Chapter 30
Cormac
In the taxi to Scarlett’s apartment to get her stuff, I ask Scarlett, “You okay?”
She’s staring at her hands. “I don’t have a ring.”
“We need to keep this a secret until the end of the semester. I’ll get us rings for Christmas.” I take that hand and kiss it. “It had to be done this way, Scarlett.”
“I know.” She exhales.
Fuck, I know all about women and weddings. My sister plans them. I’ve seen what women want. But this isn’t a real marriage. I don’t want to put on a show and tell more lies.
“Right here,” Scarlett says, sitting up straight when the taxi turns down a narrow, unkempt block.
We stop at a prewar building with bars on the windows. My anger boils over that Scarlett’s been living here. And at myself for not checking it out before I put my credit card down on this dump.
How can anyone look at my Scarlett and think she belonged in a place like this?
But it made her strong and feel independent. Pierce Langston tried to obliterate that independence. I married her so she’d stay free of him. And finish her education.
Glancing around, I see some familiar faces from Hamilton walking around, and I swear under my breath. These slumlords have a steady supply of student tenants thanks to loans, scholarships, or rich parents.
No need to even update these apartments.
I’m holding Scarlett’s hand as we walk toward the main entrance of the apartment building when she stops abruptly.
“Is that?” Nervous energy pulses off her.
I follow her gaze and see a hazmat company van double-parked and idling with flashers on.
“Oh no. I thought the apartment being unlivable was bullshit.” Scarlett breaks into a run. “Second floor.”
I follow her into a hallway with flickering fluorescent lights, like this is some apocalyptic movie. Keys in hand, Scarlett jams them into the lock. But the door nudges inward before she even turns the knob. It’s already open.
When Scarlett’s breath stutters, I push her gently behind me and enter first.
Christ, there he is. Ronan Castro. A Langston fixer. He’s the legendary boogie man in the medical world. It’s still a business. And any business can turn corrupt. When people don’t comply with Langston’s wishes, they get a visit from Castro and don’t always survive unscathed.
Castro isn’t some thug in a hoodie. Not a desperate dealer like the men I put in the ground.
This bastard is polished. Tailored navy suit. Shiny shoes. A watch that costs more than everything in this whole apartment. A corporate shark performing petty cruelty.
And he’s shoving my woman’s clothing into a black contractor’s bag.
“What the fuck are you doing to my clothes?” Scarlett barks.
He looks up with a bullshit smile. “Scarlett, it’s about time you got here. Your curling iron caused a small fire in the bathroom. The porter says you can’t stay here.” Castro nods toward the bag. “I’m expediting your move to Dr. Langston’s apartment.”
“Stop touching my things,” Scarlett snaps.
“Step away from her clothes.” I put my hand on Ronan’s shoulder pressing on a nerve. “I’m here to move her out.”
He knocks my hand away, suggesting Castro has enough medical knowledge to prevent paralysis. “And you are?”
I shouldn’t give him the truth. But something feral and territorial bites hard inside my chest. “Dr. Cormac O’Rourke.”
My last name should shake some trees, but Castro doesn’t flinch. Just eyes my posture, my build, my tattoos. “Never heard of you.”
I glance at Scarlett’s clothes spilling out like trash, and I go livid.
“No one puts my wife’s clothes in a fucking black garbage bag.” I grab Castro by his jacket collar. “You tell Pierce, the next time they send someone to touch my wife or her belongings, I’ll send them back in a medical waste bag.”
“Wife?”
“Yes. Scarlett Ford is my wife. We just got married. Spread the word.”
“You don’t understand, guy. I have orders from her fiancé.” He breaks free and points to Scarlett. “Dr. Langston is expecting you.”
Scarlett stiffens beside me, anger on her face. “You can tell Pierce to go to hell,” she hisses. “I’m married to Dr. O’Rourke.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood.” Castro’s voice dips to dangerous condescension territory. “Not Pierce Langston. Ramses Langston sent me to collect you. He wants a word with you.”
Scarlett looks like she’s going to shatter.
That’s when my pulse goes lethal. I take two steps forward, and Castro backs up, not accustomed to someone fighting back. I don’t know how not to fight. And I don’t think this fixer has the spine for the hand-to-hand combat I learned in Dunbar.
“What is Ramses Langston’s phone number? I’d like a word with him right now.”
“I don’t give out the boss’s number,” Castro snarls.
My fingers itch to hurt him. I’m a doctor who isn’t afraid to murder, and I could easily strangle him. But I can’t chance Pierce using his money and connections to put me under a microscope and convince the DA to press charges.
I text Trace to get over here with a couple of his men. This neighborhood is Quinlan Empire territory, and I expect someone is close by.
“As I said, I’m here to move my wife into my condo.” I yank the trash bags from Castro. “Get the fuck out. Go have a smoke. Go have a drink. In an hour, we’ll be gone, and then tell that monster disguised as a surgeon you work for that the place was empty, and you have no idea where she is.”
Castro swallows hard. “For how much?”
It’s always about money.
“You misunderstand. There’s no payment involved.” I hold his gaze as the backup I called in arrives. “My friends here will convince you it’s in your best interest and the interest of keeping all your fingers if you take a fucking hike.”
Castro glances at the door and visibly shudders as two massive silhouettes loom there.
He has to know this is an Irish Mob neighborhood.
Long coats, shades, and scowls of men who can do maximum damage in a short amount of time.
They don’t even need to say a word. Castro knows the can of worms he’s opened.
He storms toward the door, a few shades paler.
“Let him go,” I yell to Trace’s trackers.
The men part, and Castro disappears.
Scarlett collapses to her knees among the spilled fabric, shoulders shaking. “I can’t believe he did this,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry.” I crouch down, helping her gather what’s left. “I didn’t mean for your clothes to spill on the floor.”
“It’s okay.” With her head held high, she folds them on her bed.
Smelling something acrid, I get up, go into the bathroom, and look at the charred sink. “Someone burned something in here.”
“I don’t even own a curling iron,” she scoffs, grabbing a makeup bag and a few things from the shower.
“Where are your suitcases?”
“Closet,” she says. “But it’s just that same duffel I had the night you met me. The night I left Pierce. I only took a handful of things with me.”
“I’ll get you new clothes.”
“You don’t have to.” She looks up with glassy, desperate eyes. But not weak. She was blindsided at every turn today.
“I want to. I’m your husband.” I brush her face. “I take care of and protect what’s mine.”
“You’ll…” Her throat works. “You’ll take on Ramses Langston? Cormac, he can bury you. Ruin your career.”
I want to tell her that I already did that. But I’ll deal with Ramses when the time is right. “Ramses Langston is too close to FDA approval for a ventricular-assist device to risk a public war right now.”
I find that duffel bag, and a shiver runs through me, remembering how I lived out of one of these for a while. What I paid to get back here. While Scarlett packs up, Trace calls me, and I thank him for sending his two guys, Blade and Jett.
I formally introduce myself and tell them they can leave. But they insist on staying and driving us out of here.
“Our ride is waiting,” I tell Scarlett. “What else can I help with?”
“My books,” she says, sniffling. “The boxes are in the closet.”
I pack them all up, smiling at how my woman loves both complicated medical journals and romance smut.
With the overstuffed duffel zipped, Scarlett moves to a small table with a laptop and more textbooks. I help her pack all that up and throw that heavy fucking bag over my shoulder. Blade and Jett each take a box of books.
Her hand in mine again, she smiles at me. Trust and appreciation bloom in her gaze, and it can kill me. It’s been so long since someone looked at me like that. Not sure anyone ever has.
Before I actively torpedoed my career, I just did hookups. I wasn’t a relationship guy.
Now I’m married.
Scarlett leaves the keys on the kitchen counter with a small sniff. She just moved in here. I felt her energy that day in the management office, how she wanted this place. The fucking Langstons ruined that.
“It’s okay,” I say and kiss her on the forehead. “Fresh starts are very rewarding.”
I should know.
I guide her down the stairs with one hand on the small of her back.
She hesitates at the curb and looks around. “It wasn’t much, but I really liked it here.”
“I think you’ll like my place, too.” I squeeze her hand. “Maybe a little bit more.”
“Thank you.” She crushes herself into my chest.
“No need to thank me. I’m your husband.” I see Blade waving to me from an SUV across the street. “That’s our chariot home.” I point to the Denali.
She scoffs a laugh and lets me steer her to the SUV.
I open the rear passenger door, and she gets in. When I join her on the bench, she’s looking at me like I might actually be the hero she needs.
But we both know better. I’m not her salvation. I’m the other monster she chose.
Blade throws the car in gear and asks me for my address. I give it to him, and we peel away from the curb.
“And now?” Scarlett asks.
“Now,” I say, “I take you home.”