Chapter 5
5
SAMANTHA
I don’t know how Braiden makes himself taller, how his shoulders test the seams on his rumpled white shirt. He says, “Russo. One more thing.”
Impossibly, Don Antonio stops. His dead-oak eyes narrow. He tilts his head a little to the left.
Braiden says, “Call off your man in Philly. Now. Or there’ll be war in the streets tonight.”
Don Antonio stares at me for a full minute before he takes out his phone. He doesn’t blink as he places the call. “Drop it,” he says, like he’s calling a dog off a bone. He returns his phone to his pocket.
It feels like I haven’t taken a full breath in years.
Don Antonio says to me, “Consider that my wedding gift.” And then he says to Braiden, “Keep an eye on this one. Who knows what tricks she learned from her puttana of a cousin?”
Braiden takes a full step forward, but Don Antonio concedes a retreat, turning on his heel and gesturing for one of his men to open my front door. The three of them leave without another word.
My legs shake so hard I barely make it to the couch. I bury my face in my hands, wondering how much Braiden heard before he swooped into the room.
Eleven years, I’ve thought I was free from all this. Eleven years, I’ve thought Don Antonio and the Russo family and the East Falls Crew were out of my life.
I took Eliza’s money and fled That Night. I knew enough to find a forger in Manhattan, to buy the documents I needed. Giovanna Canna died in a basement apartment in Queens. And Samantha Mott was born.
Samantha applied to Lowood Law School on New York’s Upper West Side. She took out loans and worked two jobs. She was editor of the Lowood Law Review , and she graduated with a 4.0 average.
Samantha took the bar. She landed a job in the Delaware Secretary of State’s office. She met Trap Prince at a fundraiser dinner and convinced him she was the lawyer Diamond Freeport needed.
Samantha conquered the world.
But Don Antonio has known where I was the entire time. That Night will never truly end.
“Here.” Braiden pushes a glass against my knuckles. The scent of Jameson coats my throat like medicine.
It’s not even noon. “I can’t?—”
“Drink,” he says. That simple one-word command pares away all my protests. It flays me, the same as his ordering me to eat that omelet last night. Braiden Kelly makes me forget how to argue.
No.
He makes me forget there’s any reason to argue at all.
I drink, tossing back the entire shot. The whiskey carves a golden path down my throat. It cuts off the spinning in my head, the endless rounds of guilt. It shuts away That Night entirely, opening a sunlit door so I can breathe again.
Braiden pours us both another.
This time, I sip my whiskey. And I’m utterly astonished when he says, “A week should be enough time for you to find a dress.”
“A dress?”
He’s staring at me, those cobalt lasers slicing through the pleasant Jameson fog. His words don’t make sense. I don’t wear dresses. Braiden surely learned that when he pawed through my closet. My nightstand too.
Fuck Water. I can’t believe he announced that to Don Antonio.
Before I can blush, he shrugs. “Trousers, then. Vows are vows, whatever you’re wearing.”
“Vows—” I plant my glass on the coffee table. “You don’t actually believe we’re getting married?”
“You have another plan?”
I stare at him. “I plan on staying here in Dover. I plan on going into the office tomorrow, to catch up on all the work that’s piled up yesterday and today. I plan on living my life exactly the way I always have.”
For the past eleven years, anyway. The way Samantha always has.
“And what’s your plan when Antonio Russo shows up at the freeport, waving his gun around before he shoves it up your cunt?”
His voice lilts around the vulgar word, like we’re talking about melodies and flowers.
“The freeport has security.”
He raises an infuriating eyebrow. We both know the freeport’s security failed last year. In the aftermath of a deadly attack, new protocols are in place. But am I willing to trust my life to them?
“And this building?” Braiden says, gesturing around us. “Russo’s been here once. You honestly believe he won’t return?”
“I— I can move.”
“Where?”
Where can I go that a Mafia kingpin can’t get me? My parents couldn’t escape. Eliza either.
Braiden waits until I’m looking at him again. “Once we’re married, you’re mine. I can keep you safe. The East Falls Crew won’t risk open war to touch you.”
You’re mine .
His claim makes no more sense than Don Antonio’s. I’m not an object, something he can grab to make another man jealous.
But I hear the explosion of Don Antonio’s gun as he murders my cousin. And then I feel Braiden’s fingers on my biceps as he forces me out of the Revenue Department lobby and into the snow. The grip of his hand as he holds my hair while I puke. The steel of his arms as he carries me to his car, steady and strong in the snow.
“You make it sound so simple,” I say. “Like Don Antonio isn’t the deadliest mobster in Philadelphia?—”
“He isn’t.”
Braiden says the two words, flat and simple. He’s not boasting. He’s merely stating the truth. He’s more ruthless than the man who haunted my childhood, than the animal who murdered my cousin. I shy away from exploring just how badly I want him to be right.
You’re mine.
I became Samantha Mott to live my own life. To set my own rules. To be the woman I want to be, whenever, wherever, however I want to live.
Braiden juts his chin toward the ring I’m wearing on my left hand. I really look at it for the first time. It’s gold. Heavy for its size. And the Celtic knot incised in its surface looks like an ancient promise.
“It’s yours, if you’re willing.”
That’s hardly the proposal every little girl dreams of. “Why would you possibly do this?” I ask.
“I have my reasons.”
“That’s not enough.”
He looks surprised, like no one ever tells him he’s falling short.
Intellectually, I know he’s a ruthless criminal, the leader of a gang that does terrible things. But I also know Braiden Kelly is a billionaire client at the freeport. He maintains a private gallery, storing away his wealth. He bids on pretty paintings at auctions. He attends formal dinner parties, making casual conversation about the weather.
He’s a man. Not a monster.
And as a man, he accepts my challenge. “I won’t lie. I’ve spent the last two and a half years sparring with the East Falls Crew, and I want to hit Russo any way I can. The harder the better. He doesn’t deserve to walk the streets of my hometown. But more than that—you and I both know what he’ll do to you, if you become his wife.”
His . Braiden puts the emphasis on that word, on possession.
He’s right. We do both know. Even if Don Antonio doesn’t kill me, he’ll hurt me. Badly. I won’t be able to play his perfect wife. I’ll slip up—say something, do something—and he’ll destroy me just like he murdered Eliza.
But is Braiden any different? Both men are criminals. They break half a dozen laws before breakfast. They thrive in the hyper-masculine world they rule.
Braiden held my hair. He fed me. He went to my room when I told him to go.
And then he squared off against Don Antonio, taking possession of me like I’m a toy he can play with till I break.
I’m a lawyer. I’m paid a generous salary to weigh options and make recommendations to my clients, applying a system so simple I learned it my first week at Lowood.
IRAC: Issue. Rules. Analysis. Conclusion.
Issue : Don Antonio demands to marry me.
Rules : Don Antonio always gets whatever he wants.
Analysis : If I marry Don Antonio, I’ll become a slave in his house, the same way Eliza lived for years. I’ll be subject to a madman’s temper, to a known murderer’s rage. And that fury is likely to be worse than ever, because Eliza shamed Antonio. He’ll have to solidify his standing, and he’ll use me to do it.
Braiden Kelly has offered to protect me by marrying me. I barely know Braiden. I have files in my office about his business dealings, and I have a general familiarity with the workings of the Fishtown Boys. I know he can be brutal; he’s the Captain of the Irish Mob.
But I’ve seen hints of something more. Something different. Something safer. Something sane.
Conclusion : If I marry Braiden, I’m safe from Don Antonio.
I test the verdict in my mind. It’s flimsy. Uncertain. But it’s a hell of a lot better than what I’ll get with the Mafia don.
Before I commit, though, I have some questions.
First and foremost: “Will you let me keep working?” My job is everything to me. Law school kept me focused after That Night. I’ve built my own life at the freeport. I’m excellent at my job, and I love it. I don’t know what I’d do if anyone took it away from me.
“Of course,” Braiden says.
“For how long?” I ask, fearing a trap.
“As long as you care to.” He sounds…amused.
“Where will I live?”
“In my house.”
“In Fishtown?” It’s a section of downtown Philadelphia.
“In Ardmore. North and west of Philly.”
“That’s too far from Dover.”
“You can work remotely. I’ll give you a home office. Whatever computer set-up you need.”
I shake my head. “There are times I have to be in the office in person. I handle important meetings. Confidential papers.”
His shrug is dismissive. “Then I’ll give you a driver. Protection.”
He means a bodyguard. If I do this, my life will change in ways I’m only beginning to consider. But if I don’t, I’ll be on my own. Facing Don Antonio without…protection.
“What about the next week? Before we actually get married?”
“You can stay here. I’ll put one man in the lobby. Another outside your door.”
Mrs. Samson and Caleb will love that.
Will love that .
I’ve already made up my mind. Anything else I say, any further questions I ask, they’re just for show.
But I have one more thing I have to make clear. “This…marriage. We’ll live like husband and wife?” That sounds so Old Testament, so stilted, I have to add, “In one bedroom?” But that’s still not my true concern. “You expect sex?”
Braiden’s eyes glint, like someone has told him a punchline and he’s trying not to laugh out loud. “I’ve never forced a woman into my bed, Samantha Mott. And fetching as you are, I’m not starting now.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’ll have your own room. For as long as you want it.”
My stomach does that flipping thing again, the way it did in the elevator. This is madness, all of it. I’ve never even kissed the man, and now I’m talking about becoming his wife.
He holds my gaze steadily. “I’ve given you a ring,” he says. “I’ve offered an office. A car. A driver. A bedroom. What else do you need, counselor?”
It’s the “counselor” that does it. He respects me as a lawyer. He’s treating me as a fellow negotiator, an equal.
I reach for the bottle of Jameson. I pour us both fresh shots. I raise my glass and wait for Braiden to lift his.
“To Himself,” I say, making sure I don’t look away from his devastating gaze as I adopt the Irish phrase. “The only man I’ll marry.”
His grin is like a wolf’s. “To Herself,” he answers. “My bride.”