Chapter 7 #2
The formal dining room has a teak wood table for twelve with white cushioned chairs.
Two of the walls are glass with stunning water views.
Right now, the sky is divided into two layers of pale pink and baby blue.
It reminds me of the first time I stuck my tongue in the sugary sweetness of cotton candy at the fair.
The one and only time my grandma got to take me. The memory is bittersweet.
By the time I find everything I need—including a handmade set of dishes the color of the ocean—and set the table, Sandro has returned with his brother Rocco and Gunnar—his six-five, blond Viking enforcer and BFF—and the energy shifts. Our girl time is over.
Their large bodies take up our space in the kitchen, forcing us to move around them. Sandro immediately wraps his arms around Lennon, burying his face in her neck while the other two men begin raiding the food.
Lennon smacks Gunnar playfully with an oven mitt, Sandro’s arms still wrapped around her middle. “Instead of sticking your fingers in there, carry it to the table.” She raises an eyebrow at Rocco who was about to dip a spoon into the sauce.
He chuckles and holds up his hands. “Carry it to the table, got it.”
I’ve witnessed the violence these men are capable of, patched up dozens of bloody wounds, so to see them soft and almost reverent toward Lennon gives me a different perspective. I pull the hair tie from my hair and let it fall around my shoulders. “I’m going to go get Mac,” I say. “Be right back.”
Mac has insisted on walking, using a cane instead of the wheelchair. We make our way slowly to the dining room, where everyone but Lennon is already seated.
My gaze immediately finds Killian, whose eyes narrow in irritation as he looks from Mac to me.
Of course, Lennon would invite him. I should’ve known. He is her half-brother, after all. Maybe after dinner I can talk to him about a job dancing at his new gentlemen’s club. I help Mac to the empty chair on Killian’s right.
“Da,” Killian greets him, ignoring me.
Then I stand there like an idiot because there are only two empty chairs left. The one next to Sandro, which would be Lennon’s, and the one on Killian’s left. Guess I’m sitting next to the asshole.
You need him, Sam, I remind myself. Be on your best behavior.
“Look at this feast,” Mac exclaims. “Smells divine, love.”
Caelian, Sandro’s cousin and consigliere, adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, smiling as he holds up his water glass. “Lennon and Sam, you two have outdone yourselves. Salute!”
Everyone joins in, thanking us and clinking glasses.
“Well, dig in before it gets cold,” Lennon says, winking at me, obviously pleased with our results.
The dishes get passed around, the Italian wine gets poured, the conversations and laughter begin to flow.
I hear Mac ask Killian if he’s set the date for the soft launch of The Lucky Sinner and glance over.
Killian nods and swallows a bite of food. “Next Friday. I need one more bartender but the bar’s stocked. I’ve got tryouts lined up for the dancers on Tuesday.”
Mac’s buttering a roll as he says, “Your cousin Quinn wants to come over to the states. You should give the lass a job.”
Killian’s head whips toward his father, a horrified look on his face. “Dancin’?”
Mac almost chokes on his bite of roll. Then his chest rumbles with a deep laugh. “God, no, Son. She’s pretty enough, sure, but that’s not the sort of thing you keep in the family. Bartendin’ maybe.”
Killian shakes his head. “I don’t need the kind of drama that comes with that lass, Da.”
Mac grunts disapprovingly. “Family’s family. We put up with more from ‘em cause they’re blood, yeah.”
I tune out the rest of their conversation, picking at my cuticle under the table. He’s already got the dancers lined up for interviews? I need to be in that line up.
As dinner progresses, I’m too aware of Killian.
His body heat. His stolen glances at me.
His darkening mood. I have to do something to soften him up before I ask him to let me try out.
Gathering my courage, I turn to him. Unfortunately, he chooses that moment to lick a drop of red wine off his bottom lip.
A flash of silver catches my eye. That damn piercing.
Curiosity piques and warmth floods my core.
“You’re staring,” he growls, without looking my way.
The heat creeps up into my face. “I… I’m not.” Jesus. I’m not. Eloquent, Sam. “I mean, I wanted to ask you to pass the salt.”
He swings his gaze to lock eyes with me and my mouth goes dry, my pulse quickens. His gaze holds me captive, and I realize how much danger I’m in when his tongue flicks out once again, running over his bottom lip, my attention moving to it against my will.
“Say please,” he whispers, so low, only I can hear it.
Anger licks up my spine like a brushfire. “Fuck off,” I mouth.
A wicked smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. He reaches over without breaking eye contact, picks up the salt shaker and holds it between us.
I slip it from his fingers, being careful not to touch him.
As warm as I am, I’m sure he’d be able to tell how he’s affecting me.
I must be ovulating. Yeah, that’s it. It’s well known that women are attracted to assholes during ovulation.
Stupid hormones. Stupid biology. I will not succumb to evolution’s feckless match-making.
I’m an independent, educated woman who can clearly see the game for what it is. Rigged.
He narrows his eyes, then goes back to eating like nothing happened.
Meanwhile, the moment is on replay in my brain, hijacking any rational thoughts I had. My mood is taking a nosedive. I push a piece of now over-salted chicken around my plate, my appetite gone as I listen to the banter around the table.
I should be grateful to be let into their circle, to be included in this mishmash of family. But it’s just making me feel lonelier. I dig my nails into my palm as Rona’s face swims in front of me, trying to erase the emotional pain of our separation with a physical one.
Stop.
I lift my wineglass to wash down the lump in my throat.
Gunnar suddenly scrapes his chair back with a yelp.
The table goes silent.
He reaches down, then straightens with an orange ball of fur clutched in his fingers. “Little fucker climbed my leg like a tree.”
“If the shoe fits.” Rocco laughs.
Gunnar shoots him a glare as the table chuckles. He runs a giant palm over the kitten, smoothing its fur, then gently sets it back on the ground.
“That’s Peaches,” Lennon says, fighting a smile. “She’s in her villain era.”
Gunnar quirks a brow at Sandro as he chuckles. “Lennon,” he says, still staring at Sandro, pale blue eyes shining with mischief. “Did we ever tell you how your big scary husband used to sneak off to shelters to cuddle cats?”
“Gunnar,” Sandro growls a warning.
Lennon’s fork pauses at her mouth, her eyes lighting up. “You did not.”
“Said it made him feel closer to you,” Rocco snitches around a mouthful of food.
“Christ,” Sandro breathes. “I’m still your boss. Airing my shit is still punishable by death.”
They high-five, with deep rumbles of amusement.
Sandro glances across the table at Mac, shaking his head and changing the subject. “Rocco caught me up on where we are with the investigation into your shooting. He tells me you weren’t the target.”
My eyes fly open. What? My breath catches in my lungs, and I begin to choke on a mouthful of water. Grabbing the cloth napkin, I hold it over my mouth, wheezing as I excuse myself from the table.
Once I’m locked in the guest bathroom, I cough until my lungs are sore but clear. My eyes lift to my reflection in the mirror. My face is red and blotchy, my mascara running. I really need to find a waterproof brand. But it’s the terror in my eyes that's most prominent.
Mac wasn’t the target? Could Michael have found me?
Could I have been the target? Why would he try to kill me though?
That’s not his style. He would wait until I led him to Rona and take both of us back.
To make our lives a living hell again. To torture me and feed off my pain like a goddamn vampire. That was his style.
As part of me tries to rationalize the possibility away, the other part of me… the intuitive part, still chews on the possibly Michael has found me.
I pull a wad of toilet paper off the roll and try to clean up my face with a shaking hand. It was a mafia wedding. Surely there were plenty of other targets there. Right?
I press a palm against my stomach, trying to settle the unease. All I can do is hope Sandro finds out soon who the real target was. If it was me, it’s time to run.
Dinner and conversation lasts another hour. The sun has long sunk past the horizon when people start to disperse.
I choke down a few bites of chocolate mousse and finish my glass of wine for liquid courage. It’s time to ask Killian to let me try out.
As everyone carries plates and leftovers back to the kitchen, I help an exhausted Mac back to his room.
Killian tags along. In the claustrophobic elevator space, Killian’s spicy, sandalwood scent and intoxicating presence is overwhelming.
I’m way too aware of my own pulse, my breathing is shallow, and I’m feeling lightheaded.
Mac is talking, but I can only focus on his son’s hands, clutched together in front of him, the tattoos, the prominent veins, the silver rings, and the scabbed-over knuckles. Violence. That’s all these men know. That’s why I have to get Rona far away from this world.
A stab of guilt hits me as I think about Sandro and Lennon. As violent as Sandro is, he’d never let anything happen to Lennon. Not without retribution. Her safety is his priority. In a world of monsters, I suppose it’s good to have your own guardian monster.
I snort at that.
Both men glance down at me. Killian’s pierced brow lifts. My face heats.
Luckily, the elevator door opens and we step out.
“I’ll have to take a rain check on a Love Island episode tonight. I’m afraid I’m wrecked,” Mac says as he sinks into the bed.
“No worries, it’s been a long day. Just get some rest.” I check his vitals one last time, then give Killian time alone with Mac.
When Killian steps back into the hall, he pauses, surprised to see me still there. Then he tries to ignore me as he passes, but I follow him to the elevator.
We step in. As the doors close, he turns to me, pinning me with a steady, assessing gaze.
I gather my courage as I meet his eyes. “I need to ask you a favor.”
He rocks on his heels and rubs the back of his neck roughly. “A favor? That’s rich.”
The elevator door opens too soon, and I end up trying to keep up with him as his long strides carry him through the dimly lit garage. I don’t catch up until he’s at his Mercedes.
“Killian, please,” I say, exasperation and exhaustion evident in my tone.
He finally pauses and turns to look at me, irritation and something darker tightening his features. “Go on then.”
I instinctively take a step back but hold my ground there. This is a matter of life and death. For me. For Celia. For my daughter. “I’d like a job on The Lucky Sinner.”
Confusion flickers over his face. “I don’t have any need of a doctor. Unless someone gets shot, then I’ll call you.”
“No.” I hold my hands out, then drop them when I notice they’re trembling. “A job… dancing. Let me try out.”
His body stills as his eyes slowly roam over my body. His jaw tightens, his narrowed gaze managing to look both pissed off and skeptical.
Suddenly self-conscious, I cross my arms over my chest. “I put myself through medical school on the pole, Killian. I’m good.” I try to add an air of confidence to my words, but even I hear how they fall flat.
The only sound is a boat roaring across the Bay waters behind us as I wait for him to say something… anything.
He runs his tongue over his teeth and then with a calmness that’s more threatening than if he’d raised his voice, he asks, “Why’d you lose it when you heard Da wasn’t the one they were gunnin’ for?”
“What?” The change of subject has caught me off guard.
He leans his hip against his black Mercedes, his stare now boring into me. His gruff voice is still whisper soft as he says, “You heard me just fine.”
“I… didn’t.” Jesus, why couldn’t I be a better liar? I sigh. “That’s not any of your concern.”
“Oh, but it is. I know you’re hiding somethin’… or from someone. If your dirty laundry almost got Da killed, then it is very much my business.”
“I saved your dad’s life, Killian.” Now I’m angry. And frustrated. And getting desperate. Which is making me reckless. “You guys would’ve let him bleed out on that lawn because of your idiotic need to stay off the books at all costs.”
His jaw tightens. He knows I’m right. What he doesn’t know, but is beginning to suspect, is I’m in the exact same predicament, keeping myself off the grid.
“So, I owe you, is that it?” he asks.
I sigh and feel the exhaustion seeping into my bones. I’m so tired of running, of begging. “No. If you do this for me, I’ll owe you.”
His gaze catches on my wrist. I’m wearing the pink beads and a silver charm bracelet with a Rod of Asclepius charm, the universal symbol of medicine. His eyes darken. “A serpent. Fitting,” he whispers under his breath. His eyes are glittering and hard when he meets mine. “The answer is no.”