25. Lady of the House
Kira
I felt the blade on my thigh, lightly grazing it with my fingertips through my skirt. There was something wrong with this Jericho Vasiliev. It was a feeling that went beyond looking at his eyes to see if his pupils dilated or his nostrils flared. It wasn’t in the frown of his lips or the twitch of a fingertip.
There was something wrong with this man. Wrong, in the sense of deception. He was fake, like a wax mold that moved. Like an alien in a human suit.
“What are they talking about out there?” I asked, as we stood on Eoghan’s Persian rug.
“She’s asking about betrothing our daughter to your son,” he said, his expression cool and placid, but his jaw was tense, the muscle ticking by his cheekbone.
“No!” I said, my eyes wide.
“Of course, the answer’s no,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Are you insane? We’re not the Spanish royal family. Our children might not share blood, but they will be cousins of a sort.”
His Russian accent was strong. Almost too strong. As though he was trying to make a point with it.
Eoghan was that way too. He was able to get rid of his Irish accent if he wanted, but chose to hold onto it instead. He wanted the world to know he was Irish, the same way this man wanted me to know that he was Russian.
“So why are you asking?” I narrowed my eyes, my lips feeling like they curled in scorn, even as I tried to school my features.
“I have known you for years now,” he said, pacing around the office, his eyes and his fingertips lightly perusing the spines, reading the titles of Eoghan’s many antique books. “We have a friend in common.”
“Is that right?” That wasn’t unusual. Many people on the Upper West Side knew about me. I was once a trophy for those who wanted people to know they were educated.
He pulled out a book, flipping the leather bind in his hand, the gilded edges flying through his thumb, before he loudly placed it back on the book shelf. He turned to me, his crisp suit not hiding the power pack of muscle that he had underneath.
His hair was a dark brown, with the beginning of gray at the temples. He was far too old for Aoibheann.
The need to kill him, if he hurt her, made my finger twitch near the blade again.
“You and I have a mutual friend,” he said, his eyes not leaving me for an instant, making my skin crawl. “Andres Lutkus. A veritable art lover, I think.”
His sarcasm at the last part made me twitch. Who was this man?
Andres hated art. He couldn’t fucking stand it. Though it was moronic, it was profitable. And he needed me to turn a profit.
“He seems to think that you are something special,” he continued, his voice deep with irritation and a small layer of smugness that I did not like. “Imagine how I felt when my old friend came to me, covered in blood, with some Italian Mafioso hacked apart in pieces. Then he tells me this crazy story.”
He shook his head and chuckled, turning around, his shit-brown eyes going over me.
“He says that this woman can finance our operations, if we give her a chance.” He began to pace again, his heavy footsteps echoing on the ground. “Andres is a rational man. Calculated. Precise. So I think… okay, why not? I let him train this pet project, we give it a shot, and see if it works. And it does for a few years.”
A sinking feeling crept up my throat. He couldn’t be who I thought he was. There was no way. Not him. That was a plot twist too fucking big to be kept under wraps, even for professional spies.
“Then he tells me, hey, she’s pregnant by the fucking worst criminal in the world, and oh, she’s married the bastard.”
My skin crawled as he kept on reciting more and more.
“There’s only one thing we do with traitors in Paradigm,” he said as he stepped towards me. I stood my fucking ground, my fingers tracing the blade at my thigh, ready to slice up his skull if I needed to. “Death. No fucking funeral, no discussion. You simply find yourself in a black bag, drowned like an unwanted cat.”
His eyes were fucking fire.
“Imagine my fucking surprise, when Blink calls me in a fucking panic, begging me to come here and find his only friend! I break every fucking traffic law to get here only to find you, holding hands playing the happy wife.” He sneered, his teeth pulling back on one side. “So tell me, Missus Kira Green.” He spat out my name like a curse. “Why shouldn’t I have you poisoned like the deceptive little shit you are?”
His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, and I was backed into the desk.
I had nowhere to run, and nowhere to go.
And whatever I said next would determine if I lived or died.
My heart thudded in my chest, as I stared at the man who had recently removed me from my position after determining me to be ineffective at my post. Now, he was ready to wipe me from existence.
But he didn’t know me. Blink was the only one who ever knew me.
I stepped forward, coming toe-to-toe with Jericho Vasiliev, head of the Bratva and apparent member of Paradigm.
“I might not know who you are in the organization,” I said through my teeth. “You might be the Pakhan of the New York Bratva.” I let out a low, cruel laugh, feeling the power in my body that I’d never had before. “But I’m Missus Eoghan Green. You harm me, you’ll unleash a monster on this city the likes of which will give you nightmares for decades to come…”
He snorted, his disbelief clear.
“... You think what happened to your sister was bad? You think what happened to Isla Green was a thing of legend?” I chuckled, matching his tone, until his smile faded away. “Just kill me.”
It was a dare. One I knew he wouldn’t follow through on. He couldn’t. Not here, at least.
“See what Eoghan does if he loses the mother of his child, the only woman he has ever loved, and will ever love.”
I planted a finger on his chest, poking at him to emphasize my words.
“You want to create the paradigm shift that is our mission?” I smiled, knowing that I had an ace up my sleeve. “The man who put this ring on my finger -” I flashed the emerald in his face. “- is your best bet at doing it. You want peace? You want the criminal underground to peacefully fade from existence?”
I pointed out the door to where Aoibhean and Eoghan were casually sipping tea, unaware of the treachery happening in here.
“I’m your best chance of accomplishing all of that,” I said, placing my hands on my hips. “And I’m your best chance of funding your entire organization.” I shook my head, regretting that I hadn’t already dyed my purple hair back to black. The purple was too messy. “Eoghan is the biggest player. The Bratva are weakened, only shored up by alliances, but too full of infighting to make any real difference. The Durantes are too insane to be relied on. No one can stand up to the Greens. No one except me.”
Vasiliev narrowed his gaze as he searched my face, looking for… something. I wasn’t sure what.
But given enough time, he’d resolve to kill me. I knew that. I knew men like Vasiliev well, even if they were on the “right side” of things. Killing meant nothing to them.
“Don’t ever doubt Blink again,” I said, shaking my head, stepping away from him and going to the door. “You might think you’re his friend, but he clearly doesn’t feel the same. He’s a top agent. I don’t even know who the fuck you are.”
I turned to the door and just as I was about to throw it open, Vasiliev called out, “I’m Brett Bradley.”
Fuck.
It was worse than I could have imagined.
I strode through the door to where he and Aoibheann were having tea. With a flutter of her red hair, Aoibheann looked at me with her green eyes, momentarily wide with fear before they narrowed again, a perfect mask of serenity.
Without any explanation, I went to Eoghan and sat on his lap, putting my arms around his neck.
“My love, our son is going to wake soon,” I whispered against his lips. “He doesn’t like to wake up alone. Do you think I could go lie with him until your guests have gone?”
I bumped his nose with mine, ignoring the look of adoration in his eyes.
“Aye, love,” he whispered, his arms snaking around my hips, as I felt the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. His warm palm crawled up my back, until he touched the ends of my hair. “As you wish.”
I gave him a kiss, and he kissed me back as though Aoibheann wasn’t sitting right beside us. As though there was no one else in the world but the two of us.
When I broke the kiss and came to my feet, I walked up the grand staircase to the residential floor, looking over the balustrade. Three sets of eyes looked up at me from below. My husband’s black eyes contained wonder and admiration. The green eyes of Aoibheann peered at me, fear and worry on her pale face.
My eyes drifted to the grand blood painting of all of us sinners, descending into Hell, then to the snide, cruel eyes of Jericho Vasiliev, his lips tilted in a half-smile, half-sneer, his eyes bright with cruel glee. He tilted his chin up and with a cruel, deep laugh, brought his hands together in a slow, theatrical clap.
“Bravo, Mrs. Green,” he said. “Bravo.”
Jericho Vasiliev placed his hands in his pockets, his eyes glinting in cruel intent as he turned to my husband. He smirked, cruelly.
“Let’s see if your new family situation has prepared you for what’s coming, Irish,” he said, as Aoibheann came to her feet and in a long graceful glide, went to his side. She reached for him with the grace of a ballerina playing a swan, as she wrapped her hand around his waist and placed her crown of fiery curls against his chest. “Eugenio Durante is currently in a firefight with your cousin, and my imp of a son-in-law, on Dutch Street.”
“What the fuck?” Eoghan came to his feet, his fists clenched at his side. “You’re only telling me now?”
“Dairo?” I whispered, my fingers coming to my lips.
I had always remembered him fondly, and read about his marriage to the Russian daughter. There was a pit in my stomach as fear wove up my throat, making it hard to breathe. If something happened to Dairo, then something could happen to Eoghan. Something could happen to Cillian.
Eoghan looked at me, a momentary glance of fear, before he moved to go to his office, as though the answers to the news would be there.
“Calm down, Pup,” Jericho rolled his eyes. “I already sent my sister and her soldiers to rescue him. They only went because they mistook him for you, Irish.”
As if on cue, Eoghan’s phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. He looked at the name on the screen, before saying without greeting, “What’s going on, Dairo?”
He turned his back to me as he spoke, and I heard Dairo’s voice frantic as he updated him on what fracas was happening at the New York City docks.
“I hope you’re ready for what’s to come,” Jericho said again, and my eyes turned to him. He was staring right at me. “The war has just been declared.”
With his arm tucked protectively around Aoibheann, he tugged her towards the front door. With his hand on the large french door, ready to pull it open, he paused. He looked over his shoulder, right at me, then said in a tone that threatened my demise, “I hope you prove yourself worthy.”
Because if I didn’t… he’d have no qualms about blighting out my existence in the name of the cause.
The war begins in the third and final installation of Eoghan and Kira's story: Iron Crown, Will of Iron Book 3 .
Coming Fall 2025.