4. Chapter 4
Callahan
These parties are fecking shite.
They’re nothing but an excuse to flaunt money and power, just a whole lot of socialites who hate each other, flouncing about and pretending to be people they aren’t.
I didn’t have the fecking patience for it. I sat at a table, scowling around and sipping an expensive, single malt Irish whiskey. My bride-to-be, a pale faced woman with plain brown hair whose name I didn’t care to remember, flitted about, basking in the attention and preening about her engagement ring. The ugly thing had cost me nearly three million but Elio, the pompous arsehole, insisted she would want something flashy.
While my bride walked around trying to look like a perfect mafia princess with her hair half-styled and makeup poorly done, an admittedly ugly designer dress draping her body in shimmery yellow material, I sat at this table with my jacket slung over the back, my shirt rumpled and half unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and my hair a mess from running my fingers through it.
“You look like shite,” my uncle, Lorcan, commented. He’d retired recently and since he had no heirs of his own, I had taken over the Irish Mob.
“That’s probably because I’m being forced to marry that strega,” I sniped, pointing at…Fran? Fanny? No, Fern! That was it.
“You will not be the first man to wed a woman he did not love. You only have to tolerate her long enough to find out what Elio’s plans are and then we can figure out how to end it.” Lorcan sighed, having given me this same speech three times already.
I didn’t respond to him, already as bored with the conversation as I was the fecking party. I watched Elio with narrowed eyes, noticing the sweat that dotted his forehead when a higher ranking member of the Cosa Nostra didn’t stand in respect as he approached. Interesting. I elbowed Lorcan and he followed my line of sight, a slight smirk curling his mouth. He raised his eyebrow in a telling manner. Perhaps Elio was not as respected within his ranks as we thought.
The string quintet in the corner began to play and I filed the new information away for later use. As the musicians began to play, a small woman dressed like a ballerina walked out of a curtained entrance and stepped up onto a small platform next to them. Something about her captured my attention like nothing else at the party had. She raised her arms and planted her feet in an unnatural-looking position before rising up on the toes of one foot and positioning the other leg behind her. She reminded me of a swan, graceful and beautiful.
She was dainty, her movements small yet fluid. She did a series of turns and leaps, the overhead stage lighting glinting off her white-blonde hair and glistening off the rhinestones in her fluffy skirt. Her shining hair gave the appearance of a halo and the makeup on her cheeks and eyes glittered in a multi-colored show of beauty. It reminded me of the Northern Lights.
Mo solas beag.
My heart hammered in my chest as I watched the girl I’d been sort of following for almost two weeks dance. I don’t know how long I watched her for but when Lorcan cleared his throat, I noted the song was different. I slid my eyes to his. His mouth was pinched, his nostrils flared and the crows feet beside his eyes grew more pronounced.
“Níl,” he said sternly. “Mo nia, that is a bad idea. We need this peace treaty.” My eyes found the little ballerina again and flicked back to my uncle.
“Not as badly as I want her, uncail.” My voice was not as confident as I had meant it to be, something in my gut trembling in the face of the pretty little ballerina.
“Want is a dangerous thing, mo nia,” Lorcan said, but I ignored him.
She danced through the whole party, her body graceful and never once stumbling. I could see her small chest rising in heavy breaths, a slight tightening around her mouth as she smiled at attendees admiring her from closeby.
Through dinner, drinks and late into the evening, she never stopped dancing, though I could see the strain her body was under. Her smile was tight and lined with discomfort, her eyes squinting with nearly every movement. There was no way it was easy to dance on her toes like that for hours on end. I found myself half-out of my seat when one of her spins ended less like the others, her other leg coming out of its position to catch her near-fall. She recovered quickly, sliding her body into a graceful backbend with her arms curled over her head toward the floor. Her torso extended and caused her ribs to protrude from her small, lean body in a pronounced way that had my cock twitching.
The music ended with that backbend and she stood, curtseyed and walked off the stage. She chatted with a few of the guests as she made her way to the table next to mine, where Elio and Fern were sitting. She spoke with them quietly before bowing her head and curtseying again. She turned away from them to make her way back over to the stage and the overhead light glared on the side of her face and outrage burned through me lightning fast.
Under the thick layer of glittering makeup was the beginnings of a black eye and a slightly split lip. Lorcan must’ve seen it too, because he sighed and muttered in Irish, rubbing his fingers between his brows.
I stood and caught her wrist as she passed. A startled gasp escaped her plump, bow shaped lips and her eyes flew to mine. We looked at each other for a moment before her eyes flitted to Elio’s table and she gave an experimental tug against my grip.
“What’s your name, mo solas beag?” I asked quietly.
She swallowed convulsively and tugged her wrist again, her eyes flicking around to be sure nobody was watching. Everyone was.
“It’s Rory,” she said sweetly, plastering a sugary smile on her face. “Thank you for the compliments. Dancing is a true passion of mine.”
Confusion swirled for a moment, until I realized she was trying to play this off as an innocent encounter. I had no innocent intentions for her. I hummed. “Rory.” I tested the name, my eyes scanning her face for more signs of bruising. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’d been so bored until you began dancing. Thank you for your entertainment tonight,” I said cordially as I pulled her closer to me by the wrist. When she was mere inches from me, I raised my other hand to brush against the split in her lip with a soft touch.
She seemed to flounder for a response momentarily, her eyes glazed slightly but still flitting around to the other guests. She tried again to pull away from me and I rubbed my thumb against the pulsepoint in her wrist. “It was Fern’s request to have a dancer. The wonderful idea was hers,” she said graciously.
“Oh, yes, my bride-to-be seems to be full of brilliant ideas.” I mimicked the graciousness in her tone, the mocking more clear in my words than it had been from her.
Her eyes widened and she yanked her wrist out of my grip, surprising me with the strength behind her movement. She glanced wildly at Fern and Elio, her eyes wide and her cheeks colored bright, before backing up a step, offering another curtsey and muttering, “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Byrne.” Her eyes didn’t meet mine again as she scurried off towards the stage and back through the curtain, her fluffy skirt bouncing slightly as she moved quickly through the crowded room.
Fern approached me and gripped my bicep, leaning her weight into my side as if we were a loving couple. My muscles tensed in warning but I ignored her until Rory disappeared behind the curtain she’d come from before the party. Fern huffed and squeezed my arm, her eyes narrowed at me as I sneered down at her.
Looking up at me, her eyes sparkling with thinly veiled venom. “Darling, why would you waste time on the entertainment? So, she danced? It’s her job.” She spoke as if being entertainment made Rory less-than, as if the entertainment didn’t deserve recognition.
I growled quietly, leaning into her face. “That little ballerina just danced for five hours, on her toes, because you’re a soith millte, a spoiled little bitch. The least you can do is recognize that she has more talent in one limb than you do in your whole body and, if it weren’t for the fecking contract, I’d claim her here and now, in front of everyone, and gratefully be done with you.” I didn’t bother lowering my voice and several titters and whispers broke out around us.
Her face transformed from the plain, boring woman I had grown used to and into something cruel and downright ugly. I pushed her hand off my arm and gave her a respectful bow of my head. “We’ll be taking our leave now, Fran. It’s getting late. We must have dinner soon,” I said with no seriousness in my tone. I turned before she had a chance to respond and several men, my uncle included, followed behind.
“IT’S FERN!” she screamed at my back. I smirked at my uncle.
As we passed the little curtain that led to wherever my little ballerina had fled, I muttered, “Wait for me in the car.” With all the bodies between me and the Marinos, I slipped behind the curtain with barely a flick of the material.
It was a small changing room. Rory sat on a white folding chair, her feet now bare and wearing nothing but some type of clingy material that reminded me of something a baby would wear. It left little of her body to my imagination, clinging to her skin and hiding nothing.
Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, obscuring her pretty face. One foot was pulled into her lap and she massaged the arch with one hand while she held a red-stained tissue over her toes with the other. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and pulled the tissue away before grimacing.
“Are you hurt?” My voice startled her, her head jerking up and revealing her face, now clear of makeup and marred by a blue and purple bruise under her left eye.