Chapter 27
TIERNEY
The elevator doors glide open onto the penthouse level, and I step out with the faint burn of exertion still humming through my muscles, my skin damp beneath my workout clothes, hair pulled back in a braid.
I could have showered downstairs and then headed to Connors for dinner.
But recently I’ve gotten into the habit of returning to the penthouse, to shower in my bathroom with my things laid out on the vanity, the thick towels Bronx had stocked for me, and the expensive bottles of shampoo I never would have bought for myself.
It’s become a routine.
One I didn’t question or realise I’d relied on.
The second I cross the threshold, I hear male voices in Bronx’s office.
My husband is home and, by the sounds of it, so are his two brothers, Kingston and Reign.
Bronx’s voice drifts into the hall, and the sharp edge to his tone makes the hairs on my neck prickle.
“…they’ve had eyes on Tierney since she landed,” he says. “Those guys from the charity event, they were Murphy’s men.”
I move closer, keeping my steps light, and peer into the sitting room where the Viacava men are standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, their bodies angled inward, each of them holding a tumbler of whiskey.
“Declan still owes them,” Reign says. “The Murphys are creeping around New York trying to close in on us.”
Kingston exhales, the loud sigh edged with irritation.
“Murphy came to me himself,” he says. “He had the balls to ask for payment from us.”
My muscles brace as he pauses then adds, “I told them to fuck off. I don’t care if they wipe out Declan’s bloodline, I want to make sure ours is solid.”
I hold my breath and press a hand to the wall.
“Kingston,” Bronx says, and there’s something different in his voice. The man who laughed with me is gone. “You’re forgetting she’s my wife.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Kingston grits. “She’s temporary. Don’t start pretending she’s anything else.”
A slow, creeping chill spreads through my chest, chasing away the last traces of heat, and I become acutely aware of everything all at once. The sweaty Lycra against my skin. My pulse ticking faster.
I should step forward and say something, but I’m frozen in place.
“You should’ve had her eating out of your hand by now and feeding us everything she knows about her father and what intel that fucker has on us,” Kingston says, his voice ice-cold. “That was the whole point of marrying her, Bronx.”
My breath catches.
I don’t move. I don’t even blink. And in those racing seconds, something inside me breaks.
While Reign says something about tactics, my nails bite into my palm, and my mind replays Bronx’s hands on my face.
The way he looked at me in the gym when I laughed. The rough drag of his voice when he called me princess made it so very hard to resist him.
And in those moments when I thought we were connecting, he was just playing me.
My stomach twists with such force that I have to take a deep breath.
I swallow hard, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in my throat.
Bronx had an order to make me trust him. And the worst part, the part that slices deepest, is that he succeeded.
He didn’t just get close to me. The bastard learned exactly how to touch me to make me open up to him, to the possibility of us.
Heat stings behind my eyes and I blink, furious with myself for letting tears build.
My brain switches into defence mode and recalculates.
I’m not an awestruck girl who got dazzled by dark eyes and a few filthy words spoken at the right time. I know what men like him are capable of when they want something badly enough.
I was raised in that world. Trained in it. Built by it.
Despite all that, this fucking hurts.
Somewhere between Bucharest and New York, between the fights and the laughter and those moments when he kissed me, I tripped headfirst into his trap.
My ears are ringing now, my pulse loud and aggressive, drowning out everything except that one sentence repeating in a loop.
I move back and rush to the penthouse bedroom that had felt like home.
Memories flash through my mind in ugly, humiliating fragments.
Nothing here is mine. Not even the artwork I’d bought with his credit card or the robe hanging on the back of the door.
And this marriage was a fucking lie.
I pull off my damp clothes and redress in a pair of jeans and a sweater.
My phone is on the bedside table, and my purse is hanging off the chair. I grab both without thinking, swearing under my breath when the strap catches and slips from my shoulder.
Fuck him.
Fuck the Viacavas.
I head straight to the safe in the closet, punch in the numbers, pull out a wad of paper notes, and swap them for the credit card in my purse.
The conversation in the office continues, but I don’t stop to listen. I’ve heard enough and those men can go fuck themselves.
By the time I’m at the front door, my chest is tight with the effort of holding myself together. I pray none of them walk out and find me full of so much humiliation I could choke on it.
The worst part isn’t knowing Bronx made me look like a fool.
It’s that I made it so damn easy for him.
I gave him permission to charm me. I let him make me smile. Let him melt my defences. Let him make me feel like a wife when all along belonging to him was as far from his mind as loving me.
My hand closes around the door handle.
Then his voice carries down the hall, and I stop breathing for a second, every muscle in my back locking.
“I’ll get it from her,” he says. “Don’t worry about that.”
“You’ve had long enough to sort this out, Bronx,” Kingston bites back. “It’s not like you’re in love with the woman.”
My vision goes black at the edges. I grit my teeth and swallow down the lump forming in my throat. The only thing my brain is telling me to do right now is get the fuck out from under their control.
I don’t slam the door on my way out or even make a sound.
If they don’t know I was listening, then I have time to run.
But even when I escape the penthouse behind, I still have to wait for the elevator and deal with the security.
“Going somewhere, Mrs Viacava?”
“I left my phone in the gym,” I say, voice steady even though I could cry. “I’ll be back up in a few minutes.”
I stand there with my pulse hammering in my throat, trying not to look over my shoulder.
The mirrored walls catch me the second I step inside, and I hate the sight of what stares back.
A woman who knew better.
And fell anyway.
The thought makes me want to smash my fist through the glass.
By the time the doors open into the lobby, I’m breathing too hard. One of the security men straightens when he sees me heading for the exit, his attention on me.
“Mrs. Viacava?”
“Back soon,” I say in a rush.
He says my name again, louder this time, but the revolving doors are already turning. The city street hits me with cold air and people moving in all directions with coffees in hand and phones pressed to their ears.
Compared to Dublin, everything here feels bigger, brighter, and harsher. Horns blare. A bike messenger curses at a taxi. Somewhere nearby, a siren cuts through the air and keeps going.
I’m walking without knowing where to go. After a few blocks, I pull out my phone and call Connor. I was meant to have dinner with him after my gym session and now I’m wandering the streets with a pain in my chest.
When he doesn’t pick up, I try again and leave a voice message, telling him to call me back.
A black SUV crawls along the curb, and my instincts flare. I bet the security told Bronx I left… and this damn phone will have a tracker on it.
I cut down the next side street, tap Connor’s number and call him again. When he doesn’t pick up, I wait for the beep.
“Con. Leave the condo. Find a hotel to lie low in. Bronx is a liar. I think I’m being followed, so I’ll call you when I can.”
Then I end the call, glance behind me and toss the phone into a dumpster on my way past. Neither of us will step foot in Bronx’s condo again.
After a few more blocks, I gravitate to a bar on the corner that looks like somewhere people go when they want to be left the hell alone.
So I check over my shoulder, wait for a few seconds, and then push inside.
The stench of stale booze hits first, and then the smoke of a lit cigar wafts over from a guy sitting alone at the bar. There’s a couple in a corner booth getting handsy and knocking back shots.
I take the end seat at the bar where I can see the door and hang my purse across my chest.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“Vodka and coke.”
She pours a healthy measure into a glass, splashes in a watery brown soda and slides it toward me. I knock half of it back in one gulp and wipe my mouth.
Even though it tastes vile, I finish it and ask for another.
For half an hour, I just sit there with the glass in my hand and the music rising and falling around me, trying to process everything.
My da never mentioned the Murphy debt to me, which means he doesn’t just owe them a few quid. I need to contact Connor, book us a flight home to Dublin and hide out in a safe house until I can figure out my next move.
The bartender sets down a bowl of nuts I didn’t ask for. I ignore them. My stomach is in knots, and the cheap vodka is sitting in it like fuel waiting for a spark.
“Another?” the bartender asks.
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m good.”
I pull out a hundred-dollar bill because it's the smallest I have and set it on the counter. “That’s for the drinks. And if you’ve got a phone with an internet connection, I’ll need to use that too.”
The bartender looks at the money as she dries a glass. “I’m sure I could lend you my phone for a few minutes. As long as you aren’t bringing trouble to my door?”
I drop off the stool and check for the toilet sign. “Nah, I just need to call my brother to come pick me up. I lost my phone.”
“Fine,” she says. “Make sure you wash your hands after you use the toilet. I don’t want germs on my phone.”
“That’s why I don’t eat bar nuts.” I nod at the bowl before walking away. “Gross.”
I head into a corridor, find the bathroom door and take a long, steadying breath in the quiet space.
“You fucking idiot,” I whisper to my reflection. “Rule number one. Don’t catch feelings for the enemy.”
The words barely leave my mouth before the door opens.
My head snaps up, and I turn, but not fast enough.
A hand clamps over my mouth and nose. Another arm bands across my waist and jerks me into a solid chest.
I drive my elbow back on instinct, but whoever has me doesn’t loosen their grip, and the cloth pressed over my face stays in place.
Panic detonates through me.
I thrash, kick, claw for leverage, but there’s no room, no angle, no time. My shoulder slams into the sink. My trainers squeal against the tile underfoot.
“Your da’s debts don’t stay in Dublin.”
I fight harder, but my body is slipping out from under me now, the room blurring at the edges, the fluorescent light smearing into a white streak above my head.
The last clear thought I had was the cruelest one.
I ran from Bronx.
Straight into something worse.