Chapter 11 Livvie
LIVVIE
I stir to warm sunlight flooding in through big windows. At first, I think I’m dreaming. Then reality has me checking the other side of the bed.
It’s empty because I slept alone.
Kingston’s voice is a murmur, coming from another room in his penthouse.
I throw back the covers and put my bare feet on the carpet as I slip out of bed. The early sunshine paints the room in a golden haze, but it does nothing to soothe my loneliness.
Dressed in an oversized T-shirt, I leave the suite and pad along the hallway, my footfalls not making a sound.
His voice grows louder the closer I get to his office because the door is ajar. Choosing not to disturb him, I hover outside and peer through the gap.
Kingston has his back to me, shoulders rigid, phone pressed to his ear. He’s wearing only black slacks and nothing else, except for a sleeve of tattoos.
There’s a pause as if he's listening to the caller, then his tone chills the air surrounding him.
“You have twenty-four hours to find out who targeted us on our wedding day.” His hand tightens around the phone. “Even if it was meant for my wife, they’ll fucking die for daring to come for what’s mine.”
The words slice clean through me. Realization hits like a shot of adrenaline through my veins.
I’m somebody’s wife.
And he’s taking this whole marriage thing seriously. Whereas I'm biding my time until I sign the divorce papers.
“Give me names and we’ll butcher the fuckers,” he adds.
A dozen thoughts crash through my mind—Roman’s warning, the flash drive he gave me, the Red Tribunal’s warning, the bullet that whistled too close to my skin.
We’re both targets now.
As much as I hate Kingston for merely existing in my oxygen supply, we’re in this nightmare together. I guess it could be worse. He could be ugly.
But no, he has to be infuriating and godlike with that coarse-haired jawline carved out of Italian marble, voice deep and seductive, and that storm-dark gaze that strips me bare, leaving me breathless.
Pushing past the flicker of attraction I’ll never admit to, I leave him in his den of threats and shadows and head for the kitchen, pretending I didn’t just overhear a murder plan.
I know exactly how the mafia works. I’ve lived and breathed that life and watched it swallow people whole. Which is why I wanted out. Why I flew to New York in the first place, chasing an illusion of freedom before my last name dragged me back to the dark side.
I don’t want a life built on fear and bloodshed. Never did. Even though the blood coursing through my veins is potent. Because my father’s hands are already soaked in enough blood to damn the entire O’Callaghan family tree, past, present, and future.
The blood on him isn’t just symbolic anymore. It’s thick. Sticky. Like tar. And it clings to everything he touches.
The kitchen is far from modest. Ridiculous, in fact. There’s all black onyx and brushed copper fixtures, glowing under recessed lighting and sunshine. The island stretches the length of the room, wide enough to host a war council or a last supper.
It’s a showstopper space designed for a magazine spread, not for actual use. However, that doesn’t stop Bronx Viacava from making himself right at home.
He’s perched on one of the tall leather barstools at the island, shirtless, tattoos sprawled across his muscular chest and arms like chaos captured in ink.
His dark hair is a sexy mess, strands falling into his eyes, and there’s a half-eaten bagel on a plate in front of him that looks wildly out of place.
His gaze flicks to me the moment I walk in—zero shame, all amusement. “Morning, Mrs. Viacava. Or do I call you sis?”
“Call me what ya want.” I walk farther into the room, drawn to the Manhattan skyline outside the window. “Except for Mrs. Viacava. That’s a title I’ll never respond to.”
His grin spreads as his rich chestnut-brown eyes drop to my bare legs and the oversized T-shirt swallowing my frame.
“Nice look, Mrs. Viacava,” he adds, full of velvet and mischief. “You always dress for breakfast? My brother likes his women naked. Means there’s plenty of places to eat his bagel from.”
Bronx winks and I roll my eyes, crossing to the island. “I’ll make you swallow that bagel sideways.”
He chuckles, completely unfazed. “Would you use your tongue for that?”
I shoot him a look. “Wow. So the rumors are true. The Viacavas really do keep it all in the family. Tell me, does Kingston take turns with your girlfriends or just steal them outright?”
“Baby, I have plenty of female friends to go around.” He smirks. “Want me to tell you a story about a hot night in Mexico when Kingston and I—”
I hold my hand up. “Nope. Absolutely not. Whatever came next in that sentence is a crime against my ears.”
He laughs again. “You sure? There were handcuffs involved. A few women… And maybe a hotel chandelier.”
“Bronx,” I deadpan, leveling him with a look. “Can’t you read the room? I have more interest in making coffee than hearing how the Viacavas share victims.”
He leans back on the stool, arms spreading across the counter like he owns the world.
“They weren’t complaining, baby,” he says, voice thick and flirty with something darker flickering in his eyes. “Most of them begged for a third round… And a few begged for two Viacavas at the same time.”
I blink. “That’s disgusting.”
He winks. “That’s legendary.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You’re a walking STD with great hair.”
“And dimples,” he adds, flashing both. “Don’t forget the dimples.”
I snort. “Please. Dimples are just hollow holes on a handsome face. Doesn’t mean I want to trip into one.”
Bronx clutches his chest like I hurt him. “Straight through the heart, Mrs. Viacava.”
I shake my head and pour a mug of coffee. “Maybe that’ll stop the talking long enough for the caffeine to kick in.”
Bronx throws his head back and laughs, a deep rumble that tells me he enjoys being scandalous far too much for anyone’s sanity.
But as the echo of it fades, his expression slips from lighthearted to serious.
Without another word, he slides a manila folder across the marble countertop toward me, fingers tapping once on the top like he’s waking the words beneath it.
“All right, Livvie,” he says. “Time to get caught up on the details.”
I flip the folder open and leaf through the contents, expecting to read intel. Instead, I find photographs. Brutal images. Grainy, high-resolution shots of corpses, their faces distorted, throats slit, blood pooled like ink around bodies crumpled in unnatural shapes.
One has a message smeared across the wall in the background, painted in something dark and wet that looks too fresh to be paint.
One king falls. The rest follow.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t flinch.
There’s a close-up shot of a severed head. A high-ranking associate from one of the old families. I recognize him from my father’s parties, which means he’s a family ally.
I stare at the image, bile rising in the back of my throat.
Bronx leans in a little, tapping the edge of the photo. “They’re not just making threats anymore, Liv. They’re making moves.”
I look up at him, my pulse pounding when he mutters, almost to himself, “Always said that guy had the palate of a raccoon and the class of a frat boy.”
I blink. “What?”
Bronx shrugs, deadpan. “He enjoyed shit cognac and underpaid whores. Honestly, if the Red Tribunal hadn’t hacked his head off, syphilis or alcohol poisoning probably would’ve done the job.”
It shouldn’t make me laugh. But damn, this guy and his banter. I should hate him, too. However, a surprised, choked giggle bubbles out before I can stop it. “You’ve no soul.”
Bronx grins, smug as hell. “What? I grieve in my own way.”
I shake my head, lips twitching. “You’re emotionally unwell.”
“Thanks.” He raises his coffee mug, gesturing a fake toast. “It’s taken years of practice, baby.”
And then my skin tingles from my scalp to my toes. The walls close in and the belly-flipping scent of Kingston’s cologne wraps around me. I sense his presence before I even see him.
Kingston moves in behind me without speaking.
The man just arrives.
His eyes flick to the folder, then to Bronx, then to me, holding my gaze for a beat before strolling past us, straight to the built-in espresso machine. However, the tension in his shoulders gives him away.
He says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.
“Told her she should read the file,” Bronx says. “Thought it was a good idea for the lady of the house to know what shit we’re stepping in.”
Kingston doesn’t look at him. “She doesn’t need you deciding what’s good for her.”
Bronx raises both eyebrows, amused. “She’s not exactly getting updates from you.”
Kingston turns then and locks eyes with his brother. “She gets what she needs. From me.”
The room goes still. Kingston’s hand settles on my lower back. It’s not a gentle touch. It’s a message.
I glance up at him, but his eyes are on Bronx who smirks. “Never thought I’d see you getting territorial over a woman.”
Kingston doesn’t respond. He just picks up the folder and flips it shut with finality.
“You always this grumpy in the morning?” I ask. “Or just when your brother makes me wet—laugh. I mean laugh.”
Bronx chuckles in the background but Kingston’s jaw ticks, no sign of amusement on his face. His fingers splay across my back and the pressure turns firmer.
“I’m not in the mood,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t in the mood for a dead-end marriage and a murder file with my morning espresso, but here we are, big guy.”
His eyes flash. “You think this is funny?”
“Nope. Not one bit,” I say. “You need to back up and give me space. Or are you threatened by the fact that Bronx makes me laugh and I have zero enjoyment in your company?”
His gaze drags down the front of my T-shirt, then back up to my face, his eyes dark and dangerous. The silence between us crackles and my veins pulsate.
“Take that T-shirt off, princess,” he murmurs, “and I’ll show you exactly what I do to you. Did you tell my brother how much fun you had at your wedding reception?”
A slow smirk dances on his lips. “If I remember correctly… and I do. My dick was buried inside your wet little cunt on the terrace. That, Livvie, was you very much enjoying my company.”
My breath catches. Not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
“Really,” I counter. “That was me making the best of a shit situation. However, I have no problem stripping in front of your hot brother… But wouldn’t you throw a tantrum?”
“I don’t throw tantrums, Livvie.” His voice drops an octave. “I make examples. You’d behave better with my dick down your throat and my brother knows you’re off-fucking-limits.”
Bronx chokes on his coffee from the other end of the kitchen and grins like it’s the best soap opera he’s ever seen.
“Well, fuck.” He chuckles, standing with a stretch and absolutely zero shame. “I’ll leave you two to fuck it out—or whatever version of marital foreplay this is.”
He tosses a wink and saunters off, the lazy swagger in his walk designed to get under his brother’s skin.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.
He smiles.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Livvie.” He thumbs my jaw. “I just want you to be obedient.”
I shake my head and let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Obedient?” I echo, cocking my head like I misheard. “You really woke up this morning, stared at your reflection in the mirror, and decided to be that asshole?”
His jaw tightens, but I’m already on a roll.
“What’s next, big guy?” I taunt, bumping my chest into his and loving how his pupils flare. “You gonna pat my head, call me your ‘good girl,’ and cuff me to the stove in nothing but Louboutins and diamonds?”
I tilt my head, smiling sweetly. “News flash: I’ve never been a diamond girlie. I prefer stringed instruments and meaningful conversation.”
He leans in, just enough to make the blood in my veins buzz.
“Not the stove,” he says. “But I could tie you to a piano and watch you squirm while I spread you wide and make you come over the keys.”
Kingston brushes his lips against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver through me. “I like these moments when you tell me your darkest desires.”
Cocky bastard.
I arch a brow and smirk. “Major ick, Kingston. You sound like a try hard villain in a romance novel that bored housewives hide in their knicker drawers.”
“Funny.” He smiles. “You strike me as the kind of girl who gets turned on by literature. There’s something about a woman talking dirty in an Irish accent that gets me hard.”
I don’t flinch.
But I do smile.
“Aw,” I whisper, my tone sugary enough to rot his teeth, “I thought you only got hard by the sound of your own voice.”
I bat my lashes, stepping back just enough to reclaim some space.
“But hey,” I add, tossing a wink as I turn toward the exit, “we didn’t sign up for chitchat about what gets your dick growling. Go pay someone to suck that monster off.”
His hand wraps around my wrist, spinning me back into him, and my spine meets the cool marble of the kitchen island. His other hand braces beside my head, caging me in.
Not touching. Not yet.
But there.
His firm body presses against mine, and the heat of him floods through me like he lit a match over gasoline. My pulse races. My breath catches. Because he’s too close. And I hate that I want him to push me to a place where I’d drop to my knees for him.
His mouth dips close to mine, his voice deep and intimate. “There will be no mistress.”
My breath stalls. His eyes drop to my mouth for a second, then lift again—dark, burning.
“And you won’t have anyone else either, Livvie. Not my brother. Not your shadow from the past. No one. Just me.”
The words settle in my chest as a claim. Loud and clear.
He pushes off me and begins to walk away like he didn’t just flip my world on its axis. Then he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
“That’s how this marriage will work, princess,” he adds, smirking faintly. “You’ll satisfy me, and I’ll sure as fuck make sure the building knows you’re satisfied. Wear a sexy little dress tonight, we’re hitting the jazz bar as husband and wife.”