9. Killian
KILLIAN
After a civilised flight, that most of us slept through on the plane’s full beds, we arrive at a luxury island resort only a few minutes from the small airfield where we land.
Private and discreet, it belongs to one of the London Mafia Syndicate, and it’s a leafy green tropical paradise.
The women gasp and coo over the stunning pool, the white sand of the beach beyond, and the pink drinks with cocktail umbrellas and little nibbles.
Someone pushes a glass of champagne into my hand, but I do nothing more than press the cold condensation to my cheek, and watch Avery.
“As an apology for Killian’s terrible treatment of you, there will be a spa and beach day for you to enjoy,” my mother announces.
My dad snorts, and I hide my smile, since this entire thing was planned by her. I just arranged for some of my friends to turn up. It was her idea to scare the shit out of everyone.
Avery held her own, though. I’m proud of her.
And I’m certainly not going to complain about seeing my girl in a bikini.
“All spa treatments are at your disposal,” my mam continues. “I do recommend the seaweed baths, as the seaweed is especially imported from Ireland. But there are also hot stones, and…”
I tune out, until the end.
“And there’ll be a candlelit dinner under the stars on the beach for the girl who showed the most resilience today.”
Mmm.
Minutes later, I wander out to the pool area in nothing but swimming shorts.
There’s no one else there, all having been longer changing, so I sling down my towel, and dive into the cool water.
It’s refreshing as it envelops me and I swim the longest length of the large, oval pool, before noticing movement from the corner of my eye.
Avery.
I stand up in the shallow end, where it’s only waist deep.
Avery has paused under the arches leading to the bedrooms, watching me.
She’s in the teal-coloured bikini I sent her, that shows off her perfect tits in a way that makes me desperate to touch them.
My cock stirs. She’s wearing that bikini for me.
“Avery.” It’s an invitation, and she takes it as such.
She’s looking at my chest.
I raise my eyebrows in challenge.
“I didn’t realise you had so many tattoos,” she says, a little breathless.
“Come and take a look,” I suggest softly. Just for her ears. “I can give you a tour.”
She gives a half snort, half laugh, but approaches, eyes on the Celtic knot tattoos that cover my chest.
“These are testament to my Navvy heritage,” I explain, pointing at the shovels, bricks, boots, and other objects woven into the Celtic lines down my arm.
“And the leaves and deer are for Highgate.” I gesture to my other arm.
I don’t bother explaining the knives, or the devil’s number that is twisted into every part. She knows.
She stares and stares, and eventually, smirking, I turn so she can examine my back too.
Then an unwelcome giggle intrudes, and the moment is broken.
Avery is my choice for dinner. She’s the only option for me.
We have as romantic a meal as you can imagine, and our conversation is easy.
Too easy. It’s simple to listen to Avery talk about her life, and I don’t even mind revealing the inner workings of the Archway mafia to her.
And after we’ve eaten every lick of dessert, I take her hand and we walk down the beach.
We’re not fully away from my parents, who are no doubt listening in somehow, but it feels secluded.
Intimate. Her little hand in mine as we stroll along the water’s edge.
She’s in the green dress I sent her, that sets off her dark-brown hair and skims over her curves, just as I envisaged.
And the sight makes me fecking ravenous for her.
She’s in that dress, belonging to me. She’s mine.
I’m holding that back, because this feels more dangerous than any gun fight. I don’t want to scare her off. Keeping it light. Or as light as a date after a simulated attack can be.
“I should ask you about important things on these dates.” Avery looks out at the water that sparkles under the moon. “You know.” Her glance says, “because I’m pretending, remember?”.
“Like what?” I can’t help being aware that my mother is watching every move we make.
“Do you want children?” She peeks up at me nervously.
I’m pretty sure I want whatever she wants. “Do you?”
“Not fair, I asked first. And besides…” She flicks her gaze towards my parents a short distance up the beach.
“Ahhh…” I half laugh, because I should have started this conversation myself. Then I could have her answer first. “Yes,” I say eventually. “I want kids.”
“But you haven’t married. And you’re forty.” She raises one eyebrow and we continue walking.
“I hadn’t met the right person.” I keep my gaze steady on her.
“There’s a part of me that knew I’d start a family at some point.
When I think about the future, I see it with a family.
That’s in my bones. But I…” I shake my head.
“It’s bloody sometimes. It’s dangerous. What about you?
” I’m keen to steer this away from myself, not least because I’m far more interested in her than my own messy life.
“I’d like to have kids. I thought I’d want to have a career first, and all of that, but it’s been so hard just to find a job.”
We share a secret smile, even as a thread of what a dirty bastard I am traces through me.
She is technically my employee, and I can’t stop thinking about how I want to bend her over and rail her.
Pull her down to the sand and on top of me.
Fill her up in every sense of that filthy word.
Give her any number of babies she wants.
“You’ve lost interest in the law?”
“I thought it would be a good, reliable job. That’s what everyone said it would be, but things are changing fast.”
“Kids are second choice then?” I ask, one eyebrow raised.
“No, just…” She looks down at her feet, scuffs the sand with her toes, then up at the horizon. “I don’t know. Everything seems out of reach. I thought a husband and a family was impossible, and a good job might be achievable. It turns out they’re both as pie in the sky as each other.”
“Unless you marry a hugely wealthy mafia boss who can give you anything you need.”
“Right, if pigs fly, I can definitely do anything.” She looks up, and her bright teasing is back.
“You’re in the competition,” I point out.
“I’m in up to my neck.” She shakes her head. “And how many kids would you want?”
“More than one,” I reply immediately.
Tilting her head, she blinks. “Why?”
“I was an only child, and I’d rather not do the same. Mafia families are isolated enough because of security, though the London Mafia Syndicate have fixed a lot of the concerns about knowing others who are friendly. I wouldn’t want my child to be alone.”
“Because you were?” Her expression says she has only just dared to ask.
“Yes,” I admit. “And the thing is, my parents didn’t plan it that way. I was a complicated birth, and my mother couldn’t have any more children afterwards.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Even in the dark, I can see that she’s sad on all my family’s behalf. It’s in the tilt of her head, and the sincerity of her tone. She’s so much better than I deserve, and I don’t care. I’m pursuing her, anyway.
“That’s partly why I agreed to this.” I wave my hand to indicate the whole situation of the marriage competition. “My parents aren’t getting any younger. My dad has moments when he can’t remember what’s happening. My mam has wanted grandkids for decades.”
I see the moment she understands that this isn’t only about me, and it’s good, but it’s also a lie.
Because she’s just for me. Choosing her, scheming so she’ll…
if not fall in love with me, then perhaps agree to be my wife for any number of other benefits, is as selfish as it comes.
I want Avery with my whole greedy dark heart.
“So you’d want children soon.”
“Would that be an issue?” I guess I could compromise on this. I would for Avery. But it would hurt to disappoint my parents. I’ve been their main hope for this family for so long, and if I didn’t have children, or didn’t have any while they could still spoil them rotten, they’d be sad, I think.
Her brown eyes go dark, and I smile. Because she can’t pretend she’s not as attracted to me as I am to her. She blushes. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“And how many times would I get you pregnant, love?” I croon, and her blush intensifies.
She bites her lip and thinks for a second, and my heart does a low throb of concern that I usually only feel when I have a problem with the Essex Cartel, or one of the London Maths Club are being twats.
“At least two for sure,” she replies, her cheeks still pink.
“Why two?”
“There were two of us, me and my sister.” She shrugs. “It’s a good number.”
“What about three? Or four?”
Her eyes go wide. “Four?”
“Five.” I let my gaze trail downwards in appreciation.
She pauses, then a smile spreads across her face, warm and light. “I think five is a better number.”