Chapter 1 #3
The light outside fades. I wait for Mrs. Brady to come up and knock on the door, to urge me to come out, but maybe she’s decided that it’s better to let me wallow.
Maybe, after the way the last months have been, she’s finally given up and realized that there’s no help for me.
That thought makes me sadder than it should, especially since it would be entirely my fault if that were true.
The knock on the front door, when it comes, makes me jump so violently that Fluff leaps off the bed with an indignant yowl. My heart is suddenly racing, pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. For a moment, I can't move, frozen with a terror that feels both irrational and completely justified.
This is it, I think. Someone’s come for me. Someone is going to try to take me away.
I stand up, walking to my door and stepping just out into the hall, my hands trembling.
I hear Mrs. Brady's footsteps in the foyer below, hear the sound of the door opening.
Voices drift up the stairs—Mrs. Brady's, and then a man's voice, deep and accented. Irish, but not from Boston. From Ireland itself, I think, though I'm not certain. It’s thicker than any accent I’ve heard here, where everyone is at least one generation removed from the family members who came over to the States.
"I'm here to see Miss Connelly," the man says. "On behalf of the Irish Council in Dublin."
The Irish Council. My blood runs cold.
I don’t know much about the inner workings of the Irish mafia or about the business dealings my father and brother had, but I do know that every Irishman in Boston who works for the mafia, from the bosses all the way down to the lowliest dockworker, answers to the Irish Council.
They’re five elderly men who run everything from their seats in Dublin, overseeing Irish business both at home and abroad.
I know that their word is law. Whatever they decide is irrefutable, be it over business or marriage or money, or death. And if they’ve come here to see me, it’s because they’ve decided something about my future.
A part of me thinks perhaps I should be relieved. If a decision has been made for me, maybe I won’t have to be so frightened anymore. But the rest of me is so frightened I feel like I can barely breathe, all the warmth from my bath leached out of me in an instant.
I take a shaky step forward toward the stairs, smoothing down my sweater with trembling hands. Whatever this is, I can't hide from it. I can't cower in my room like a child. I'm the only one left in this family, the heiress, the last Connelly in Boston. I have to face whatever's coming.
Even if I'm terrified.
Even if I have no idea what I'm doing.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk down the stairs. At the bottom of the landing, I pause, looking out into the foyer. Mrs. Brady is standing by the open door, looking uncertain and worried. Beyond her, I can see four men standing on the doorstep.
Three men in dark suits, rain dripping from their coats—and one more, who I can’t really make out—he’s standing so far back in the darkness. But he looks huge, taller than the rest, and broader. My pulse spikes, fear pounding through my veins.
The one in front is older, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and a weathered face. He's looking up at me now, his expression unreadable.
"Miss Connelly," he says, his thick Irish accent confirming my guess. "My name is Connor McBride. I'm here from Dublin, on behalf of the Irish Council. We need to speak with you about your family's estate and your future."
My future.
The words hang in the air like a threat.
I grip the banister, my knuckles white, and force myself to nod, trying to keep my expression calm. I don’t want to let them see how afraid I am. I don’t want to give them that.
“Can we come in, Miss Connelly?” Connor says, his voice polite, but with a firmness that tells me that no isn’t an acceptable answer. He’s trying to remain decorous, but if I did what I want to do and told them to leave, I can only imagine the consequences.
Not least of which, I’d certainly be left without any protection at all. Even if they would leave, rejecting the Council would mean that Ronan could no longer offer me any assistance if he were inclined to do so. I would be completely and utterly on my own.
I think of everything I don’t know, everything I have no idea how to access. I think of how impossible it is to begin alone from where I am. I think of the former Italian don who killed my sister, Rocco, and how he was trafficking women—of how many other men like him there must be out there.
Men who would prey on me, steal from me, force me, sell me.
I have no choice.
“Yes,” I manage, my voice cracking. “Come in.”
Connor steps in, followed by the two other older men, both of whom look near his age but perhaps not quite as elderly. And then the fourth man steps in, standing slightly behind the others. When I see him step into the light of the entryway, my breath catches in my throat.
He must be well over six feet tall—six and a half, maybe.
The others aren’t particularly short, but he towers over them.
Just looking at him makes me feel frail.
His presence seems to fill the space he’s in, overwhelming everything else, and when he takes off his hat—a newsboy-style cap—I see that he has short dark hair that’s slightly damp at the edges from the rain, and a face that's all hard angles and sharp edges, stubble on his jaw. I see a scar through one eyebrow and another along the lower part of his cheek and chin on one side, and when his eyes briefly meet mine, I see that they’re a cold, piercing green.
Just meeting his gaze makes my skin feel chilled.
He looks dangerous. He looks like violence personified, like death in black jeans and a leather jacket.
And he’s looking at me as if he can’t stand the sight of me.
A smirk curves one corner of his mouth as he sees me staring, but it’s not an amused smirk. There’s not an ounce of humor in him that I can see.
“Miss Connelly,” Connor begins, drawing my attention back to him, “perhaps we can have this discussion somewhere private?”
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Of course," I hear myself say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Mrs. Brady, would you show them to the sitting room? And get drinks for our guests, perhaps? Tea for me, please, and whatever they would like to have."
Mrs. Brady nods, relief crossing her face at having something to do. She ushers the men forward, and I follow, acutely aware of the tall man's gaze on me as he passes, burning into my skin like a brand.
Whatever's about to happen, I know with absolute certainty that my life is about to change.