Chapter 4
Sean
“Your dad wants to see you,” Seamus says, coming up behind me.
“Does he?”
The old man just shrugs. “He’s outside.”
My heart kicks in my chest. At least I have an excuse for looking like I went ten rounds with a punching bag. Except maybe the lip and the bruised face. Don’t think he’d buy that the bag fought back.
I grab a towel, swiping at the sweat stinging my eyes. My knuckles are raw meat, but the pain is a dull throb compared to the acid churning in my gut. It’s never good news when the king leaves his castle.
I pull my tee back over my head and walk out into the gray Dublin morning.
The chill in the air does nothing to cool the sudden heat under my skin.
His Rolls-Royce is parked at the curb, a silent, black beast that makes the rest of the street look cheap and grimy.
The back door opens, and I slide inside.
His look of disapproval at my face speaks more than words could ever portray.
The door thuds shut, sealing me in with the scent of expensive leather and my father’s quiet rage.
The silence is a physical thing, pressing in on me from all sides.
He doesn’t speak, just stares out the tinted window at the grim streetscape.
It’s his signature move. The long, drawn-out silence that makes a man want to confess to sins he hasn’t even committed yet.
“Oisin Murphy,” he says finally, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the seat. It’s not a question.
Fucking Liam. “We had a disagreement,” I say, my voice raspy.
“You cost me thirty thousand euros to settle that disagreement this morning, and another five to the owner of The Copper Lantern for the damages.” He turns his head slowly, and his cold blue eyes rake over my split lip and bruised cheek. “You’re an expense, Sean.”
I clench my jaw, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say that won’t make it worse.
He reaches into his jacket, but instead of a weapon, he pulls out a single sheet of paper and drops it on the seat between us.
“I’ve made a new arrangement. To secure an alliance with the O’Byrnes, and to bring back some of the cash I’ve spent on you over the years.
It doesn’t cover it, but it’s a fucking start. ”
I glance down. It’s a marriage license. My name is already typed on one line. Next to it, a name that makes the air leave my lungs. Ciara O’Byrne.
A harsh, disbelieving laugh escapes me. “You’re fucking joking.”
His gaze is flat, devoid of any humor. “You’ll marry Donal O’Byrne’s daughter next week for a hundred grand. Mine, not yours,” he states.
“Ciara O’Byrne” I say, bitterly. “You’re selling me off.” I’ve seen Ciara about. A perfect, untouchable doll with eyes that could cut glass. She’s the opposite of every woman I’ve ever touched, the opposite of everything I am. Cold, controlled, sober.
“Michael’s funeral,” I mutter, remembering with vivid clarity seeing her sidle in the side entrance, perfectly put together and composed. “That’s why you wanted me there.”
“I’m securing my legacy,” he says, his voice like chipping stone. “Something you seem determined to piss away. O’Byrne and I have come to an agreement. Terms that we both find acceptable.”
“And Ciara and I are just the collateral damage.”
“Damage, no doubt,” Connor repeats. “In your case, anyway. She is a good girl. She will do her duty. You will treat her well.”
“And you get a hundred grand for your trouble. Convenient.”
“It’s a down payment on what you owe me,” he says, his gaze never wavering. “This is happening, Sean. You will show up, you will say your vows, and you will not embarrass me.”
He doesn’t say “or else.” He doesn’t have to. The threat hangs in the air between us, heavier than any spoken word.
“Sign it.” He hands me a pen.
I stare at it for a long moment. Neither of us speaks. Ciara has already signed it. A good girl who has done her duty.
My fingers, stiff and bloody, close around the pen. It feels heavier than a fucking gun. Her signature is an elegant autograph, not a single wasted stroke. Perfect. Just like her. A perfect little soldier for her father, and now for mine.
I press the nib to the paper, the scratch of it loud in the suffocating quiet of the Rolls. My signature is a jagged, angry scrawl, a black mark against her pristine one. A promise of the mess I’m about to make of her life.
“Happy now?” I ask, shoving the license and pen back at him.
“Content,” he corrects without a flicker of emotion. “The wedding is next Monday. You will be sober. You will be on time. You will consummate the marriage at the earliest possible opportunity.”
The car door clicks unlocked. My dismissal. I don’t need to be told twice. I shove the door open and get out, not looking back as the Rolls-Royce pulls silently away from the curb, leaving me standing in its wake.
Next Monday. I have less than a week of freedom left before I’m shackled in an arranged marriage with a woman who looks like everything I will ruin and destroy.
I turn and walk back into the gym, not to hit the bag, but to grab my keys. The only thing that can dull the edges of this new, gilded cage is a bottle. Or three. Seamus watches me go, a knowing look on his old, battered face. He knows where I’m headed. Everyone always fucking knows.
But this time, I don’t bother with the pub. It’s messy, it’s a pain in the arse to get home, I’m always being watched, judged, and I can’t ever really drink enough to bring about oblivion. Maybe that’s why I do it. Maybe that’s why I don’t usually drink at home.
Today, that is the only place I want to be. In six days, my new bride will be walking through those doors, and I can’t decide if I want to burn it to the ground before she gets here or let her watch me do it.
I gun the Bentley through the city streets, the engine a low growl that does fuck all to soothe the beast clawing at my insides.
A hundred grand. He sold me for a fucking hundred grand.
Less than I lost at that poker game with Harrington.
The irony is a bitter fucking pill, and I intend to wash it down with the most expensive whisky I own.
My apartment is just as I left it, clean and cold, a mausoleum Millie keeps polished. I head straight for the bar in the living room. It’s stocked with the good stuff. I grab a bottle of twenty-one-year-old Glenfiddich, not bothering with a glass.
The first swallow is fire, a clean, sharp burn that cuts through the rage and leaves a trail of welcome numbness.
I wander over to the window, the bottle heavy in my hand, and stare down at the city.
Somewhere down there, Ciara O’Byrne is probably doing yoga or some other disciplined shit, completely unaware that her perfect little world is about to collide with a fucking train wreck.
Or maybe she is fully aware, and she’s agreed to it anyway.
“Good girl,” I mutter and take another pull from the bottle. The amber liquid slides down my throat, a warm promise of the oblivion to come. I wonder what she’s thinking right now.
I drain a quarter of the bottle. It’s not enough.
It doesn’t burn away the image of her perfect signature on that license.
A raw sound, half-laugh, half-growl, rips from my throat.
I hurl the half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich across the room.
It smashes against the opposite wall, a beautiful explosion of glass and amber liquid.
The whisky trails down the pristine white paint, ruining it.
The sharp, alcoholic scent fills the air, and for a second, it feels better. It feels right.
I reach for another bottle and, already swaying on my feet, I crack it open and press it to my lips, taking a mouthful and swallowing it quickly.
I sit heavily on the sofa and lean my head back to stare at the ceiling.
I wonder if she will try to change me, or if this will be a marriage in name only, and she won’t give a fuck.
She can go about her business, I’ll go about mine.
I take another pull from the bottle, and my vision swims. This is quick.
It’s quick and painless. This is what I can’t do in the pub with people watching.
Another pull and my head spins.
The room swings around into a soft, meaningless haze.
A marriage in name only. Yeah, right. I know my father.
I know how these things work. He wants an heir.
Another fucking heir to carry on the O’Neill name, as if the first one isn’t perfect enough.
The thought of putting my hands on Ciara O’Byrne, of tainting her perfect, controlled world with my brand of chaos, is both repulsive and grimly fascinating.
I take another long pull from the bottle.
The whisky is tasteless now, just fuel for the fire.
The bottle slips from my grasp, thudding onto the plush rug and spilling a dark, amber puddle that will stain the cream wool.
I don’t have the strength to pick it up.
I don’t have the strength for anything. I close my eyes.
The blackness is a welcome friend, a soft blanket pulling me under.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I just won’t wake up.