Chapter 2
AOIFE
‘Rory Kavanagh.’ We both blurt at the same time, me with disdain, him with some sort of twisted sense of humour.
He shakes his head in what looks like disbelief, then lifts his glass and clinks it against mine. ‘Cheers, sweetheart. You just made the best decision of your life. The man is a walking red flag.’
My eyebrows shoot skyward. ‘He’s a walking red flag?’
Oh fuck.
Did I say that out loud? My mouth has a habit of moving before I can stop it, and there’s so much cortisol coursing through me, I can’t think straight. I’m shaking to my core, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I completely unravel.
From the whispered rumours on Greenhills, the shitty estate I’m from—Dominic Kincaid isn’t a red flag—he’s the entire red sea, crashing over the city, wreaking chaos and destruction, before taking whatever the fuck he desires when he finally ebbs away.
He’s the leader of The Syndicate, the biggest criminal organisation in the country.
His reputation is legendary and violent.
And he’s also the man responsible for my brother’s death—indirectly, perhaps, but his organisation supplies the city with drugs, which makes him as guilty as the dealers pushing poison on the streets.
The man is a killer.
I’m certain of it.
Every second month some gangbanger turns up dead on the streets of Dublin. It’s all over the news for a day or two, then the story mysteriously disappears until the next body appears.
‘Whatever you’ve heard about me, sweetheart, I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.’ He stares at me thoughtfully, stroking a thumb over his chin. ‘I definitely don’t hurt women and children. And I certainly don’t sell them.’
Sell them?
Is that what Rory does?
Fuck.
Dominic continues, ‘He’s a flash fucker, but trust me, your mother would’ve grown to hate him. Your father would’ve feared him. And he would revel in making your entire life a living hell.’ His ebony eyes drift to my lips again, and for some stupid, irrational reason, my stomach clenches.
However bad Rory is, Dominic Kincaid is the most dangerous man in Dublin—which is why I should get the hell out of here. ASAP.
But where am I meant to go?
‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’ He continues, and his ink coloured eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my legs tremble. ‘That’s why you ran.’
I exhale heavily, tapping my index finger nervously against my glass.
Maybe I should drink it—for medicinal purposes.
‘My father is one of Rory’s men.’ I omit that my mother is dead.
And my brother too—thanks to him. It’s not like he’d care anyway.
‘He traded me like a show pony. And yes, I gathered exactly what marriage to that monster would’ve entailed, which is why I bolted like a racehorse, and somehow ended up here. ’
His forehead furrows as he inches closer, hunkering lower across the bar counter.
The scent of his rich cologne, combined with the raw masculinity that’s radiating from him, steals into my nose and sets a shiver rippling over my spine.
‘You’re telling me you accidentally ended up here? You didn’t come seeking my protection?’
‘No offense, Mr Kincaid,’ it’s the first time I’ve used his name, and it feels weird as it rolls off my tongue, ‘but have you ever heard the expression “out of the frying pan, into the fire”? Trust me when I say, I didn’t seek you out.’
Although, maybe I would have if I’d thought of it.
Especially when he’s offering to shoot whoever comes in the door after me. The whole city knows he and Rory have been gunning for each other for years. I bet he’d do it without hesitation.
I shiver again. I’m not cold. It’s May. It’s twenty-three degrees outside. The sun is splitting the stones, and I’ve spent the last thirty minutes running barefoot through the city. Yet, I’m trembling like I’m in the Antarctic.
‘Dominic. Call me Dominic,’ he insists as his sharp eyes peruse every inch of me.
‘Well, Dominic,’ I pause, as his name rolls from my tongue. ‘I thought I could go through with it, then when I saw him standing there, saw the predatory glint in his beady black eyes… I just… couldn’t. So I ran. And somehow I ended up here.’ I swirl the amber coloured liquid around my glass.
His pupils bore into mine like he’s searching my soul. ‘So, it was fate,’ he muses.
‘I’m not sure I believe in fate.’ I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. ‘But I do believe in fighting for what you believe in and fucking over anyone who fucks you over.’
He laughs then, low and deep. ‘You might actually be my soulmate,’ he jokes—at least I think he’s joking.
‘So, what now?’ He takes a sip of his whiskey, then places it down on the counter.
I watch as he grabs an empty ice bucket, dumps it in the sink, then turns the tap on, sticking his finger beneath the water like he’s testing the temperature.
When he’s satisfied, he shoves the bucket beneath it and fills it.
‘I have to find somewhere to lie low. He will come for me.’ I exhale heavily.
Dominic’s entire body goes taut. He cracks his knuckles, slowly, one hand at a time. His black eyes blaze into mine. ‘Of course he’s going to come for you, look at you, you’re fucking stunning.’ He shrugs then, like he didn’t just hand me the biggest compliment of my life.
Heat flushes my face. Apparently Dominic Kincaid is a flatterer as well as a murderer.
‘How the hell did a nice girl like you end up engaged to a cunt like him?’ he tuts.
‘My father stole from him,’ I stammer. ‘Then couldn’t repay him. He offered me instead.’
His jaw tenses as he turns the tap off, glancing down at the half full bucket, ‘Your father is a fucking abomination.’
‘Agreed. But that doesn’t mean I want him dead.’ I sigh.
‘You don’t?’ He quirks a thick dark eyebrow.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘He’s weak. Selfish. Stupid. I want him out of my life—permanently. But I don’t want him dead.’
‘What about your mother? Why didn’t she put a stop to this?’
‘She’s dead,’ I admit quietly.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He bows his head in a seemingly genuine gesture. ‘What about brothers? Sisters?’
I glower at him, as Jason’s face springs to the forefront of my mind. My chest tightens. ‘I had a brother, Jason. He died when I was thirteen.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says solemnly.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘so you fucking should be,’ but I don’t have a death wish.
I frown as he lifts the bucket and carries it around to my side of the bar. ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper as he drops to his knees in front of me.
‘Taking care of your feet. They’re bleeding.’ He deadpans, like it was obvious.
The breath whooshes from my chest as he takes my right foot in his hand and lowers it into the warm water.
It stings as the water seeps into the open cuts.
I hiss, but it’s impossible to concentrate on the pain when the most formidable man in Dublin is crouching on his knees, sweeping his huge hands over my heels with a gentleness he doesn’t look capable of.
He tips his chin up to meet my eyes. ‘Does that hurt?’
‘No,’ I lie, bringing the whiskey to my lips. I take the tiniest sip, because this—what’s happening right now—is even more shocking than the earlier events of the day, and that’s no mean feat.
‘Good girl,’ he murmurs, his deep, gritty voice is thick with approval.
Good girl.
A hundred volts of electricity shoot over my spine. Those two words set something swooping in my stomach. Clearly, I’m in shock or something because the sensations he’s stirring in me are downright unhinged.
Fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The whiskey hits the back of my throat, but the burn has nothing on the way his eyes smoulder into mine. We stare, silently assessing one another for a long beat before he turns his attention back to my cuts, cleaning them gently.
Clearly I’m traumatised, because I should categorically not be noticing his huge six foot four inches of rock solid muscle.
Or the white fitted shirt which sculpts his broad shoulders.
The top two buttons are open, revealing the top of a frankly terrifying, but intriguing tattoo—an ominous looking black raven.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick slabs of muscle dusted with dark hair and prominent, masculine veins.
That’s some serious forearm porn he’s rocking.
The thick, black-framed glasses balancing on his strong Roman nose make him look like a dark, villainous version of Clark Kent.
The man is the word male personified.
No one has cared for me physically since my mother died.
No one washed me.
Held me.
Showed me any type of warmth or compassion.
Yet this man, this big, burly, murderous monster, is treating me like his queen. It’s utterly surreal.
Finally, when he seems satisfied, he grabs a towel from behind the bar and gently pats my feet dry.
‘Thank you,’ I blurt awkwardly.
His focus falls to my face again, this time like he’s committing every inch to his memory. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Aoife O’Shea.’ I take another small sip of whiskey. Again, the burn has nothing on what Dominic Kincaid is doing to my insides.
Of all the men in the world, why is the one I’m supposed to hate the first one I’m attracted to?
He’s the epitome of everything I’ve spent the last four years trying to escape from, yet an image of him on his knees for me for other reasons hijacks my head.
Yep, I’m definitely in shock.
‘Aoife.’ My name sounds positively sexual as it leaves his lips.
I’m sure there’s a syndrome to cover what’s happening to me right now. He might be a villain, but in this weird, fucked up moment, he feels like my hero. A blush flushes my cheeks.
His mouth curves upwards, like he can read every filthy thought in my head. ‘So, I have a solution to your little problem.’
‘Little problem?’ My hands have just about stopped shaking, but even the prospect of stepping outside this bar sets them rattling again. And that’s assuming he’s going to let me.
‘I’d say it’s a colossal problem.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache flares behind the backs of my eyes.
Where am I going to hide?
I have nothing.
Nobody.
Nowhere to go.
And on top of it, I basically signed my father’s death warrant.
Since I was a child, I’ve taken care of my dad. I cooked. I cleaned. I tried to keep him off the drink and out of trouble, which is a full-time job. One that I couldn’t commit to whilst working three other jobs to pay my way through college.
Getting a degree, and a decent, respectable job, was my way of escaping the hellhole I was raised in. All that time, money, and effort was pointless in the end, because when Rory does finally catch up with me, it won’t just be my feet that’ll be cut.
His last promise rings through my head like a warning.
‘Aoife?’ he snapped, rattling the door handle to the suite I’d locked myself in until moments before I was due to marry him. ‘You can't hide that pussy from me forever, wifey. Before this day is over, I'll have fucked it thoroughly, along with every other hole you own.’
And I guarantee he won’t show me an ounce of the tenderness Dominic just did. No, it’ll be brutal. Painful. Degrading. I’d rather die than go back to him.
Dominic pulls up a stool beside me and sits. His sheer proximity does nothing to stop me shaking, and stupidly, I’m not convinced that’s entirely due to fear. I take another sip of whiskey, purely because I don’t know what else to do.
‘How’s that going down?’ He points at my drink.
‘Not bad.’
Approval lights his eyes. ‘I’ll pass on your compliment to the Becketts.’
‘You know them?’ The Becketts are the extreme opposite to Dominic, Rory, and every other gangster in this city. They’re billionaires with beautiful wives, regularly featured in the society pages and on the front page of glossy magazines—not that I have time to read them.
‘Sean Beckett is one of my best friends. We have similar… interests.’ He taps his nose, then leans closer. I get another whiff of his intoxicating scent—citrus and spices combined with his own raw masculinity. ‘Shh, though, it’s a secret.’
I draw a cross over my heart. His pupils blow wide, then snap to mine again. He inches closer until our mouths are millimetres apart.
I know what he is.
What he does.
Yet I can’t deny there’s something utterly compelling about the bastard.
Like a vampire, everything about him begs me to lean in and drink him in.
‘The solution to your “colossal” problem is simple.’ He steals the air from my lungs with two tiny, outrageous words. ‘Marry me.’