Chapter 7
TIERNEY
“Hey…” I whisper down the phone. “Sorry to wake you. We need to talk.”
“What’s wrong?” Damien asks, his voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
I stare out at the Manhattan skyline blurring past the tinted window, miles away from home.
“We have to put travelling on hold,” I say, pushing down my disappointment. “That thing with Connor that I told you about… it’s bigger than I expected. I’m going to be out of the country for a while.”
“Out of the country? For how long?”
“Six months. Maybe more.”
Damien’s gasp shoots through the line. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“What about us?”
I close my eyes and press my head back against the seat. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t have control over this.”
“You always say that,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone. “It’s always your da. It’s always something you can’t talk about.”
“I know.” My voice cracks and I hate it. “And that’s not fair on you.”
“Tier…”
“I care about you,” I say quickly, before thinking better of it. “That’s why I won’t ask you to sit around and wait for me to come home. Truth is, I don’t know when I’ll be back. I don’t even know what state I’ll be in when I do.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing…”
“You’re pushing me away.”
I almost admit that I’m trying to protect him from my da… that I have to be cruel to be kind, but I swallow it because this guy deserves better than having to look over his shoulder every day.
“I’m trying to be honest,” I say instead. “You need someone who’s gonna be around all the time. This is who I am and it’s never gonna change.”
Silence stretches between us, and all I hear are his deep breaths.
“But I love you,” he says in an exhale.
My chest caves in.
“I know,” I whisper. “And that’s why I don’t want you putting your life on hold for me.”
“We’re never going to go travelling, are we?”
“I guess not,” I sigh. “I hope you meet someone who can be all in.”
“Tierney…”
“Take care of yourself, Damien.”
I end the call before my voice gives me away, switch the phone off, and toss it onto the seat beside me.
The Viacava town car glides through traffic, glass towers rising and falling in the window's reflection. I keep my face turned away so the driver doesn’t catch the shine gathering in my eyes.
Normal was always going to be a borrowed thing.
My da had me working through my teens so I had no close friends, and when I met Damien in his pub while I was on an undercover job, he looked at me like I was just… a woman.
Now I’m being delivered into the mafia’s playground, and I’m facing it alone.
Eventually the car rolls into an underground parking garage and comes to a stop. The driver steps out. When I reach for the handle, the door doesn’t budge.
Of course it’s locked from the inside.
A flicker of awareness slides up my spine, but I keep my expression neutral as the door opens from the outside and a suited man nods his head at me.
“Follow me,” he says, stepping back to give me room as I climb out. “We’re taking the elevator to the top floor.”
“How wonderful,” I plaster on a fake smile. “Must be thrilling, riding elevators and pressing buttons all day.”
“Ma’am,” he says, not smiling back. “My job is to make sure you arrive at Mr Viacava’s private residence.”
I follow him into the elevator and glance over my shoulder, noting the stationary shadowy figures dotted around. The Viacavas don’t mess around with protection, that’s for sure.
“Should I prepare myself for a warm, Italian welcome with limoncello shots and gigantic bowls of pasta?” I fold my arms and prop a hip against the handrail, ignoring my pale reflection in the mirrors. “A girl likes to know what she’s walking into.”
The guy stares straight ahead. “Mr. Viacava prefers private conversations.”
“Right,” I say, recalling the first time I set eyes on him. Just me and him in an elevator smaller than this one. “And if I decide to marry your boss, does that make me your boss too?”
A faint twitch touches the corner of his mouth.
“When you become Mrs. Viacava,” he replies, “I’ll be at your service.”
“Well,” I say coolly, “I’m Tierney Blake. And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”
At the top floor, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.
He steps aside, one hand gesturing outward. “Whatever you say.”
More men in suits line the hallway. One knocks before opening a door at the end.
“After you, ma’am.”
When it swings inward, I step inside, aware of the Levi’s and hoodie clinging to me while the apartment screams wealth far beyond the Blake legacy.
My boots strike polished marble tile as I move through the reception hall and into a vast open space where floor-to-ceiling windows frame New York City with a view like something on a postcard.
“How was your flight, Tierney?” a deep voice rumbles from the left, smooth as aged bourbon. “Did you get any sleep?”
My pulse kicks.
Bronx Viacava stands by a glossy obsidian bar, a whiskey tumbler in his hand, his gaze drilling into me.
He stands there in tailored dress pants and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the sleek dark hair on top of his head a little unruly in a way that clashes beautifully with the precision of his furniture in the apartment.
Everything around him is dark wood and leather, bare surfaces and glass. It’s masculine without apology and feels more like a lair than a home.
I tell myself his soul is rotten under that fine suit and those good looks. That he’s a man trying to control the shape of my future. Not some Italian fucking god pulled straight from every woman’s darkest fantasy.
I swallow and lock that thought down.
When I don’t answer, he pours a second glass halfway and prowls closer, making my heart pump faster.
“Come on, little hellcat,” he says lightly. “Let’s hear what you’ve got for me.”
He offers me the drink, and I take it because my pulse is sprinting, and I refuse to let him see it.
I take a sip and watch his pupils flare when I run the tip of my tongue along my lips after swallowing. “Your whiskey tastes like shit, Viacava.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, dimpling his cheek so it practically winks at me.
“First,” he says, stepping closer, “you’ll call me Bronx. When we’re married, you can upgrade that to husband.”
His gaze drifts to the glass in my hand.
“As for the whiskey… that’s a thirty-year-old, triple-distilled Irish single malt. I thought it a fitting choice to open tonight.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, cocking a brow at him.
“Because…” He lifts his glass a fraction, eyes never leaving mine, “we’re celebrating our engagement.”
A laugh slips from me before I can stop it. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“No,” he replies, slipping a hand into his pocket and standing there full of confidence. “Your father did.”
He tips his glass in a quiet toast.
“To us.”
I roll my eyes and take a step away, refusing to mirror his toast or feed his ego for even a second longer.
“Seems my da arranged something neither of us wanted,” I say, crossing to the windows. “Let’s sort this out like mature adults. You call off the engagement and I’ll give you the USB.”
His laugh slips over my shoulder. “The USB your father has already copied?”
Damn it.
I glance back and hate myself for the way my pulse thrums when he closes the distance and comes to stand beside me.
“And who said I didn’t want this?” he asks.
“Oh, come on.” I let out a huffed laugh. “You look like a man who breaks out in hives the second a woman says the word commitment.”
His hazel eyes catch the moonlight spilling through the glass. “Want me to strip and prove there’s no rash?”
“Please don’t.” I move my gaze to the skyline. “I have zero desire to see your herpes outbreak.”
He laughs, a genuine deep laugh and the deep rumble of it flames my skin.
“I can tell this arrangement will be entertaining to say the least.”
“Oh?” I glare at him. “I’m thrilled that dismantling my life is a source of amusement for you.”
“Perhaps you should reframe your opinion on that, Tierney,” he says, almost grinning. “Having me in your life will make it better.”
“Right. I’ll just forget about my boyfriend back home, who’s a real man with manners and decency, and pretend this isn’t about greedy men clawing for more power. If I have to marry you, understand that I will never look at you as the man I chose.”
Bronx takes a slow sip of liquor and widens his stance a fraction.
“Husband outranks boyfriend,” he says. “Mention him again and I’ll make sure that word stops being part of your vocabulary permanently.”
My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he replies, “that I don’t share.”
Something detonates inside me.
“Fuck you,” I hiss, spinning toward him and lashing the whiskey straight into his face. “He’s the one I want, not you.”
The whiskey splashes across his face and darkens the front of his shirt. For a second, he goes still and his pupils blow wide.
The liquor drips from his coarse-haired jaw as he stands there, breathing steadily, watching me like he’s recalibrating rather than reacting.
Then he drags his thumb across his cheek, looks at it, and smirks.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You Irish girls are feisty, aren't you?”
He kills the space between us in one confident step, close enough that the warmth of him brushes my skin and the hazel ring around his pupils thins.
“You hoped that would get a rise out of me,” he says, voice like gravel. “That I’d lose control, so you’d have to fight me again.”
He lifts his hand, brushing stray hairs from my cheek.
“Seems like you’ve been thinking about our first date, too,” he continues, gaze locked on mine. “Because I have to admit, the way you moved under me… the way your body twisted into all sorts of positions… that was fucking hot.”
When his thumb grazes my jaw, I flinch, clench my teeth and stay still, not giving him the physical battle he’s after.
“And as for the boy you think you want,” he says, the humour draining from his expression, “you’ll learn that a real man is way more satisfying.”
My pulse stutters.
“You’re mine now, Tierney.” He holds my gaze another second before glancing down at his alcohol-soaked shirt. “And let’s clear something else up.”
His knuckles nudge my chin to make me look at him. I throw my hand up and grip his wrist in a warning.
“You don’t throw things at me. Period.” The gravelly texture returns to his voice now. “You get one pass tonight because you’ve had a long flight and you’re adjusting to your new home.”
I yank his hand away from my face and he lets me do it. Though just as quickly, he snatches my other wrist and tugs me into him.
“Pull a stunt like that again, and I won’t be as patient.”
He releases me, steps back, and strips off the damp shirt in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the nearest couch.
“And patience,” he adds, eyes raking over me as his inked chest muscles flex, “is not something I’m famous for.”
“That’ll be the only thing we have in common,” I grit. “Touch me again and I won’t be as patient.”
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles, the hitch of his lips unbothered. The movement tightens his stomach and heat flashes through my veins before I can strangle it.
“Ah,” he says. “So we’re setting boundaries now.”
He steps closer, crowding me, and I refuse to back up, to let him think he intimidates me.
“You get to live in my penthouse rent free.” His face dips lower. “Use my credit cards whenever you like, and have the privilege of calling me yours.”
His gaze wanders from my lips to my eyes.
“And in return, I’m not allowed to touch you. Is that how you think this works?”
“Oh, Bronx…” I say, feigning a smile. “Do you really think I’m impressed by your penthouse or that I need money? I’m not some poor girl you stole off the street.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“And why would I ever call you mine? I didn’t choose you. This whole arrangement is a transaction, and it’ll be over within six months. I promise you that.”
“I can’t wait to hear you recite your vows with that fiery Irish accent of yours,” he says, tone taunting. “It’ll make the ownership official.”
His gaze holds mine.
“You’ll be my wife. A wife who owes me a debt for agreeing to this instead of sending men to Ireland to erase your family from the map.”
My stomach drops, and when his mouth brushes my temple, I hold my breath.
“Shall I show you to your side of the apartment, little hellcat?” he murmurs. “If we’re doing this properly, I’m sure you can wait until the wedding night before we share a bed.”
“We’ll share a bed over my dead body,” I say, swaying slightly, my head light and my stomach painfully empty.
His hands settle on my shoulders and, unexpectedly, his expression shifts.
“I’m into a lot of kinky shit,” he says, studying my face, “but that’s not one of them. When was the last time you ate?”
I shrug because I genuinely don’t remember. “That’s none of your business.”
“Come on.” His tone lowers. “I’ll see what my chef left in the fridge. You’re my fiance now, little hellcat. Can’t let you starve.”
He moves to tuck me into his side, an arm lifting toward my shoulder, but I duck low and slip behind him instead.
“I said no touching,” I snap. “And stop calling me that stupid name before I show you my claws again.”
When he pivots back toward me, I glance at his face, searching for the scratches I left in Bucharest. They’re faint now, soon to be invisible.
“Now that,” he says, a slow grin spreading, “that’s what I’m into. You can scratch your nails across my back tomorrow night when you’re wearing my ring.”
“Tomorrow?” I blink.
“Yeah.” He lifts a shoulder like it’s nothing. “Me and you in the courthouse at ten a.m.”
My chest tightens.
“Don’t worry,” he adds with a wink. “I won’t let you sleep in for your big day.”