Chapter 21 Livvie
LIVVIE
Kingston lies beside me in bed. His face is relaxed in sleep, the harsh lines of power and pressure smoothed away.
A hand rests over his carved abdomen, fingers twitching occasionally as if he is still half in the dream or in pain.
I stare at him.
Not just because he’s beautiful, although he is, infuriatingly so. It is the other thing. The stillness surrounding us. The way his arrogance and control don’t exist when he’s asleep.
Without the weight of his name, or the shadow of his family behind him, he looks like someone else entirely. A man he could have been, if destiny hadn’t pushed his path toward blood and duty before he could even walk.
It occurs to me that Kingston never had a choice in who he could be without guns and family loyalty.
Following his reputation, I always assumed he loved this world, the structure and cruelty of it. And maybe he does. Maybe he thrives in it. But even if he does, it doesn’t mean he picked violence.
That thought lands harder than I expect.
Because he never had a choice, and neither did I. We were both born under the same weight. The same war. Ironically, I’m married to a man I was raised not to trust, and that same guy has somehow become the one person I feel safe with.
He shifts in the bed, a soft sound catching in his throat, his brows drawing together for a moment. I stay perfectly still. My hand itches to reach for him, to smooth the tension from his brow, but I don’t move. I’m already unraveling, and showing my weakness for him would make everything worse.
I’ve hated him. Fought against him. Tempted him. And touched him like he was a weapon and a savior in the same breath.
But as I study all of him now, with his muscular chest rising and falling under golden light, I begin to see him for what he really is.
A man shaped by monsters, who learned to become one before the world could destroy him first.
Breaking his trust would be a suicide mission.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, obsessing over every little detail of his body, when my phone buzzes once on the nightstand. I reach for it slowly, careful not to stir Kingston. The screen lights up with a number I don’t recognize.
The message is short, efficient, and cold.
112 South Pier, Red Hook. Noon. Come alone.
I read it again and again, knowing exactly who it’s from.
The Red Tribunal doesn’t sign their messages. They don’t ask. They instruct.
A warehouse on the edge of Red Hook would be the kind of place no one looks twice at. It’s the sort of spot you send someone when you don’t want them seen again.
I stare at the screen, trying to slow the sudden pounding in my chest. Whatever comes next, I won’t walk out of that meeting unchanged.
I glance down at Kingston again, thankful he hasn't stirred. I bite the inside of my cheek, considering his peacefulness. If he wakes up before I’m back, he’ll know something’s wrong. But I don’t have time to leave a fabricated story behind.
Climbing out of bed, I pad to the closet and dress in silence, shoving on a pair of black jeans, a hoodie, and sliding my feet into comfy sneakers.
I don’t bother with a full face of makeup, only applying a quick sweep of bronzer to make me look less hollow than I feel.
At the elevator, one of the guards straightens when he sees me heading his way.
“Where to, Mrs. Viacava?”
“Gelato,” I say, offering the faintest smile. “He’s craving pistachio. I’m going to surprise him.”
The guard furrows his brow. “We can have someone—”
“No.” I step into the elevator, turning just before he shoves a hand through, holding the doors open. “You want to be the guy who tells my husband he can’t have ice cream while he’s recovering from a near fatality? Be my guest, big guy.”
He hesitates, then gives a short nod and backs up. I hit the button to close the doors before he can change his mind.
Once they close, I take a deep breath and check the time. Rather than go to the underground garage, I jump out on the ground floor and rush through the lobby.
I can’t risk being tracked, so using a Viacava car isn’t an option. Not for this.
The minute I step out into the street, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up and move fast into the current of pedestrian traffic. Midtown is alive and loud. Perfect for disappearing. I walk two blocks before ducking into the subway, tapping my mobile phone wallet to pay.
The train rattles through the tunnels, the car full of tired commuters and tourists clutching shopping bags. I sit near the back and turn my phone off as a precaution.
Truthfully, I wish it was as simple as going for ice cream because the people I’m about to meet apparently rewrite the rules of our world.
And I imagine they don’t summon anyone unless blood is about to spill or impossible orders require action.
I switch lines at Atlantic Avenue and start walking to reach Red Hook.
The warehouse looks abandoned from the outside. A rusted metal exterior streaked with years of weather, one overhead light flickering above a heavy steel door. There aren’t any guards or surveillance cameras from what I can see. It’s the kind of place the city forgets on purpose.
Standing at the entrance, I take a deep breath. My hand hovers over the handle because deep down I understand that the second I meet these people, I’ll be tested to my limits.
I square my shoulders and yank the door open, stepping inside.
The air changes, becoming cooler, drier, tinged with damp concrete, dust, and something darker beneath. A long corridor stretches out ahead, poorly lit by a string of overhead lights.
At the end of it is a thick metal door left ajar. I push through the gap and tread carefully into a cavernous space lit only by a single hanging bulb. In the middle of the room there’s a table, long and steel-topped, with three seated figures behind it.
My pulse thrums in my throat. They’re already here, their faces purposefully shrouded in shadow.
They watch me in silence as I approach, and after a long moment, the one in the center leans forward.
“Stand where you are.” His voice is low, almost elegant in its restraint.
When I stop, far enough away not to see their features, he speaks again. “Your marriage was a contractual obligation.”
My back teeth grind but I say nothing, knowing my place.
“And yet,” the third adds, calm and cold, “you chose to protect Kingston Viacava. You took initiative. You intervened.”
The central figure speaks again. “There has been a shift. One we did not authorize. And now Kingston’s survival has complicated things.”
The next words drop like iron.
“To restore balance, he must be removed. By your hand.”
At first, I don’t know how to react. It’s like a fist punched inside my chest and stunned my heart. My mind refuses to register what he’s saying, as if the words are in a language I don’t understand.
But they wait, and as every second passes, I remember the danger I’m in by being here.
“You want me to kill my husband?”
My breath falters and when the question whispers into the dim light, something crumples inside me.
“It's either him or your father.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself. The word escapes like instinct, like reflex.
Silence stretches between us.
“You misunderstand,” the middle one replies. “This is not a request.”
Heat creeps up my spine, flushing my face, making my pulse hammer against my skin. My hands curl into fists inside my sleeves.
“You said the marriage was strategic,” I bite out. “I’m not an executioner, and even if I was, why did we need to marry if you wanted him dead?”
“Sometimes,” the leftmost voice says softly, “people fuck up and plans are adapted.”
I glance away. My thoughts are unraveling too quickly to gather. I can’t breathe around the image of Kingston this morning, sleeping next to me, bruised and bandaged and trusting me in a way neither of us expected.
I left Ireland to get away from my father’s violence and the dark world he sucked me into. He knew I wanted out. Knew I never wanted this. Yet he forced me to marry into the Viacava family and now I’m in trouble up to my fucking neck.
“You have twenty-four hours,” the central figure says. “It must be done quietly. No mess. No suspicion.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask, my voice shaking despite my best effort.
There is no answer.
Only silence.
The central figure stares at me, the whites of his eyes turning to slits as his patience thins. But it’s the man on the right who speaks next, his voice smooth and unshakeable, a man reciting a fact instead of delivering a threat.
“If you fail,” he says, “we will handle it ourselves. And the entire O’Callaghan bloodline will be next.”
The blood drains from my face.
He says it so easily, as if it’s already been decided. I stare back at them for a moment longer, the air thinning around me, my heart thudding so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
“Twenty-four hours, Olivia Viacava,” one of them repeats as I turn my back to them, hands shaking.
I leave without another word, darting through the doorway and back down the corridor. My sneakers hit the floor too loud, my breath scraping my throat like I’m being chased by the hounds of hell.
Outside, I throw a hand to my eyes, sheltering them from the bright sun. The wind hits my face like a slap and my lungs cramp. I move quickly, doing my best to put distance between me and the bastards who have the power to turn a good girl into a killer.
My pace picks up, but the panic isn’t just inside me anymore. It’s crawling up my throat, pushing out through every breath and every frantic glance over my shoulder. My thoughts are a mess, flitting from the parents who raised me to the man I dared believe could be my future.
I start jogging, even though my legs are numb. The industrial street is empty, lined with warehouses and chain-link fences. The air stinks of salt, oil, and the rot like there’s death beneath the concrete.
My hands won’t stop shaking, even though I curl them into fists and shove them deep into my hoodie pockets.
I cross a quiet intersection and keep my head down when civilians start appearing, going about their daily business. Even though the city breathes around me, my spiraling, murderous thoughts are invisible.
I should have brought a gun. Popped a few rounds into those assholes and spat on their corpses… but that's not who I am.
I am my father’s daughter, but I'm not his protégé.
A sudden awareness of someone too close has my instincts firing up. Given the morning I’ve had, I’m all out of fucks given, so I spin around and stare ahead.
Roman steps out of the alleyway, smiling a little as if he’s been waiting for the right moment to make an appearance. His hoodie is up, too, hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes drilling into mine.
“Well, Liv,” he says, swiping a thumb over his pouty bottom lip, “you’re a long way from pistachio gelato.”
My pulse jumps. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“Word travels.” He shrugs. “Your guards think it’s adorable how you're looking after their boss.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you following me?”
He tilts his head, mock offended. “That’s a bold accusation, Liv.”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving the penthouse, except for the guard outside my front door.”
Roman takes a slow step forward, his expression smug. “That’s exactly why I followed you.”
My spine stiffens. “So you are following me.”
“I’m keeping an eye on you,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Really? Because it feels a lot like you’re tailing me around the city like a jealous ex.”
A shadow passes behind his unwavering gaze. “If I were jealous, sweetheart, you’d know more about it. Although, I can’t say I’m happy to know that ballbag is fucking you.”
I roll my eyes and start walking again. Naturally, he follows.
“Do you always skulk in my shadow?” I ask, not looking at him. “My father hasn’t called me to find out if Kingston survived the shooting, and now you suddenly pop up like a knight in dark Armani?”
He appears to my left and gently bumps his elbow into my arm. “You’re paler than usual and obviously rattled by something. And you’re lying about where you’ve been because there aren’t any decent gelato stores nearby.”
I clench my jaw. “I’m allowed to go for a damn walk, Roman.”
“No,” he says softly. “Not on your own.”
A beat passes.
“Livvie…” His voice lowers, gentle and dangerous all at once. “Whatever you’re walking around with right now? It’s eating you alive. I can see it. Wanna tell me what’s going on so I can help you?”
I break eye contact, looking out at the skyline.
He doesn’t press further. But he doesn’t leave either.
I trusted him once upon a time, long before my father found out we were screwing around. We had fun together back when he was my bodyguard. However, our fling didn’t involve emotions or vows or wedding rings. Nor did it evolve into anything close to what I’ve found in Kingston.
Nevertheless, Roman was one of the good guys. He cared enough to risk his job. So maybe he’s the only one I can turn to for help.
“Come back to my place and we’ll figure it out together, Liv.”