6. Lachlan
LACHLAN
Ilower Adriana onto one of the leather seats in the back of the cabin, arranging her carefully so her head is supported. She's unconscious, her face slack and peaceful in a way it hasn't been since I found her in that house.
I should feel relief. She's safe, she's here, she's mine again. But instead there's just this hollow confusion sitting in my chest like a stone. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
I slump into the seat across from her, exhaustion hitting me all at once now that the adrenaline is fading. There's nothing left to do except sit here and wait for the plane to carry us back to Chicago.
I thought she'd be grateful. I thought she'd see me standing in her doorway and feel the same overwhelming relief I felt.
I thought she'd throw herself into my arms and cry and tell me she'd been waiting for me, that she knew I'd come back for her eventually, that she'd never stopped believing in us.
Instead, she looked at me like I was a stranger. Worse than a stranger—like I was something to be feared.
I run my hands through my hair, tugging hard. My thoughts are spiraling, and I can't seem to get them under control. Across from me Adriana's chest rises and falls, and I watch her, noticing the changes ten years have wrought on the girl I loved.
She's thinner than she should be. I could feel her ribs when I held her, the sharp jut of her hip bones through her jeans. It makes rage flare hot in my chest all over again, because Gio did this to her. Gio kept her prisoner and starved her and forced her to pose for those fucking photos—
I have to stop that line of thinking before it consumes me completely. Mine, something primal in me snarls. She's mine, and he hurt her, and I killed him for it, and it still isn't enough.
Cormac moves quietly through the cabin, checking on Matteo in the back room. When he returns, he gives me a slight nod that tells me everything is under control.
Except nothing has gone the way I planned.
I thought I knew exactly how this would play out.
I'd infiltrate the estate, extract Adriana and our son, bring them back to Chicago, and she'd be so relieved to be free that she'd forgive me for taking ten years to come back for her.
We'd start building the life we were supposed to have, the life her father stole from us that night in the garden, as soon as we touched down in my city.
I was so fucking wrong.
She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't want to be with me. She wants to go back to that house, back to her brother and the prison she's been living in for ten years, and I can't understand it. I can't wrap my mind around why she would choose that nightmare over freedom, over safety… over me.
Unless she doesn't see me as safety.
The thought makes my stomach turn, and something twist painfully in my chest. I'm saving her. I'm protecting her. I'm giving her the life she deserves, the life we both deserve after everything we've been through. But she doesn't see it that way, clearly.
Fuck.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars, trying to relieve the pressure building behind them.
My body is starting to protest, muscles aching from the fight at the estate and the constant tension of the last few days as I planned this extraction down to the last detail.
Details that didn't include her fighting me every step of the way, or her son attacking me to protect her, or having to sedate her just to get her on the fucking plane.
Across from me, Adriana shifts slightly in her sleep, a small sound escaping her throat.
I reach out without thinking to brush a strand of dark hair back from her face.
She's so beautiful, even as exhausted and worn down as she is now.
She's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
My fingers trace the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her jaw, and I remember doing this ten years ago in the garden.
I remember the way she used to lean into my touch like she was starving for it.
Now she flinches away from me even in sleep.
The rejection cuts deeper than any physical wound I've taken in the last decade of fighting my way to the top of the Irish mob. I pull my hand back, curling it into a fist against my thigh.
"I don't understand," I say quietly. "I came back for you. I kept my promise. Why isn't that enough?"
I know I'm not the same boy who took her virginity in the garden. That boy died the night her father's men beat him half to death. The man I've become is harder and colder, more willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants. And what I want is her.
What I want is the life we should have had. I want to erase the last ten years and pretend they never happened, that we're still those kids in the garden who thought love was enough to overcome anything.
But we're not those kids anymore.
I glance out the window to see the lights of Chicago spreading out below us, and relief washes through me. At least we're almost home. Then I can make her see that this is right, that we still belong together. At least, I hope I can make her see it.
Right now, I'm not sure of anything.
Rian appears from the cockpit and moves past me to check her pulse and her breathing. "She'll be awake soon, and she might be disoriented when she wakes," he says after a moment, his voice low. "Confused. Possibly combative."
"More combative than she already was?" The words come out bitter, and I hate the self-pity creeping into my voice.
The plane begins its descent, and I watch Adriana's sleeping form as Chicago rises up to meet us. Home.
We land smoothly, and within minutes we're taxiing toward the private hangar where my cars are waiting.
Cormac emerges from the back with Matteo asleep in his arms, the boy's face peaceful and innocent in sleep.
He doesn't stir much, and I think he must have worn himself out.
I'm glad he's asleep, and that I don't have to try to figure out what to do about the fact that Adriana is currently out cold, or how to answer any questions Matteo might have about that.
"The car's ready," Tommy says, appearing at my elbow. "Straight to the penthouse?"
"Straight to the penthouse," I confirm. I lift Adriana carefully into my arms. She stirs slightly as I carry her down the plane's stairs, her head lolling against my shoulder.
I freeze, waiting to see if she'll wake and I'll have to deal with her panic and fear right here on the tarmac.
But she just sighs and settles more deeply into unconsciousness.
The drive to the penthouse takes half an hour, and I spend the entire time watching Adriana's face in the dim light filtering through the car windows.
Matteo is in the car behind us with Cormac and Rian.
I made sure they know to take him to the room I had prepared on the opposite end of the penthouse, far enough away that Adriana won't hear him if he wakes and panics, close enough that I can bring her to him once she's calmed down and we've had a chance to talk.
My penthouse is in a high-rise building near the river that I own. Most of the apartments are used for my men to live in, and a few for offices or storage. No one who doesn't work for me lives in the building, ensuring that I have privacy and it's as secure as it possibly can be.
I'm well aware, as we walk inside, how masculine the entire place is—it's all luxuriously furnished and updated, but everything is in darker tones, with leather and wood and iron throughout.
But Adriana can do whatever she wants to the place, once she settles in—I won't care.
This is her home now, too, and I want her to feel that she can change whatever she likes to her heart's content.
I carry her past the gleaming kitchen and the spotless living room, up the stairs to the room I had prepared for her. As much as I want her in my room and my bed right away—tonight—I know she might need a little time to adjust. I don't want her to feel forced into anything; I never have.
In the room, I set her down on the bed, catching a glimpse of the dress hanging inside the closet through the slightly open door.
It's white silk and lace, elegant and understated because I remember she never liked anything too ostentatious.
I had it custom-made based on what I remember of her measurements from ten years ago, and looking at it now, I realize it's probably too big.
She's lost so much weight it won't fit properly.
Another thing I got wrong.
I lay her on the bed carefully, arranging her so she's comfortable, and then I just stand there looking at her—this woman who is simultaneously everything I remember and nothing like I expected. I don't know what to do or how to fix this, how to make her see that I'm not the enemy.
Her eyes flutter.
Shit.
I watch as she slowly comes back to consciousness, her breathing changing and her fingers twitching against the silk velvet comforter. Her brow furrows in confusion.
Then her eyes open.
For a moment, she just stares at the ceiling, disoriented. I can see her trying to piece together where she is and what happened, why she's lying in a strange bed in a strange room.
Then her gaze finds me. The fear that floods her expression makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
"Lachlan?" Her voice is small and uncertain. She pushes herself up on her elbows, looking around the room with growing panic. "Where—what—"
"You're in Chicago," I tell her, keeping my voice calm. "You're safe. You're in my penthouse."
"Your—" She comes fully awake, scrambling backward on the bed until her back hits the headboard, her eyes wide and wild. "No. No, you need to take me back. You need to—"
"I'm not taking you back." I take a step toward the bed, and she flinches away from me. The rejection feels like a physical blow. "Adriana, please. Just listen—"