CHAPTER FIVE
William
SHE'S NOT WHAT I expected.
That's the first thought that cuts through the fog in my head as I stand in the doorway. Aoife O'Rourke. My future wife. The woman my family has decided will save us all from the Russians.
I expected soft. Pliable. One of those Mafia daughters who's been trained to smile and nod and keep her mouth shut while the men handle business. The kind of woman who'd take one look at me and burst into tears, or worse, try to fix me with some misguided notion of love and patience.
But this woman? This woman looks like she wants to gut me.
Good. At least one of us is honest about what this is.
She's standing by the window, backlit by the fading afternoon light, and for a split second I forget how to breathe.
Not because she's beautiful, though she is.
Navy dress that hugs curves that are somehow both subtle and impossible to ignore.
Dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders.
Skin that looks like it's never seen a hard day.
But it's her eyes that stop me. Blue. Sharp. Furious.
She's looking at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe, and fuck if that doesn't make me want to laugh. Or maybe it's the cocaine still singing through my system. Hard to tell anymore.
"You're late," she says.
The room goes quiet. Dillon O'Rourke, sitting on the sofa like he owns the fucking place, stiffens. Aidan makes some kind of noise that might be a warning. But I don't look away from her.
"I hope it wasn't too distressful," I say, and I let every ounce of sarcasm I'm feeling drip into the words. "Sitting here for twenty minutes, in a warm, comfortable room, with two men keeping you company."
Her father moves. "Mr. Murphy, my daughter didn't mean to..."
"I meant exactly what I said." She cuts him off without even glancing his way.
Father would've backhanded me for talking to an ally like that. But Aoife O'Rourke just stands there, chin lifted, eyes blazing, daring me to do something about it.
And despite everything, despite the mess I am, despite the fact that I'm probably still half-drunk and definitely still high, I feel something shift in my chest.
Interest.
I haven't been interested in anything in months. Haven't felt anything but rage and grief and the constant gnawing need for oblivion. But this woman, this furious, beautiful woman who's supposed to be mine, has my full attention.
I cross the room toward her. She doesn't back down. Doesn't even flinch. Just watches me approach with those cold blue eyes, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat.
I stop close. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can smell her perfume, something floral and expensive that makes me think of gardens and things that are too good for me.
"It doesn't matter anyway," I say, letting my voice drop low. "I'm here now."
"Lucky me." The sarcasm is thick enough to cut.
I smile. Can't help it. When's the last time someone looked at me with anything other than fear? When's the last time someone talked to me like I'm not a bomb about to explode?
This woman doesn't know me well enough to be afraid yet.
Give it time.
"William." Aidan's voice cuts through whatever moment this is. "Perhaps we should get started. I'm sure everyone is eager to conclude the evening's business."
Business. Right. That's what this is. A business transaction. I'm buying a wife, and she's being sold. Love and romance have fuck-all to do with it.
I force myself to step back, putting space between us.
"Of course." I turn to Dillon, who's watching this entire exchange with an expression I can't quite read. "Shall we?"
Dillon nods and produces a folder from the leather briefcase at his feet. The marriage contract. Pages and pages of legal bullshit that boil down to one simple fact: Aoife O'Rourke becomes mine, and in exchange, the O'Rourkes get the protection of the Murphy name.
We settle around the large mahogany table that dominates the center of the drawing room. Aidan pulls out a second copy of the contract. He's been over every word, every clause. Making sure we're not getting fucked.
As if any of us have a choice.
"The terms are straightforward," Dillon begins, and his voice is all business now. The warm conversational tone from earlier is gone. "Marriage within six weeks. Aoife retains rights to her personal property and investments. Any children born of the union will carry both O'Rourke and Murphy names."
Children. The word hits me like a fist smashing into the side of my head. I haven't thought that far ahead. Haven't thought past the wedding itself, past the immediate problem of Russian threats and family alliances.
The idea of children, of bringing kids into this fucked-up world, into this life of violence and betrayal, makes my stomach turn.
I glance at Aoife. She's standing slightly behind her father now, arms tucked behind her back, face carefully blank. But I catch the way her jaw tightens when Dillon mentions children. She doesn't want this any more than I do.
Good. At least we're on the same page about something.
"The O'Rourkes maintain control of western territories," Aidan continues, reading from his copy. "The Murphys maintain control of eastern territories. Joint decisions required for any operations that span both regions."
Joint decisions. Like we're business partners. Like this is a merger and not a marriage.
I suppose in our world, those are the same thing.
The contracts are thick. Probably fifty pages each. I scan the first few, but the words blur together. My head is pounding now, the cocaine wearing off, leaving me with that familiar hollow feeling. I need another line. Or a drink. Or both.
But I force myself to focus. To at least look like I'm reading this shit.
Property rights. Financial arrangements. Conditions for annulment (betrayal, abandonment, failure to produce an heir within ten years). It's all here, spelled out in black and white. The entire rest of my life, reduced to legal terms and conditions.
"If both parties are satisfied," Dillon says, pulling a pen from his jacket, "we can proceed with signatures."
Both parties. Like Aoife and I have been consulted. Like we agreed to any of this.
I look at her again. She's staring at the contract with an expression I recognize. Resignation. The look of someone who's been backed into a corner and knows there's no way out.
I know that look. See it in the mirror every goddamn day.
"Any objections?" Aidan asks, and he's looking at me specifically.
thousand objections. Starting with the fact that I'm in no condition to be anyone's husband, let alone the husband of a woman like this.
That I'm a disaster on a good day and barely functional on a bad one.
That I'm still mourning a father who was murdered by my own brother.
That I'm drowning in whiskey and cocaine and rage, and I don't know how to stop.
That whoever decided I should lead this family, whoever thought putting me in charge was a good idea, was out of their fucking mind.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead, I reach for the pen Aidan's offering. "No objections."
I sign my name. William Murphy. The signature is shaky, less steady than it should be. Anyone paying attention would notice. But no one says anything.
Dillon signs next. Then Aoife.
I watch her hand move across the page, watch her sign away her freedom with a few strokes of ink. Her signature is elegant, controlled. Nothing like the fury I saw in her eyes earlier.
She sets down the pen and steps back, and I realize this is it. It's done. She's mine now. Or I'm hers. However the fuck this works.
"Congratulations," Aidan says, and he actually sounds like he means it. Like this is something to celebrate instead of mourn.
Dillon extends his hand to me. I shake it, and his grip is firm. Strong. The handshake of a man who's made his share of hard decisions and lived with the consequences.
"To new alliances," he says before releasing my hand.
Aidan's already moving to the bar cart, pulling out crystal glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He pours four fingers into each glass, the amber liquid catches the light.
He hands the first glass to Dillon, the second to me, the third to Aoife. She takes it without comment, her face still carefully blank.
"To the O'Rourkes and the Murphys," Aidan says, raising his glass. "May this union bring strength to both families and death to our enemies."
Dark words for a toast. But fitting.
We all raise our glasses. I look at Aoife across the rim of mine. She's looking back, and for a moment, our eyes meet and hold. There's something in her gaze now. Not anger anymore. Something deeper. Sadness, maybe. Or grief.
"To new beginnings," Dillon adds, and there's something heavy in his voice.
We drink.
The whiskey burns going down, but it's a good burn. Clean. I drain half the glass in one swallow, chasing the familiar warmth. Aoife sips hers, barely wetting her lips. Dillon and Aidan both drink deeply.
"William," Dillon says, setting his glass on the table. "I want to be clear about my expectations."
Here it comes. The speech. The warnings.
"Aoife is my only daughter," he continues. "She's been trained in business, in strategy, in everything she needs to be a partner to you, not just a wife. I expect you to treat her as such. To value her counsel. To protect her."
Protect her. Like I can even protect myself.
But I nod. "Of course."
"She's not a fragile thing," Dillon adds, and there's steel in his voice now. "But she is precious to me. If any harm comes to her..."
I meet his eyes. "I understand."
And I do. He's telling me that if I fuck this up, if I hurt his daughter, alliance or not, he'll come for me. It's the same threat I'd make if I had a daughter I was handing over to a man like me, but I wouldn’t hand over my fucking daughter, so his words have no value.
"Good." Dillon picks up his glass again. "Then let's drink to—"