Chapter 6
Viviana
M y family house, the Morelli estate, is big, and the gardens are enormous—but the Callaghan estate is ridiculous. Each of the brothers has his own floor. Declan is on the first floor, as am I. Kian is on the second, and Connor is on the third. Each floor is complete with three bedrooms, a library, an office, and a living room.
On the ground floor, there’s a massive ballroom, a living room large enough to fit a rugby team, the kitchen, and the main office where they spend most of their days. There’s also a clinic and a gym on the east side.
The mansion has a beautiful gothic aesthetic: wooden window frames, dark marble floors, and paintings everywhere, along with p ictures of the Callaghan men through the years.
One painting, in particular, catches my attention. I recognize it. It’s on the lake, but the water is deep red. We had one just like it at home. It’s a remembrance of the Dark Wars—the wars that united the Italians and the Irish when the Russians decided they were tired of sharing the city. No one was safe; even the Callaghans lost their father.
I think that’s when Declan became who he is today. Seeking revenge has been a part of his life since he was young. Not one person was spared. When things finally calmed down, someone killed his fiancée, and all hell broke loose again.
I wonder who had the guts to kill her. I only saw her once, at the opening of the new club owned by the Bradys. She was beautiful—tall, with golden hair and eyes like the sky. I still remember the way he smiled at her. He was a different man back then.
My heart clenches. I can’t imagine what he felt when he saw her body. I shut my eyes at the thought, a ball of sorrow forming in my throat. I loved a guy once. When he left, it broke my heart into a million pieces. I can’t even imagine if someone had killed him… if he was lost forever.
“What are you doing?” A deep voice snaps me back. I blink rapidly, holding back the tears.
“Nothing. Just admiring the artwork.” I brush past him, but he grabs my arm.
His arm muscles tense under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, and the skulls inked on his arms are mesmerizing. Hints of blood drops accentuate them—markings that, from what I’ve heard, symbolize the people he’s killed with his own hands.
I look up to see him staring at me. “What?” I ask, annoyed.
“Dinner in twenty minutes, Viviana. I want you at the table.” His voice is a low rumble as he releases my arm and continues walking.
At the dinner table, I sit next to Kian, noticing the brothers are more relaxed now. They’re dressed casually in suit pants and black shirts, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal inked arms.
Declan is the only one with tattoos on his hands: a black-and-white four-leaf clover on his right hand, with blood drops falling from the leaves. They’re impressive... beautiful, even.
The maid comes in—Rose. She’s a sweet lady, probably around sixty, with long, wavy grey hair, green eyes, and freckles. She must’ve been a knockout back in the day; she still is.
The care between her and the men is obvious. The way they smile gently at her and keep their voices soft is the opposite of how they talk to me, of course.
“What is this?” Declan’s frown almost makes me laugh.
“Dinner, sir,” Rose says, tilting her head toward me.
“I know that. But what is it?” He’s trying so damn hard not to curse at her—it’s adorable. Then his face turns toward me, his expression hardening.
“Viviana,” he mutters darkly, his head tilted down, one eyebrow raised.
“Cibreo,” I say flatly.
Connor and Kian eye the dish with disgust.
“It looks... uh, interesting,” Connor chuckles, poking at it with his fork like it might come to life.
“Cibreo is a traditional Tuscan dish made from chicken livers, combs, wattles, and unlaid eggs,” Rose explains serenely. She knows
I lied when I told her they wanted to try a dish from my family’s hometown, but she stays calm. I like her.
“Unlaid eggs?” Kian’s voice climbs with each word, and I can barely contain my laughter.
“They’re eggs still inside the chicken before being laid.” I take a spoonful of the dish and hum as I savour it.
Connor looks like he’s about to throw up.
“Fucking hell, Viviana,” Declan mutters quietly, though a hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his lips.
He picks up a bit of liver and takes a bite, his eyes locking onto mine. “It’s not that bad,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Do you eat this often?” Kian asks, still unsure whether he should try it.
“Of course,” I lie smoothly. “Almost every week.” The truth is, I’m a pasta girl. I could eat it all day, every day. This? I think I’ve had it maybe once or twice in the last year.
“You want me to make something else, Mister Kian?” Rose asks, her voice tinged with amusement.
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, Rose, let them enjoy something new. They can take it.”
Declan’s eyes rise to meet mine, and he nods at Rose.
They all try to engage, with the conversation flowing mostly between Kian and Connor. Declan stays quiet, occasionally nodding, his eyes drifting to me. I keep mine focused on my plate.
Rose outdid herself—the dish is almost as good as the one I usually make.
The guys finish eating, leaving more than half their food untouched, but the two bottles of wine are nearly empty. These men drink like sponges.
“This was an interesting dinner,” Kian says, winking at me as he rises. “Maybe tomorrow, we can try something... softer. Lasagna, maybe?”
They excuse themselves, leaving me behind to finish my wine. I smile into my glass as they leave. Looking around the room, a strange sense of peace washes over me. Is it odd that I like it here? I don’t like them , but after living with my father following my mom’s death, this feels like heaven in comparison.
I miss my little apartment, though. It was small but cosy, and, most importantly, it was mine—paid for by my own money and my work. Still, I could do worse than this, couldn’t I?
Imagine if I were with the Flanaghans. Those two brothers are pure chaos—always drunk, always fighting, and the number of women they parade around town... I hope they get tested regularly.
I polish off the second bottle of wine—a bad idea, as I discover when I try to stand. My legs wobble, and I grab the table for support. That’s some strong wine.
A warm hand brushes against the small of my back, steadying me. “So, firecracker, feeling tipsy after a little wine?” His voice is steady and low, sending a shiver down my spine. His hand radiates warmth even through the fabric of my shirt, and his breath tickles the back of my neck.
“The wine is good,” I mutter, brushing his hand away as I head toward the hallway. My skin burns where his hand is, and I can feel his eyes on me. It’s the alcohol, Viviana—that’s why your nipples are piercing through your bra!
I glance back over my shoulder. Declan is still standing by the table, his eyes travelling over me before locking onto mine. He licks his lips, smirking.
“Don’t go up the stairs,” he says with a chuckle. “Let’s avoid getting yourself killed in your first week here.”
He’s right. If I try to climb those stairs, I’ll probably fall on my face. And there’s no way I’m asking him—or his brothers—for help. But if I’m not mistaken, there’s a library around here with a lovely couch and books.
I wander the halls, opening doors and keeping my eyes on the floor to avoid tripping. A guard stands by one of the doors—I remember him from this morning.
“Need help, Mrs. Callaghan?” he asks with a devilish smirk.
“Don’t call me that,” I snapped, the name turning my stomach.
He grabs my waist, but I shove him off, glaring. “I’m fine,” I say firmly.
He smirks wider, his gaze lingering as I step into the library. Throwing myself onto the couch, I bury my face in the soft black cushions. I hear his footsteps retreat, but just as I relax, the door clicks shut. I look up to see him locking it.
“What are you doing?” I demand though the answer is clear.
“I think you need some... attention, Mrs.—Viviana,” he sneers, closing the distance. He grabs my wrists so quickly I can barely react, pressing his lips to my neck. I wince and lift my knee, slamming it into his crotch.
“Fucking bitch,” he growls, doubling over but recovering faster than I expected.
I lunge for the door, but he slams me into it, my forehead hitting the wood with a thud. My head spins, but I clutch the door for balance.
He yanks me back, and I scream, but he covers my mouth. “Shh, quiet, bitch,” he spits.
Even through the haze of wine and dizziness, I fight—kicking, thrashing, doing whatever I can. My adrenaline surges as his hand cups my breast, bile rising in my throat. Through my tears, I spot a lamp on the nearby table. Stretching for it, I feel his grip tighten.
Desperation fuels me. I bite down hard on his hand. He yelps, pulling back, but raises his other hand to strike me.
The door crashes open, splinters flying everywhere.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Declan’s voice is a low, dangerous growl.
He yanks the guard off me, hurling him across the room like a rag doll. The guard hits the wall with a sickening thud, the windows rattling from the impact. Declan is on him in seconds, lifting him by the throat.
“No one touches her but me,” he snarls, punching the guard in the gut. “And anyone who does...” Another punch. “Won’t live to see another fucking day.”
One final blow to the face, and the guard slumps to the floor, unconscious.
I can’t breathe. My hands shake, and my face burns. When Declan turns to me, I flinch, curling into myself and shielding my head with my arms.
“Viv,” he whispers. He’s never called me that before.
I peek through my hands to see him standing there, worry etched on his face.
“I—” My voice trembles, barely audible.
He steps closer, gently lowering my arms. “I would never lay a hand on you. You know that, right?” His voice is soft, almost hurt.
Men like him—violent, aggressive—they’re usually wife-beaters, aren’t they? But his words and the way he looks at me leave me unsure.
“Did he—” his voice drops almost to a whisper.
I cut him off. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t have time.”
I stare into his eyes. They’ve softened for a moment before Connor bursts in. “What the hell happened?” he asks, staring at the guard lying in a pool of blood.
“He tried to touch what’s mine,” Declan bites out. “Get someone to take him out and clean this up.” He straightens his sleeves, cursing under his breath, when he notices blood drops on his cuffs.
He reaches for my hand, and I take it without hesitation. I need to get out of this room. As I stand, I stumble—not from the wine, but from the adrenaline crashing. Declan steadies me.
“What will happen to him?” I already know the answer, but I need to hear it.
“He’ll be swimming with the fishes tonight,” Declan chuckles as if it’s just part of his daily routine.
“I think he’s one of those fish-eating vegetarians,” Connor quips, amusement in his voice as he pulls out his phone to call someone to handle the mess. “So this will be right up his alley.”
Shit. I have a dark sense of humour, but these two take it to another level. Can’t say I feel sorry for him, though; all men like him should end up at the bottom of a lake.
“Thank you,” I whisper so softly I don’t even think he hears me.
He looks down at me, blinking with a faint smirk. I can feel my face flush, and I’m sure he notices, but thankfully, he doesn’t say a word.
He walks me to my room and opens the door. “Lock it,” he says, his tone carrying a warning. “Just in case.” His jaw tightens as he looks at me, different from usual. There’s something in his eyes. His pupils dilate for a moment before he cracks his neck and steps back.
“If I lock it, you won’t be able to come in unless I let you,” I say, my voice more defiant than I intended.
He steps closer, closing the distance between us. Bending down, he gets so close I can smell his woodsy cologne.
“Don’t worry firecracker; as you saw, no door can keep me from you.” He straightens up. “Goodnight.”
He turns and disappears into the dim light of the hallway without looking back.
I lock the door, a loud breath escaping my lungs. That was intense—and I don’t mean what happened with the guard. The way Declan went for him… No man has ever done that for me, protected me like that. Not even my father.
God, I’m so needy for attention.
I shake my head.
Sleep. That’s what I need.
Tomorrow, all these thoughts will be gone.