horn blares in the parking lot where someone is trying to back out while another car waits for the spot. Lazy idiots.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Target.”
Cormac chokes back a laugh. “Target?”
“Aye. Just tell Joe I’m in.”
“Fine, will do. Hey, Boss?” Cormac blurts.
“What?”
“Grab me some toothpaste, will ya?”
I scowl, pulling the phone away from my ear and speaking directly into the speaker at the bottom. “Piss off.”
Then I hang up and toss my phone back into the center console. I glare at it, wanting to get ahold of Riku and chew his arse out for pushing me. There’s a nagging in my gut telling me I need to pay attention, not get distracted.
“Everything okay?” Summer asks. She pulls down her sleeves, trying to cover her hands. I fight the urge to grab one and thread my fingers through hers. Damn it. I’m a poor excuse for a made man.
“Aye. Just work. You ready?” I unbuckle my seatbelt and snatch my phone to tuck into my suit pocket. We both open our doors, and I walk side by side with Summer toward the entrance. It’s busy for a weekday, I think to myself. Especially around dinner time.
As if on cue, my stomach clenches, missing all the meals I should’ve had today but didn’t. Summer is a couple of steps in front of me at this point, and I study her petite figure. Is she hungry? I didn’t even ask her if she needed anything.
Inside, Summer untangles a cart from the return and slowly pushes it through what apparently is the dollar section. She spots a pack of three cat toys for three dollars, and I watch in fascination as she brings them to her ear and listens to them jingle.
When she catches me staring at her, she blushes.
“Big fan of this store?”
Her cheeks redden to a deeper shade, but in typical Summer fashion, she quips back. “I didn’t exactly come to Boston with a trust fund attached to my new name.”
I squint at her, wishing I could understand her better. She harbors guilt, and part of me wonders just how much she endured being on her own at such a young age.
To the average person, seventeen could almost be considered an adult. For a woman, locked away from much of the world, outside the rebelling she did, seventeen feels young.
I internally grimace. That’s one thing I won’t allow to happen to Aoife. I need to fight what’s been drilled into me. This bull shite about blood ties and securing the line for the O’Donnell family—none of that matters if it’s at Aoife’s expense.
Summer would be a wealth of knowledge in this area. I don’t want to turn into Salvatore Buscetta or lock my daughter away for my own personal gain. I need to fight the pressure.
Part of me feels like if I had a son, it’d be easier.
But as soon as that thought enters my mind, I squash the little shite. I wouldn’t trade Aoife for ten sons or a guarantee of a successful legacy.
Summer picks up a travel coloring pack with some mermaids on it and tosses it in the cart. “For Aoife,” she says, and I can’t help the warmth expanding in my chest. Summer’s been selfless since the day I met her. Willing to go to bat with one of her student’s parents just so they could go on the field trip. Looking back, the memory morphs from one of frustration to gratitude.
“Why?” I ask, struck with the desire to know her more.
“Doesn’t she like mermaids? I dug through the bin for another one she might like better, but I couldn’t find one. Why? Do you think this is okay?”
My hand moves without my brain at the moment, and I cup her face with my left hand, my thumb pressing into and caressing her plump lips. Her concern for Aoife does something to me.
She searches my face.
“No,” I say, taking another swipe before dropping my hand. “Why run to Boston?”
Summer steps back, and instantly I regret asking. Hands on the cart, she pushes it toward the clothing section. I follow her and watch as she shoves a few pairs of black leggings into the cart.
“I didn’t know where to go.”
I pause, looking at her while I grab an oversized cream sweater and put it in the cart.
She continues. “I was dumped on the side of the road. I had no idea where I was, or … what to do. Luna had just been dragged away in front of me. I was cold, scared, and penniless. I knew I wanted to get lost in a big city, but couldn’t get too far from New York, and I wanted something on the water for easy escape.”
I’m impressed. “I guess yer father imparted some wisdom on ya,” I say, trying to capture her gaze, but she averts her eyes.
She scoffs. “Not really. He never included us in Cosa Nostra business, and I, unlike Luna, never took it upon myself to hunt for information. I didn’t care who he was doing business with, what was expected of me, nor did I care to have a future in his world. Turned out, I was more concerned about my next high, who I knew, and my next modeling gig.”
She lets out a quivering breath. “Strangely enough, part of me wishes I’d paid more attention. Might have steered clear of Boston had I known other organizations were here. I actually kind of feel stupid.”
Her words cut through me, and I have half the mind to punch the headless mannequin in a swimsuit next to me. I grapple with the idea of Summer alone in Boston. The trauma of what happened to her, along with the crushing guilt over Luna.
I realize we’ve wandered into the women’s intimates section. Not wanting to miss anything Summer will share with me, I ignore the lace thong she’s placing in the cart and will my body to calm down at the knowledge those scraps of fabric will be in her drawers and on her body in my house.
“Ye didn’t want to reach out to Luna?”
“I’m not proud how I managed to get my information.” She chews on her bottom lip, and I fight the urge to make her stop. “When I first made it into Boston, I stayed in a women’s shelter for a while. I was able to use their phone to call my nanny, Giulia. I begged her not to tell my parents she’d heard from me, and I didn’t tell her where I was. Only that I was safe, and I asked about Luna. Giulia told me she’d been rescued and was safely back with the Bratva.
“I ended up sending Luna a postcard.”
I raise my brows. Summer grabs a bunch of makeup, and we move into the hygiene section.
“About two years ago, when I finally had a steadier job, and I felt comfortable as Summer Smith, I reached out via a text message. No details because I didn’t want to put them in a hard place with the alliance, but I told her I was okay. I’ve been doing that monthly since.”
Summer hasn’t had it easy. Everything she’s gone through to conceal her identity, leave her old life behind—and I’ve dragged her back into it.
I scratch at my throat as a figure strolls around the corner.
Summer peers at me. “Depressing conversation, huh?”
I hesitate to agree verbally, although I do. “I wish I’d known ye were here and struggling, Summer. I would’ve helped ya.”
She blinks away the water pooling above her lower lash line. “You still call me Summer.”
I cock my head to the side, while my eyes flick to a man in a suit strolling the aisle we’re on. “That’s yer name.”
She nods rapidly. “Yeah … yeah, it’s just even after finding out who I am, you still use Summer.”
The man in the suit grabs a bottle of cheap body wash off the shelf behind where Summer stands. Considering he’s wearing a Brioni suit, I highly doubt he’s truly here for that.
Stepping closer to Summer, I reach for her around the waist, pulling her intoxicating scent closer to me. She sucks in a breath as I lower my mouth to her ear while making eye contact with the man who’s no longer discreetly watching us.
“Summer. Isabella. I don’t care what yer first name is as long as O’Donnell is yer last,” I say, loud enough for the man to hear.
Summer fidgets, and when she looks up at me, a flush has appeared on her face and neck. Her eyes follow mine to where the man is walking away, and she pushes away from me. My fingers flex at her waist.
“Good call,” she says. “Saying that while he was listening. That’s one of my father’s men, right?”
I nod, watching her sort through her thoughts. She looks rattled. Truth is, it could be Salvatore’s or Marco’s. Either way, I expected this. It was the plan all along. To think her father would leave Summer alone in Boston now that he knows she’s here—wouldn’t happen.
Regardless, I want to rein her in. To clutch her back to me and tell her what I said wasn’t just for show.
Summer clears her throat and turns from me before she sniffs. Her shoulders roll, and irritation flickers in my chest at how quickly she’s trying to brush off my touch and my words.
Damn it. When did this get so complicated?
She wanders down the aisle, and I glance at the cart full of items.
“Just need one more thing,” Summer says.
“Aye. What’s that?”
She tosses a box on top of the already heaping pile. “Toothpaste for Cormac.”
* * *
The next two weeks are tormenting. Summer is in my house, but it’s rare I see her. Allie fills me in with how she spends her days. During the week, she’s up to help take Aoife to school, never missing a day. Then she’s back home, apparently, trying to help Allie with chores.
A few times she’s requested an escort for a walk, and Licon informed me she likes to spend her time at the marina.
Her cat, Deuce, has since made himself at home in my house. Aoife is elated and has already requested a kitten for Christmas, so Deuce can have a friend. The thought Summer may not be here for Christmas has sat with me since.
“Want another?” Lizzy asks, gesturing to my empty whiskey glass on the bar. It’s a quiet Saturday night, and while I really want another drink, I can’t. I’m in the ring tonight and another one would set me back.
“No. Water though.”
Lizzy nods and clears the glass from in front of me, replacing it with a bottle of water. “Thought you’d be home this weekend with your girls.”
I freeze, water halfway to my mouth, before resuming my sip. I shake my head. My girls. Her words eat at me. Summer’s not mine. Not even close.
“I’m too old for her, and she doesn’t want this life. It’s temporary.” I spew my words over the clinking glass and boisterous laughter of several dudes down the bar.
Lizzy wipes out a glass and turns it upside down on the shelf behind her. When she turns to face me, her lips press into a thin line. “You’re not too old. Have you asked her if your age is bothersome?”
I snort. “Doesn’t matter. She wants out of this life.” I fist the water bottle and squeeze harder.
“Prove her wrong.”
“Ye keep saying that, but she went through hell to get to a place where she was secure, and it hasn’t been that long. How can I be selfish when this isn’t what she wants?”
“You’re far from selfish, Kieran.” Lizzy unclips her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders and then pulls it back up again to get the wisps out of her face.
She’s wrong. I am selfish. I want a companion. A mother for Aoife. Happiness. Love. Commitment. Maybe more children. This engagement with Summer, yes, it’s to help her, but am I hoping to convince her this life—our life—can be hers, too?
Shite. Cormac’s right. I’m a sap. I need to punch someone.
Speaking of the annoying prick, Cormac strolls into the bar, sliding onto the barstool next to me.
“Hey, Lizzy,” he says with a sensual wink.
She bats her eyelashes at him then flips him off. He wrinkles his nose.
“How’s Summer?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. Cormac asks about her daily now, which is annoying as piss. Ever since she brought him the toothpaste that she overheard him bust me for, he’s had to check in about her.
“Fine.”
Lizzy smirks at me and then shuffles down the bar to top off the drinks of the guys at the end. I check my watch.
“Ye ready to head down?” Cormac nudges me, and I give him a look that makes him retract. Several moments pass. “I’ll just meet ye down there,” he finally says.
After I finish my water, I make my way to my office for my call. Typically, I dial Allie’s phone to talk with Aoife, but the number I dial isn’t hers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Kieran.”
There’s brief silence, then, “Hi, how is work?”
I can’t help but grin at that; the casual way she asks about work.
“It’s work,” I grunt. “Anyway, I’m going to be working late tonight, and I normally try to call Aoife before things get …” Bloody. Rowdy. Full of debauchery. “Busy.”
“Oh! Yeah, she’s right here. One sec.”
The rumpling of fabric swishes across the microphone while I lean back in my chair, waiting.
“Hi, Daddy!”
“Hey, little love. What are ye doing?”
“Laying in our fort!” Aoife shrieks.
“Fort?”
“Uh-huh. Summer built us a fort in the living room.” Aoife’s voice is lit with joy, and I can almost picture her vibrating with excitement as she tells me.
I glance at my watch. “Isn’t it yer bedtime? Where’s Allie?”
“She’s in the kitchen. I’m going to bed soon, I promise.”
“All right,” I say. “Have fun. I love ya.”
“Love you, too!”
Summer’s sweet laugh comes through in the background and I swallow. I want to tell Aoife to put her back on the phone so I can hear her more clearly. My mind pictures Aoife and Summer giggling in a tower made of couch cushions and extra twin sheets, and suddenly the rest of the night isn’t as appealing as eating popcorn and candy under the makeshift fort.
It’s not what I should be thinking about. My plans involve beating my opponent’s head into the ground. That’s what I need to think about.
The noise on the other end goes dead and I know they’ve hung up. Sighing, I toss my personal items into my locked drawer and mentally lock away my mushy thoughts as well.
* * *
The crowd’s roar crescendos into a frenzied wave surging against the underground walls of the arena. Marco’s man struggles to breathe. His face is tomato red and his eyes bulge as Riku’s man squeezes his head between his muscled biceps and veiny forearm. I’m almost waiting for it to pop off like a dandelion head would if you applied enough upward pressure with your thumb.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead where I’m seated on the bench waiting for my fight. I’m up next, paired with Oscar, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off of Marco. He’s gripping the outer ring, knuckles white and seething, as he yells for his guy to get up.
The air is thick with sweat, and I wrap and unwrap the white tape around my scarred knuckles. I take deep breaths, willing the rhythm to steady my pulse.
Unfortunately, my mind keeps wandering back to Summer. With the amount of Italians here tonight, I should’ve brought her. It would’ve been the perfect opportunity to parade this “engagement” around. It might have given Marco something to be angry about rather than his loss of mega money tonight.
I stand, muscles tightening as I roll my shoulders. Marco’s man’s eyes roll backward and his gloved hand taps on his opponent’s leg. The referee, who’s kneeling on his hands and knees, slaps the ring’s floor and yells, “Tap out!”
The crowd erupts as Riku’s man stands, arms pumping up and out to the sides repeatedly, edging the crowd into a further frenzy. Marco lets out a slew of curses as he turns and shoves one of his guards out of his way and into a few bystanders behind me.
“Marco lost seventy-five thousand on that one.” Cormac slides in next to me.
Another one of Marco’s fighters, already done for the night, enters the ring to help the downed man stand and he limps out of the ring.
I pull my gloves tight over my fists, the leather creaking under the strain. I sway, teetering back and forth on my feet and willing myself to block out Cormac’s talk of the odds and payouts.
Focus .
The thought is short-lived because Marco bursts into my prefight mask like a bull.
“You! Why are you letting Riku’s fighters walk all over this place. Ryo hasn’t been here but for two weeks and he’s already moving up class rank. He shouldn’t even have set odds for or against him.”
Most new fighters in our ring don’t have odds assigned to them. They’re playing to rise in ranks, to fight tougher opponents. Allows for my team and those placing bets to get a good handle on the newbie’s abilities. Riku shattered that with his threats.
I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with Marco, especially before my fight with Oscar. Shite. I hate going up against him.
“Piss off,” I say, moving around him and knocking his shoulder.
“Salvatore will hear about this!” My head snaps to look at him. He didn’t waste any time crawling up Salvatore’s ass.
Unease stabs my gut. I don’t like this. Riku thinking he can strong-arm me, and Marco using the Cosa Nostra as a scare tactic. I’m the bloody Irish Mob—since when do I have to answer to anyone? My father surely wouldn’t.
I curl my lips as I approach the ring, dragging those uneasy thoughts to the forefront of my mind.
I mold them; shape them until I’m determined to tear Oscar’s head off. I’ve almost convinced myself I can win.
Glancing up, I eye Oscar as he steps into the ring. He averts his gaze as soon as we connect, and my brow furrows. The crowd screams his name, and the energy he brings to his rounds crashes with force. He’s the fan favorite.
The stale stench of alcohol burns my nose, and another wave of cheers, albeit not as intense as for Oscar, thrum through the arena as I climb in.
My heart pounds as I swing my arms and roll my shoulders, trying to ease the last of the tension in my muscles. Heavy bass music blares from the surrounding speakers and Joe announces Oscar.
Looking down, dried blood is caked onto the floor, and I can almost taste the coppery tang mingling with the scent of adrenaline and fear from those earlier tonight.
Come on, get it together . I gently knock myself in the head a few times as Joe announces me. Oscar looms across the square, hulking and gleaming with hunger. Still, he never meets my eyes. Even when we meet in the middle and raise our fists defensively.
A moment of silence hangs in the air as the referee’s arm raises between us. The referee muffles the thunderous crowd in the background as he yells to Oscar, “You ready?!”
He nods.
Then to me, “You ready?!”
I nod.
In a sharp chop, the ref’s hand comes slicing down, and the fight begins.