33. Kieran
Chapter 33
Kieran
I spin the lacquered pen I stole from Luka across my desk, avoiding my paperwork. The gold-trimmed clip has his import business logo on it, and I huff out a laugh. It’s become a habit of mine—taking something from Luka’s office when I visit. His office is cold and too perfect, so I like to add chaos to his life.
I inspect the dying plant in the corner of the room. Edges brittle and curling, the leaves look dreadful, and because I’m in the habit of avoiding work today, I leave my office to hunt down a water bottle.
Lizzy keeps a bunch behind the bar, and I comb the dusty shelves, searching. It’s early still. Most of the staff and even most of my men don’t come in until the afternoon on Mondays. I stand, having grabbed two bottles—poor plant probably needs a vein tapped with water or something.
Callum stands guard by the front door, and I nod at him. He startles, putting his phone back into his pocket and then rolls his shoulders. Okay?
The dull lights of the pub are off, so the only light is what’s streaming in through the front doors, and on a gloomy day like today it’s all shadowy and glum.
Turning, I head back to my office to stand over the plant. Cracked soil and wilting leaves make me twist both caps off in a hurry, and I dump both bottles into the pot. Then, I toss the empty bottles into the trash and pace my desk.
There’s something wrong with me today. Sitting and doing any work feels like pulling teeth. I’d know firsthand. The starched lines of my white button-down are crisp and cool as I run my thumb and forefinger underneath them, tugging them into place over my wrist.
I’m distracted.
As I’ve done every day for the last week and a half, I pull up the security camera footage on my phone. I flip through the screens until I find her. She’s sitting at the kitchen island flipping through something, maybe a magazine from the looks of it. Deuce is curled up in the chair next to her looking like a fluffy pillow, his tail flicking with each of her page turns.
When Allie comes in and out of the frame carrying laundry baskets and cleaning supplies, the cat darts off its perch and out of the frame.
Summer stands, holding her hands out for the basket of clothes, but Allie shoos her off. It’s hard to see from this angle, looking down on her, but I swear her face falls.
Deciding I need a better vantage point, I move to my computer and pull up the footage there. I drag my mouse over to where she’s resigned herself back to the island stool and confirm she is, in fact, reading a magazine. Looks like one of those junk mail furniture flyers, and she’s flipping through at a rate of speed anyone would be incapable of truly looking.
I sigh, leaning back in my chair and run a hand over my face. Damn it. I’m not going to get any work done at this rate.
When I kissed her in my office over a week ago, I had every intention of pulling her into my office again the next day to talk about it. That’s what two adults would do, right? Well, apparently, I’m a coward, because the thought of telling Summer I liked kissing her, want her, is intimidating.
We’ve shared in our typical conversations throughout the week. She even made me my tea when Allie was having trouble getting Aoife ready for school one morning. I’d come down to the kitchen and there was Summer. Hair all deliciously tousled from her sleep, still in her sheer pajamas. One of those two-piece silk sets that nearly made me pull her into the pantry right then and there. My greedy fingers grazed hers as she handed me my travel mug, and her tiny inhale had memories of her whimpering mouth shattering my composure. Allie and Aoife walked in at the perfect time.
Screw it.
I pull out my phone and type out a message.
What are you doing?
It’s a dumb question because I can see she isn’t doing much of anything, and the thought tightens an unknown knot in my stomach. She’s bored because I took away her job.
When I’ve watched her this week, she’s spent significant time outside enjoying the warm spring weather, but when she’s pacing or tidying things in the house, I know she’s bored. It’s not until Aoife is home from school does she seem to snap out of her shell and tackle the rest of the day with energy.
The moment the phone next to her on the island lights up, she pauses her flipping to glance at it. When she doesn’t pick it up right away, I scowl at the screen, leaning closer as if to will her to me. She tucks her face into both hands before reaching out to grab the phone.
I’m sure there’s something creepy about me watching her respond to me, but the cameras around the house aren’t exactly hidden.
Summer: Not much. How is work?
Not happening. Come have lunch with me.
I’m fixated on the screen, studying her face as best I can in the less than perfect footage as she reads my message. Her shoulders shake. Is she laughing at me?
Summer: ?
What?
Summer: You forgot the correct punctuation.
I grunt. It’s funny how she thinks it was a question.
No. I didn’t.
When she doesn’t respond, I—yep, look back at the computer monitor. Her head is down so I can’t make out her expression, but I imagine her biting that insanely plump bottom lip, trying to come up with a clever response.
Staring at your phone isn’t going to answer me. You have to type something.
She stills, head slowly rising and scouring the room until she lands on the camera. She throws up her hands and shakes her head. Then, with what I can only imagine being a harrumph, she hops off the stool and storms out of the kitchen.
I cycle through the other house cameras, tracking her as she strides down the hallway, then again as she heads toward the stairs. But she doesn’t ascend them right away. She searches for the camera pointed at the steps, and when she finds it, she turns toward it, moving up the steps backward.
Confused, I type out a message, freezing halfway through it when her hands skim underneath her T-shirt and she gradually lifts it off her head, exposing a black lace bra.
She smirks at the camera, and all the air rushes out of me when she turns again to walk up the steps. Her hands slide over her bare stomach and behind her, reaching to fiddle with the clasp of her bra.
I pound the desk, closing out my messages and dialing Licon.
“Boss?”
“Get out of the guard booth.”
“Sir? Everything okay?”
“Fine. Don’t look at the inside cameras and get out of the booth. I’ll text ye when ye can go back in.”
As I’m conveying this to him, the clasp of her bra is undone, and I groan at the rush of blood forcing me to stay glued to the video. She has a few steps left when I hang up, and I switch the camera view to the one in the upstairs hallway. She’s holding her bra to the front of her, and when she smirks at the camera—like she knows I’m behind this one now—I sling another message at her.
You know, I have guards that watch this footage.
I don’t tell her I’ve ordered them off. When my message reaches her, she flinches, holding one hand over her falling bra while the other swipes open the message. I chuckle, as her mouth drops open. Then, quicker than a blink she bolts up the remaining steps and into her room.
I don’t have cameras in the occupied rooms, and the thought irritates me. I want to see her. Or, at this point, need to see her.
I’m going to have Finn come get you.
I tap Luka’s pen against my desk, text Licon he can resume his job, and answer an email, but she still doesn’t respond.
I’m half temped to drive home when her message pops up on the screen.
Summer: What are you feeding me?
It’d be too easy to come back with something to make her blush, but as much as I enjoy toying with her, I opt for answering her question.
Sushi?
Summer: What time is Finn picking me up?
Smiling, I open a message to Finn and tell him to pick Summer up ASAP.
5 minutes.
She gives a thumbs-up to my message, and I toss my phone to the side, pulling up the menu for Zen Sushi Bar down the street. I have no idea what she’ll like, so I place an order for every roll on the menu plus a large order of edamame.
I lose myself in emails, which surprisingly come easier to answer now that the weird brick sitting on my chest has been demolished.
Another ding comes through on my phone, but this time it’s a photo message, and I can’t help but burst out laughing when I open it.
Finn is standing in the driveway next to his car. His hand is lifted out in front of him like he’s trying to block the view of his face from Summer’s camera. Her message beneath the photo reads, let it be known, Grandma Finn was ten minutes late.
I rub my forehead with two fingers. This woman is something else.
The sushi is delivered shortly after her photo, and I spread the rolls out over my desk before heading to the bar to fill two glasses of water. Should I set up the food in the dining area? Probably. But I don’t for two reasons. First, I want Summer all to myself, and I know with Cormac and Lizzy apt to come in soon, they’d try to join in. And second, I have a healthy fear of our chef here. Knowing she’ll arrive to prep for dinner any minute, well, the office it is. Wouldn’t want her to see the sushi and quit on me. Not that I’d allow that.
The door to the pub groans open, Finn holding the brassy handle for Summer as she goes on and on about how everyone knows the yellow light means to speed up, not slow down. Finn grumbles something inaudible, shaking his head. Then he checks in with Callum with a handshake.
Summer, finally, looks sidelong in my direction, and though she’s dressed in high-waisted leggings and a cranberry-colored racerback under an annoying black zip-up pulled halfway down, all I can think about is that black lace bra. She changed.
I eye her white sneakers. “Planning on a run?”
Her shoulders roll back, and she pulls the waistband of her leggings. “You said sushi. I came prepared with stretchy pants.”
I grin at her, staring. How can she be both adorable and sexy at the same time? The outfit is casual, and instead of being concerned she doesn’t look the part of mob wife, I’m wondering how I got so lucky. I’ve always been the lucky one when it comes to Summer.
When she clears her throat, I blink, caught staring too long, but I love the rosy tint that spreads across her cheeks.
I tilt my head back toward my office. “Come on. Lunch is here.”
She eagerly jumps at the word lunch and follows me as I balance the two glasses back with me.
“See ya, Finn. Don’t forget to wash your dentures when you’re done eating.”
“Oye! Come off it!” Finn yells, as Callum snickers.
She erupts with a laugh, and something warm kindles in my chest as we approach the door to my office.
I open it, walking through and set the water down on my desk.
When I look back, Summer has paused at the threshold. “Jeez. What’d you do? Order the whole menu?”
“I didn’t know what ye would like.”
Her mouth drops open. “You did order the whole menu!”
I shrug. “It suddenly feels silly.” And the room suddenly feels too confined.
Summer’s face softens, and she averts her eyes. “It’s not silly at all.”
I move around to my side of the desk and gesture for her to sit. She does, scooting a chair up to my desk. I hand her a pair of chopsticks, and she digs into the California roll right next to her.
Giggling, she says, “An Irishman and an Italian sitting together for sushi. There’s got to be a joke in there somewhere.”
I laugh, shoving a spicy tuna roll into my mouth.
Having Summer here is way better than working. Her presence relaxes me, and in my job, anything that relieves stress is worth keeping close. Even listening to the way her mind works; I want to know everything she’s thinking. What does she want out of life? Because whatever it is, I want to give it to her.
* * *
A groan leaves Summer’s mouth as she leans back in her chair. “If I eat one more thing, I think I’ll combust.”
“I’ll have Lizzy come box it up, and we’ll bring it back to the house,” I say. There’s no way I’m ready for her to leave after the two hours we spent eating and talking. I half expected there to be some tension between us from our kiss or the tantalizing camera moments, but there wasn’t.
Summer talked about her early days in Boston, and I shared a bit about my childhood growing up under my father. We actually had some funny parallelled stories, having both been the children of mafia leaders.
I stand, offering her my hand. “Come on. Want to see the ring?”
She slams her hands down on the chair. “Like the boxing ring?”
“Aye.” I smile.
“You don’t happen to call it your precious, do you?”
Stuffing my hands into my pocket, I smirk and stroll around the desk leaning down to Summer’s ear from behind her. “Ye mouth is going to get ye in trouble, love.”
A shiver vibrates down her back, but she shifts her head ever so slightly, so her sensuous mouth is inches from mine. It draws my gaze, and I can’t help but strum her bottom lip with my thumb. Aye, this mouth will be the death of me. I swipe once more, and her delicate onyx lashes flutter.
I pull away from the darkened pools gazing at me, luring me into the depths of lush Summer. Kissing her would be easy. With her quickened breaths and raspy whimpers, this moment could take a turn, and I have half a mind to let it. But as quickly as those thoughts bludgeon me mercilessly, I refrain from pressing into her. Instead, I retreat, swallowing the dryness in my throat and offering one final flick to her sultry bottom lip.
Lunch, our discussions—this happening right now. As much as my body craves this, knowing her, learning about her, it’s all more important than letting this bleeding fantasy play out in my office. Although, I will revisit this.
Summer’s nose crinkles, realizing, perhaps with disappointment, that I’ve withdrawn. She settles back, having leaned closer to me, and feigns amusement.
Drawing a hand from my pocket, I hold it out to her. “Let me show ya.”
Her teeth toy with her lower lip, and I hiss, hurtling myself at the exit.
Summer smirks, then leisurely rises, the leather whining at her absence.
We move side by side down the hallway. The murmurs of staff and my men breeze in, faded, muted, as the older wood floor creaks below us.
Silence.
Summer doesn’t say anything as we approach the door leading down into the basement—if you want to call it that. She tilts her head, inquisitive as I key in the code opening to the dark void.
“It’s so … bland,” Summer says, her fingertips floating over the bumpy mortar-filled walls down the steps ahead of me. The dim lights buried along the bottom baseboards illuminate each tread, but motion activates the vivid white lights strung in rows above.
“Whoa,” Summer gasps. “You’d never know this was under O’Brien’s.”
Her words have hot pride bubbling in my chest. “Exactly.”
She practically spins down the hallway, attempting to take it all in. I lead her to the training room, locker room, and offices—each time standing back, leaning against the threshold while she ventures in, milling about the rooms.
We backtrack to the prep area behind the arena, behind the ring. Without the crowds of people, an eerie hum throbs as I lead Summer through the arched entry. Then, like before, I let her go on while I linger back, stuffing my hands back in my slacks to study her.
The steel-frame ring in the center of the open arena room glimmers under the high lights. Summer pokes at the ropes boxing in the ring, the synthetic fibers buckling as she pulls a few down, then she climbs on top of the thick padding.
My blood chills, finding her standing in the center of the ring. Such a juxtaposition of sweet Summer and the brutality of the sport. In the same vein though, her standing there is almost like a manifestation come to fruition. Like the woman who haunts my mind and fans my desires during the fight in the ring—all of it makes sense when she’s here.
“Coming up?” Summer asks, grinning at me.
I opt to use the stairs, meeting her in the ring.
She studies me, a concerned glint in her eye while she opens her mouth then closes it. The warring on her face is comical as she repeats the action.
I smirk. “Say whatever it is ye want to.”
She worries her pursed mouth side to side. “Do you worry about not coming home from a fight? Coming home to Aoife?”
“Why? Worried about me?” I snicker, but then allow my smile to downturn when her complexion turns to a sickly pale green, made worse by the lighting.
“I’m serious, Kieran.”
She cares. I can see it in that moment, despite the murky underground. Her eyes, bright and waiting, are sharp. But she steels her expression, lifting her chin.
“I should more than I do. Cormac worries enough for the both of us. But I do. I guess it’s selfish, even more so in the past year with the—” I stop myself before I mention the visions. No doubt that would send her running. And now that Summer is here, in my life. Those visions are useless now. Nothing but a vague memory replaced by balmy air and sweetened peaches.
I move forward. “I worry about leaving Aoife alone. About someone using this sporting platform to assassinate me, or worse, hurt me men. I worry about Riku, and his ability to manipulate me so easily because of who I love. The fear I’m not doing enough to shove back at him is strangling. So, I throw myself into the mix, to blot out the fears, which in turn generate new ones, riddled with guilt. I’m a rat in a wheel.”
Tears gather above her lower lashes, glassy and almost … raging? She blinks and several tears trickle down her cheek.
Working my jaw, I grind my teeth. “Don’t,” I bite out. She shouldn’t feel sorry for me, waste her tears on me.
“Kieran, I didn’t pay much attention to the musings of my father or the Cosa Nostra growing up, but I did know my grandfather, my father, other leaders of organizations who would come around—powerful businessmen, politicians. All of them had children, yes, but none of them were doing it alone. You are. With an almost five-year-old at that. Your leading of an organization that could rival the Bratva, Cosa Nostra, and Yakuza—it’s impressive. I was wrong to judge you so harshly.”
Her words wash over me, rustling something deep within me that mimics the swell of adoration and embarrassment.
“Do you think Riku is working toward something?” she asks with a genuine inquisitive interest for someone not wanting this world, this life.
“I don’t know what he wants. Right now, he’s puffing his chest, probing to gauge just how much he can get away with.” My thoughts are hurled back into the most recent conversation I had with him.
“Don’t let him get a foothold, Kieran. I may have been out of these circles for a while, but I know how they operate, what they’re capable of.” She says it with such conviction, such determination.
The corner of my mouth twitches at the hands on her hips, her glare narrowed into slits as she commands me. I’d let her. I’d ravage the world on her behalf if she demanded it. Sweet but fierce. Calm but bold. I could love her. Probably already do.
Several beats pass, slow and unyielding between us.
“So …” Summer says, her tone shifting to something more playful. “Want to spar?”
I laugh, moving close enough to her flick her nose. “Probably not a good idea,” I purr. “We’d need to get ye outfitted with gloves, and I’d hate for all that sushi ye inhaled to come back up.”
She winces, most likely imagining the scenario. Then she steps around me, circling me. “Afraid you might get beat by a woman, old man?”
Old man? I scour her face, searching for any truth behind her words. Does she think me too old?
I whisper into the bleak surroundings. “Does it bother ya?”
She returns directly in front of me and inclines her head, brows furrowed. “Does what bother me?”
“Me age?”
“What? No. Besides, we’re playing the part perfectly. Do you know how many young women are traded for alliances to older made men double or triple their age?” Then, her eyes widen. “Does it bother you ?”
“No,” I answer instantly. There’s nothing that could deter me from Summer, aside for her asking me to leave her alone forever. “And … and what if this was real?” Because let’s be honest, for me, it was never an option of this not turning into something more.
She steps forward, hand reaching up to cup my face so delicately I’m afraid to move, afraid it’ll shatter the moment into a million tiny pieces. “I’ve seen more in my lifetime than I care to admit. I’ve had years of doing what I wanted, when I wanted. At this point, I want joy and happiness. To be settled somewhere I don’t have to run.” Her eyes shift away from mine, fixed on the corner posts wrapped in cushioned pads supporting the ring.
With one finger, I tap under her chin, trying to draw her back to me—a heartbeat later she turns.
“You’re not too old.”
It felt like there might be more to say. I’m pretty sure I’ve never had a conversation this open and honest with anyone my age, or better yet, a significant other. We could talk about almost anything at this point. And I know … I know I could spend the rest of my life talking to her and never get bored.