2. Simone
SIMONE
I keep the smile on my face, as if nothing of the sort has occurred to me. "Mr. O'Malley," I say, nodding to the older man. "And… Mr. O’Malley.” I nod to the younger man as well. “Welcome to Miami."
"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Russo," Finnegan O'Malley replies, his voice carrying a thick Irish accent, enough to make me think he might be first-generation. "Please accept our condolences on your father's passing."
I murmur my thanks, but my attention keeps drifting to his son, to Tristan, who still hasn't spoken.
He's studying me with an intensity that makes me feel like he's cataloging every detail of my appearance, every micro-expression that crosses my face. It's unnerving, making my stomach squirm and my skin prickle, and I hate it. I hate that he’s looking as if he’s assessing me, like he owns me already and wants to know if his purchase will be worth it.
I can feel a thread of discomfort running through the room, too. Every other man here has likely realized the same thing I have. And they know, now that Konstantin is here, that none of them can say a word against it.
None of them have the power to. And they were all fools to think they ever had a chance at grasping my father’s power.
"And you, Mr. O'Malley," I say, forcing myself to redirect my attention to the older Irishman. "What brings you to Miami?”
Finnegan O’Malley smiles, not quite predatorily.
More like an old lion, I think, baring his teeth and knowing that’s all he’ll need to do.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Konstantin cuts in.
He’s still on top, I think, making note of the power structure within this room.
The O’Malleys answer to Konstantin, that much is clear .
“Opportunity,” Konstantin cuts in. "Your father's death has created a power vacuum. We're here to discuss how that vacuum might be filled.”
The bluntness of his statement makes the other men in the room shift uncomfortably.
Usually, in a varied gathering such as this, such things are usually discussed in euphemisms, in coded language.
But Konstantin appears to want to get right to the point.
I guess I can’t blame him—I imagine he’d rather be at home, with his wife, than sitting in this mausoleum of a home and discussing the future with the daughter of his dead enemy.
"I see," I say carefully, keeping my voice level despite the way my heart is racing. "And what do you have in mind?”
“We’ll get to that.” Konstantin looks around the room. “I’d like to hear why these others have decided to stop by today.”
It’s a clear gauntlet, an opportunity for them to challenge what he has planned, if any of them have the balls to do it. I know they won’t. None of them are brave enough to stand up to Konstantin, particularly after what happened to my father.
What Konstantin has decided is what will happen, and all I can do is sit here, sweat beading on the back of my neck despite the arctic chill of the expensive air-conditioning, and wait to find out my fate.
—
What follows is perhaps the most humiliating hour of my life.
I sit in my own living room, in the house where I was born and raised, and listen to eight men discuss my future as if I'm not even present.
They speak around me, over me, occasionally about me, but never to me.
It's as if I'm a piece of furniture, a valuable antique that needs to be appraised and allocated to its new owner.
Tony is the only one who has the balls—surprisingly—to suggest to Konstantin that, after so many years of working closely with my father, marrying me to his son has the highest likelihood of keeping things running smoothly.
I have absolutely no desire to marry his son, who is short, beady-eyed, and already losing his hair despite being in his early thirties at most, but I’m not consulted.
I’m not consulted about any of it, and I can feel the anger building in my chest, a slow ember that catches flame with every ticking minute that goes past without anyone asking my opinion.
The others don’t suggest that they should get me.
They talk to Konstantin about ways they can continue to serve the Russo interests even after those interests are held by a man with a different last name.
They talk about my inheritance, my properties, my future as if those things are theirs to distribute.
As if I’m theirs to distribute. Through it all, Konstantin sits in silence, listening with the patient attention of a king holding court.
Finnegan O'Malley occasionally nods or makes a noncommittal sound, but his contribution to the conversation is minimal.
He's here as an observer, I realize, not a participant.
But Tristan is different.
I can’t help glancing at him in my periphery as the conversations continue on with all the excitement of lords holding court in Parliament.
He stands silently just behind his father’s chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, suit tugging at his arms as the muscle there strains against the perfect tailoring.
He doesn't join in the discussion, doesn't make his own case for why he should be the one to claim me and my father's empire. Instead, he waits with the lazy confidence of a man who knows he’s already won a game that everyone else is still playing.
There's something in his posture, in the way he watches me, that suggests he knows something the others don't.
My heart trips in my chest, anxiety chilling my veins.
Every time one of the other men mentions my "future" or my "situation," Tristan's lips curve into a slight smile.
Not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Possessive.
As if he's already aware of how this is going to end, and he's simply waiting for everyone else to catch up.
It makes me hate him, in particular. The other men are dogs fighting over a feast, but Tristan is behaving as if the feast is beneath him. Or as if, perhaps, there’s a different feast waiting for him that no one else will get to partake in.
My blood boils every time I look at him.
When Tony speaks up, suggesting to Konstantin that I would benefit from “strong masculine guidance in these difficult times,” I want to punch him in the face.
When Marco calls me “delicate,” I want to claw his eyes out and see how delicate he thinks that is.
It’s laughable that these men think I’ve been raised around violence and somehow remained as pure and fragile as a newly opened flowerbud, that I’m incapable of any of the rage or fury or bloodlust that they all have in spades.
When Riko says that he’s sure I’m “grateful” for so many strong men in the room to lead me through this delicate stage in my life, something snaps in my brain.
"Excuse me." My voice cuts through the conversation like a blade.
The room falls silent. Seven pairs of eyes turn to me—Tristan has never stopped looking at me—and I see surprise on the faces of the five lesser men who came here to see if they could elevate themselves through marrying me or arranging my marriage.
Finnegan looks amused. Konstantin looks irritated that I’ve interrupted, which is perhaps the most dangerous of the expressions, but I’m beginning to care less.
I’m tired of being talked about like an exhibit.
"I'm sitting right here," I continue, my tone carefully controlled despite the fury burning in my chest. "If you're going to discuss my future, perhaps you could do me the courtesy of including me in the conversation."
Tony has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I’m sorry, Miss Russo?—”
"No, you’re not," I interrupt. "You meant to talk about me as if I'm not here, as if I'm a piece of property to be divided up among you. But I am here, and I am not property."
Marco shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Simone, you have to understand, this is how these things are done. Your father would have?—"
"My father is dead," I snap. "And regardless of how he would have handled this, I am the one sitting here now. I am the one who inherited his empire. And I am the one you're all so eager to marry off to the highest bidder."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can practically hear the wheels turning in their heads as they try to figure out how to respond to this unexpected show of defiance.
In this world, women are supposed to be seen and not heard, especially in matters of business.
The fact that I'm pushing back against their assumptions is clearly throwing them off balance. Konstantin’s irritation is visibly growing, though I happen to know for a fact that it’s not because I’m a woman and speaking out of turn.
The woman he chose to marry is proof enough of that.
It’s because my outburst is keeping him here, and I’m sure he already wants to be gone.
Tristan chuckles from where he stands behind his father’s chair, a deep, rich sound coming from the depths of his throat, and when I whip my head around to look at him, I see him watching me with obvious amusement.
His green eyes glint with pleasure, and there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Am I entertaining you?” I snap, and he smirks.
"Fiery," he murmurs, his voice low and appreciative. "I like that."
The casual way he says it, as if he's commenting on a horse he's considering purchasing, makes my temper flare even hotter.
"I wasn't performing for your benefit, Mr. O'Malley," I snap coldly.
"No?" He raises an eyebrow, his gaze intensifying. "Pity. I was enjoying the show."
There’s unadulterated desire in his eyes. Even I, sheltered as I am, can see it. He’s looking at me as if he’s imagining how I taste, as if he can’t wait to find out, as if he knows that he will find out, and it only stokes the flame of my anger higher.
"This isn't a show," I hiss. "This is my life."
“Indeed.” He smiles without warmth. “I’m sure it will be an exciting life, going forward. Full of twists you can’t begin to expect.”