CHAPTER 13
Luna
Slowly, after giving a nod to each father across the table, he turns to me.
“Luna,” he dips his head forward slightly as he says my name in the same flat, gravelly tone.
He does seem mammoth up this close. I’m average height but I’m a bit of a string bean, despite my hard workouts.
He is like a house planted in front of me.
And I see his scars now. There’s a long thin scar across his forehead down his left eye and continuing into his cheek.
There’s also some mottled skin on one side, going into his hairline, burns maybe?
Still, he’s not grotesque, just…imperfect.
Intimidating. His thick black hair is long like the photos, and flops down over his firm brow.
He has a sharp nose and full lips set in scruffy facial hair as if he shaved yesterday but couldn’t be bothered to clean up for this occasion.
His eyes are almost black and they’re staring into mine, unmoving, waiting.
“Huh h-hi,” I say, shocked. He blinks. I blink too, I think?
He looks down at the table and back at me. “Shall we?”
“Sure, yes, right.” I say as my brain starts to make neural connections again.
He pulls out my chair and as I start to sit, he does too. Everyone at our table follows his lead. The servers, chatter, music and even the damn birds seem to slowly come back to life, like he’s just given them permission to do so.
I can’t help but stare at my fiancé, wondering what happens now.
Even I seem to be under some sort of spell, fueled by intrigue and fear.
First, I notice he wordlessly removes the chair next to him out before a server scurries up to take it away.
The spot at the table wasn’t wide enough for his frame.
And I guess he doesn’t care if his second in command sits with us or not.
His eyes shift from his chair to the table and then pause on the dog.
The dog! Right!
“Oh, yes, um, honey,” I say, my syrupy voice a bit quiet and garbled because I can’t believe I’m really calling this huge madman honey. I gesture to the dog, “This is my baby—”
“So, Quinn!” Papa cuts me off. I don’t think he even knew I was speaking. I’m not sure he knows I’m even sitting here. He gestures to the room, “What do you think of all this?”
Quinn pauses, looking at a low vine hanging just overhead. He’s so tall he could reach out and pull it down from the ceiling, even seated. Finally he says, “It’s very detailed.”
“Women and weddings, huh? Totally pazza!” Papa calls me crazy but has yet to look in my direction. “Still she’s ready for you, she’ll make a great wife. Not so crazy once she has her spa days and her shopping trips.”
“Only crazy allowed is in the bedroom,” Quinn senior says, laughing and coughing on his own joke. He’s clearly sick and I notice now that his left arm is hanging limp on one side. “Amantes! Lovers. The crazy ones make the best lovers.”
“Hm.” That is all Quinn says in reply to their lewd commentary. He fills his plate as family style dishes are passed around. I’m disappointed to see he doesn’t mind all the fish, when Vix’s report said he was a red meat and potatoes man, based on her surveillance of his staff’s grocery shopping.
“Ah, my son,” his father goes on. “Always so serious. Lighten up, my boy, it’s a party!”
“It’s business,” he states. He shifts his attention like a heavy spotlight to my father. “We still need to nail down when you’ll arrive in New York and how many men you’re sending.”
“R-right. Yes,” my papa stammers, stammers, as he begins. I break out in goosebumps again, watching my father cower for even half a second.
The men talk about issues the Irish are having in New York for maybe an hour while I pretend I’m not listening.
Quinn speaks quietly but he has a firm, deep voice with a hint of a Bostonian accent.
A twinge of Irish descent, too. He ignores stares and whispers and only engages with the two men across from him.
I play dumb, even feeding Marlon bits of my food and greeting a few of my young cousins who want some of my time.
But my ears are as laser focused as my fiancé’s attention.
The Irish have a stronghold in New York, a factory along the Long Island Sound.
The Russians run New York and apparently they don’t like Quinn’s presence on the Sound, even though he and his clan don’t work anywhere near Manhattan or the other boroughs.
The stronghold is surprising since the Irish are so tiny compared to the strength of the Volotov organization, why do the Russians care about one measly factory?
On the other hand, why does Quinn care so much about this one spot that he’s partnering with the Italians—marrying me—to protect it?
I don’t get the answers, but I still learn a few things to file away to research when I get home. I also realize this particular research can’t involve hiring Vix, since she is a Volotov. Bummer.
Already this man, who has yet to look my way since we sat down, is cramping my style.
I am the one that’s supposed to do the cramping!
But I’ve been so engrossed in eavesdropping, learning everything I can, I forgot my whole plan.
There is finally a lull in their conversation, so I start to clear my throat and don my persona, when Quinn shifts next to me.
I realize he’s moving so he can take off his leather jacket.
Heat radiates beside me, either because he was hot under the leather or because his muscles are just used to screaming out under his taut skin.
The short black sleeve t-shirt is molded to him like a second skin, revealing huge biceps, huge pecs…
he’s just huge. I snap my mouth shut, realizing I was gaping at the man.
What the hell?
I’m used to large men, muscular men. Powerful, scary men. None of this is new to me. So what makes him seem so…different?
One thing that’s obviously different is the lack of ink. All made men are covered in their clan’s themes, symbols, and creeds. Tattoos begin during training when made men are just tweens. By the time a soldier gets to his thirties, there isn’t much skin left. His arms are totally bare. Weird.
C’mon Luna, they’re just arms! Get a grip!
So I do. On the veiny forearm nearest me. I make my voice as squeaky and annoying as possible, “Brian, honey, if you all are done talking boring business, I want you to meet some people, starting with—”
“Quinn.” He cuts me off.
“Huh?” I squeak.
“Call me Quinn.” He pulls his arm from my grasp and begins to stand, “And I do believe we’re done here.”
“Wait,” I stand too, shocked. I quickly put my annoying mask back in place, “Baaaabe,” damn, I sound insufferable, “we haven’t danced yet!”
“I don’t dance.”
“Humph,” I pout, “Okay, well we need to take some photos at least!”
“I—”
“I know, I know, it’s film and you’ll get the negatives. The photographer is waiting at the waterfall.”
He lets out a pained sigh and I fight the urge to smile.
Everyone is watching us in horror. Even I can’t stand me right now.
I catch Ellie’s eye for a split second and she has her mouth covered with her napkin, but her eyes are wide.
I also see Zeno shaking his head with a grin, next to Bosco who looks confused.
Quinn starts walking toward the waterfall in the corner with purpose, eager to get this over with.
I see two guns and one large knife on his back, holstered in plain sight, and wonder how many more weapons are hidden.
I grab my dog before following after him.
I walk in ridiculous tiny steps, clacking my heels on the floor and holding out my dog purse on one arm like an idiot.
At the makeshift pond’s edge, he turns back to wait for me. And he finally spots the dog. He squints at it, probably trying to figure out if it’s a rat or kitten or some other species.
I smile and bat my over-the-top fake lashes as I reach him, “This is who I was trying to tell you about, Marlon Brando, the love of my life.”
He stares at the chihuahua for a beat, then slowly locks eyes with me. “You don’t have a dog.”
Shit!
Of course his intel on me would’ve included the lack of pets.
I just shrug. “I didn’t, but then I learned you loved dogs!
And I’ve always wanted one, but Papa said no.
And now I’m moving in with you so why not?
And when I saw him I couldn’t not get him, I mean look at his little face!
” I bring the dog’s hideous little head up to my mouth and make some gibberish kissy sounds, feeling my soul die a little bit inside me.
It’s worth it though. I can be ridiculous for a month in exchange for my plan, my power.
“Mhm,” is all Quinn says, ignoring the scruffy miniature animal trying to lick my lips and studying me instead.
Studying me in a way that makes me feel like he’s not buying any of the whiny, plastic, trophy-wife-bullshit I’m selling.
Like he can see straight through to my brain and soul and deepest desires.
“Polly?” I look away, fighting not to show any discomfort under his stare.
“Yes, r-right here, Ivana will take some shots if you’ll just, uh, get together,” Her hands shake as she points and guides. Her nerves are so palpable I almost laugh.
I walk, well, it’s more like a stupid prance, up to my unamused fiancé and start to loop my left arm through his right, but he pulls away and decides to put his leather jacket back on. I frown at it.
“You’ll wear a tux for the wedding, right, babe? Or at least a suit?”
“Unlikely,” he sighs as he stretches out his neck to settle his coat around him.
“Awww, but I ordered it custom. I like lots of custom things, you’ll have to get used to it, especially when I move in, a lot of color, animal print, sparkles, feathers.
Just like Marlon here,” I hold up the purse and show the interior surrounding my shivering dog, which is a sparkly fuzzy leopard fabric.
“That’s fine,” he dismisses me with a severe tone and then moves to stand behind me, taking some stoic military type pose, staring ahead to Ivanka.
She clears her throat so I turn to face her and smile.
I know Quinn isn’t smiling as he freezes, so still behind me, it’s like he’s not even there.
Except I feel the heat of him, the fabric of his clothes at my back.
I expected to feel small, maybe crowded, with him looming so close at my back. But he isn’t looming. More like guarding. Like…God help anyone who tries to approach us and interrupt this photo.
I realize as I inhale, smelling metal and leather and man…I was wrong. He doesn’t have to intimidate women into sleeping with him. He is a recluse, an eccentric one, sure, and he might be a sick psycho too, but he’s no ogre hunchback in a tower.
It’s in his walk, his glare, his stance right now. He is a fucking warrior.
And my cheeks heat, along with other body parts, thinking about what it would be like to see him unleashed. My facade falters for a beat as I wonder, will I ever get to see that? Scarier still, do I actually want to?
No. No, of course not.
I want out.
That’s all I want.