21. Gia
It’sthe smell of fish that wakes me up.
I’ve never had such an aggressive reaction to it. One second, I’m out cold, the next, I feel like I’m being slapped in the face with enough fish to feed an entire aquarium.
When I get up, it’s not pretty.
Because I’m throwing up everywhere immediately.
“Jaysus,” I hear a distinctly Irish voice, making my stomach heave even more. “What’d you last eat, woman?”
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
But it’s hard to be tough and stoic, unfortunately, when you’re in the middle of expelling every molecule of food that you’ve ever eaten.
So, instead of my usual witty retort, all that comes out is a very soft ‘fuck you,’ a whole lot of grumbling, and sort of a sloshing, moaning sound.
“For fuck’s sake,” the Irish voice hisses. “Oi! Rowan! Come bring this fuckin’ bird a ginger ale, eh?”
“You sound like you’re an extra in Angela’s Ashes,” I whisper.
The voice chuckles. “Ah well. That’s the famous Gia Rossi if I’ve ever heard her.”
“I hate you.”
My eyes still haven’t opened yet. I think I might be lying in a puddle of my own puke. The thought makes me gag again, and I lean to the side, right as something plastic and round appears under my face.
“This’ll help,” the voice says confidently.
I don’t question it. I continue my incredibly disgusting evacuation, until there’s literally nothing left inside my body but air.
Even that hates the fish smell.
I tense, fighting another wave of nausea as it beats through me.
“If I have nine months of this left, I’m going to turn into a stick,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
Oh. Fuck.
I keep forgetting that I’m not only not alone, but I’m alone with someone who has an Irish accent. Someone with an Irish accent, who hired a group of someone’s to take me down. Someone that I was fairly surprised to see, as the last I checked… he was dead.
However, I’m hardly one to speak about people being dead or alive so….
“Now. What was that about nine months?”
My heart is in my chest, and I can’t believe that I said that out loud. I can’t believe it because even for me, it doesn’t seem true.
Nine months.
Then there will be another whole person to hang out with. Another person to worry about. Someone else that I will need to keep track of…
And I managed to get myself kidnapped.
On a fucking boat.
By the Irish.
I’m going to be sick again.
“Nothin’ to say to that, then?”
I manage to screw my eyes open. Sighing, I shut them again. My heart sinks, but I know exactly what I saw.
It’s him.
I lick my lips and manage to whisper, “Aren’t you dead?”
The voice chuckles. “No, unfortunately. I’m not dead, even a little bit.”
“Fuck.”
“Aye well. That’s the way of it then.”
We didn’t kill him. The leader of the Irish gang. Kieran MacAntyre. Because he’s alive and kicking, and apparently gave me a barf bucket.
I roll over, grabbing the plastic. There’s nothing left in my stomach, but I cough up everything I have anyway.
Kieran is back from the dead. And since Elio killed him the first time…
It’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to make it stick now.
* * *
I’m sick for hours.Kieran sits there the whole time, making the occasional snarky comment, barking orders either in Gaelic or heavily accented English to his crew. He’s weirdly patient, which, considering that he’s kind of a raving sociopath, is interesting.
And by interesting, I mean it’s terrifying.
No one is this patient unless they want something. He needs me, obviously, but if Caterina’s time with him is any indication, he doesn’t want me for my jokes.
He wants to get revenge on Elio.
Kieran was, apparently, Caterina’s original arranged husband. Prior to the deal that my dad made with her dad, she was supposed to marry Kieran. Obviously, she didn’t do that, but still.
I don’t want to be here. Not when I have so much at stake.
Not when I have a fucking baby inside of me.
“Well then. You’re looking a little less green around the gills,” Kieran murmurs.
“Why aren’t you dead?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
“I’d say being kidnapped by a dead man is pretty high on my list of worries, yes.”
He chuckles. “Jesus came back from the dead too, or so I hear.”
“Surprised you can say that without it burning your mouth.”
“Oh come now, Gia Rossi. I’m as God-fearing as the next Catholic.”
“Again. Waiting for the smiting to begin,” I say back.
He doesn’t respond. I move to be in a sitting position, so that I can see him. I still can’t really believe that Kieran is alive.
It’s impossible.
I take a deep breath, my eyes watering against the light in the boat.
Determined, I look at him.
I blink. “I’m still not sure, exactly, why you aren’t a maggot-filled bag of rotting flesh.”
He smiles.
But there’s a darkness there. Something bitter and vile.
My skin prickles.
“Look closer then, spitfire,” he murmurs, coming near. “See what you can, while you can.”
That sounds more than a little ominous.
Up close, he’s Kieran.
He has to be.
He has the same flashing green eyes, the same coal-dark hair that gets into his eyes because it’s just slightly too long.
The same pale skin that on a woman would look elegant, but on a man looks stark.
The hollows under his eyes are pronounced, like he’s been unwell, and the tattoos on his neck…
I freeze.
The tattoos on his neck are wrong.
Kieran, or the Kieran that I remember dying of a knife wound to the gut, was covered in thick, brutal-looking tattoos. Teeth and talons and the usual animal metaphors.
This Kieran has tattoos, but they’re not the same.
These ones are elegant.
They still cover his neck. His hands. I can see them on his chest too, from the little spot where his t-shirt dips down over his pecs. But his tattoos are far from brutal.
They’re beautiful.
“How?” I whisper.
The man, who I’m increasingly sure is not Kieran, nods. “Think hard, spitfire. Use that famed Gia Rossi intellect.”
Jesus. Pregnancy brain must really be a thing because my mind is short-circuiting. “Hand me a clue.”
“I’d think someone in a similar situation would know a little faster,” he smirks.
Similar….
Oh.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
The man chuckles. “There it is. I’d heard you had a mouth on you, and I have to say. That, at least, does not disappoint.”
“I didn’t know Kieran had a twin.”
“Ah, well. Our dad was the suspicious sort. There’s a lot you wouldn’t know then, about the MacAntyre siblings.”
“Siblings… there’s more than two of you?”
His eyes twinkle. “Wouldn’t you love to know, Gia Rossi?”
I blink.
Kieran had a twin.
A twin brother.
Who is sitting in front of me. Wearing clothes that look like they’d be at home on an L.L. Bean model.
Fuck, he looks like a model in general.
My mouth opens. Closes. I stare at him.
“Who are you?” I blurt.
I’m ashamed of my own lack of finesse, but I really can’t muster anything else.
He leans back and sighs. “What, calling me Kieran wasn’t going to work?”
“No, because you’re not Kieran.”
He tilts his head. “At this point, does it matter?”
Fair point. “Wouldn’t you rather be known as yourself?”
“Ah well, that’s where you and I differ, Gia Rossi. I have a feeling you want people to know your name. Me? I”d rather not.”
I narrow my eyes. “No one in our world remains anonymous.”
“Wouldn’t it be fun, then, if I were the first?” he winks.
Damn it. If this wasn’t the worst situation on the planet, I’d be extremely entertained by this person. “Tell me your name,” I demand.
“Oh, the prisoner makes demands now?”
“Hell yes. Tell me because I want to know.”
He laughs. “How often does that work for you?”
“Every time.”
“Even with your wee guard dog?”
I stiffen. “What did you do to Sal?”
“I, personally, did nothing.”
“What the fuck happened to him,” I snarl.
Kieran’s brother throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, spitfire. He’s unharmed. You were the prize, not he.”
“Why me?”
He shakes his head. “Tell me the famously arrogant Gia Rossi doesn’t think she’s a prize to be taken?”
“I’m pretty famous for escaping kidnappings so…”
“Not without a certain guard dog, I hear,” he murmurs.
I sit back and fold my hands over my stomach. “Your name,” I demand.
He sighs. He stands, then points to a door to the right. “The shower. It has a lock. Fresh clothes are under the bed.”
“Name,” I repeat.
He sighs, pausing in the doorway of the tiny little room. He shoots me a smile, and winks.
“Liam. I’ll be in the galley when you’re done,” he says.
Then, he leaves.
I hug my knees to my chest. Liam MacAntyre.
Well. At least Kieran is still dead.
Small wonders, I guess.
I sigh, uncurling and stretching up. I definitely don’t hate the idea of a shower, especially because if I keep smelling myself, I’m going to throw up again.
Do I believe him about the lock?
Well.
When it clicks into place…
I do.
* * *
Cautiously showered,wearing another man’s clothes, I creep upstairs. We’re not exactly on a yacht; the boat smells like fish (pervasively so) and it’s not going to win any awards when it comes to cleanliness.
Sal’s yacht is a world away from this, that’s for sure.
I hear voices coming from what I assume is somewhere important and brace myself. Liam might be not immediately murderous, but I can’t guarantee that about anyone else on this fucking boat.
Plus, these assholes kidnapped me. They used chloroform or some kind of weird shit like that. I’m certainly not going to pretend that they didn’t, so cautious is what I am as I creep around the boat.
“… not the one who’s going to make the most impact,” I hear.
Liam responds. “Ah, but she’s going to have the desired impact. A fool thinks that Caterina Rossi is a better bargaining chip than Gia.”
“She’s his sister.”
“Aye, and men burn the world down for their wives, but they’ll trade it again and again for their sister, no?”
I hate men.
I make a move, stepping loudly so that I can get their attention. The talking stops, and sure enough, Liam’s face pokes around the side of the doorframe. “Ah, there she is,” he says with a beam.
“That whole luck of the Irish thing won’t work on me,” I say as I saunter in to the room.
There are two other guys sitting at a crowded little galley table in front of me. One has shockingly red hair, green eyes, and a scowl across his craggy face that would send a lesser woman running. His muscles are approximately ninety-nine percent of his body, and if I had to guess, I’d say that his neck is so thick, he probably needs custom shirts.
Should he ever wear them. Seems more like a Henley guy, if you ask me.
The other man looks… dangerous. He’s slender, but clearly muscled. His hair is somewhere between brown and blonde, his skin tone somewhere between tan and pale, and his eyes glimmer a dark, murky brown.
This is Liam’s spy. I know it. This man could be anyone. He could be any race, he could blend into any crowd. My instincts instantly recognize him. Some of us hide in plain sight, like me. Others, like him…
They’re ghosts. You’ll never see them at all.
I smile at Liam. “Thank you for the shower.”
“Aye. And it looks like you’ve found the clothes as well.”
I glance down. I’m wearing the world’s baggiest sweatpants, which might have belonged to the craggy redhead, but I can’t really tell. My shirt is a Metallica shirt, well loved, and I tug on it while smiling at the crew. “Who’s the metalhead?”
“I’m surprised you don’t already know,” Liam says with an irritatingly amused smile in his voice.
“Well, you appear to have flown completely under my radar, so I think it’s fair to say we’re going to have to start on square one all around,” I say to the crowd.
The ape scowls, and the dangerous one switches a finger.
I sigh and settle into a seat. “What’s a girl got to do to eat around here?”
“Interesting question,” Liam purrs. “Rowan, would you care to fetch the lady something?”
The large redhead stands, and I raise an eyebrow. “The hell kind of potatoes do you eat?”
“You don’t speak,” he grunts.
“You’re definitely not going to keep me quiet,” I inform him.
The other one leans forward while Rowan stomps to a cabinet. “You definitely gave us a run for our money, Gia.”
I smirk. He’s not Irish at all. Fucker’s Scottish. “And what money was that exactly?”
A chilling smile creeps over his face. “I don’t think you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“James,” Liam scolds. “You’re scaring the lady.”
“I think it takes far more than that to scare the lady,” James responds.
I register them. James. Spy. Rowan. Muscle.
And Liam.
Whom I have never heard of before today.
Sal would have a field day with this…
The thought of his name sends an ache through me that is more than just painful. I resist the urge to gasp because it hits me like a freight train.
Shit.
I’ve been worried about Sal, and it’s been sitting on a back burner. But now…
It’s going to consume me.
I need to figure out how to keep going, or I’m going to drown in this feeling.
I take a deep breath, shoving everything that I’m feeling about Sal to the back of my mind. I can’t handle it right now.
Because if I do…
I won’t survive.
I smile. “So. What’s the plan? Are we going to just ride this little booze cruise out until Elio pays a ransom or…”
James’ smile turns dark. “That’s not what this is, princess.”
God, I hate it when he says that. I only like it when Sal says it. “Then inform me, Scottish James. What is the plan?”
Liam looks at the two of them. “You know how the game is played, Gia,” he says softly.
I blink.
Liam’s lips curl into a sad smile. “I lost a brother. I lost the chance for a sister. And unfortunately, Gia… I need to make sure both of those things happen.”
I blink. A chance for a sister…
Oh.
Fuck.
Liam isn’t going to ransom me.
He wants to marry me.