3. Ciaran #2
“Right, where we’re all blindly beating one another with our fists.” The uncultured Irish.
Da laughs, beating my back. “Exactly. Parlays are important here. Things cannot be rushed.”
He lets go of us, and sure enough, Uncle Cormac’s lips are thin due to being manhandled.
“Let me introduce you to some people,” Da says, and it kills me the way his face lights up. He’s going to parade me around, boasting about my achievements as if he had been there every step of the way.
I don’t like the idea, but there’s one enticing aspect to it. I meet Uncle Cormac’s eye, and he nods, understanding too.
We came here to network, and I won’t turn my nose up at the opportunity.
“Thanks, Da,” I tell him politely and follow him.
The room is huge with tables and chairs set up.
Servers pass out champagne flutes, but there’s also a bar where most of the men order liquor.
Da heads toward it, stopping occasionally to shake hands.
It’s always the same formula. He exudes friendliness as he calls out a person’s name, shaking their hands with a firm pump and a slap to the shoulder.
He even grabs a few women’s hands, kissing them.
Most keep their faces blank or sip on their alcohol to hide their true feelings. One Italian man rolls his eyes. The ladies smile but take their hands back quickly.
Fuck me. My da’s that creepy guy who has no sense of social restraint.
It’s only acceptable this one time, though, because it’s actually fucking useful. I shake hands with people I’ve only heard whispered about.
My da is handing me a drink when something catches his eye. He whistles under his breath.
When he notices my confused look, he explains. “Elijah Zimin’s made an appearance.”
I follow his gaze. Across the room is a man around my age, if not a few years older. Tall, brown hair, and a smile that makes Ian’s shit eating smirk pale in comparison.
Sometimes you see a bastard, and you just know they’re a crazy motherfucker. This is the case with Elijah Zimin.
“He as strange as they say?” I ask Da, keeping my voice low.
“He’s a right laugh,” he replies, and I struggle to decipher the answer. It’s possible my da is confirming that Elijah is every bit the psychopath that he’s rumored to be while finding it amusing.
“Keep out of his way and you’ll be fine.” Da nods at someone, moving on to speak to someone else.
“You all right?” my cousin Seamus asks. His head is tipped up, taking in the high ceilings and chandeliers.
“You eat something,” I ask, in half warning. This is not his first trip to the bar.
He smirks. “I’m not Ian.”
My shoulders tense like always when my brother’s name is uttered. “Think of the jetlag, is all.”
Da might have indicated earlier that we O'Connells from Dublin aren’t as posh as the other fuckers here, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know how to handle ourselves. I’m not going to let my cousins turn this into a night at the pub. We’re in our best suits, our hair neat and tidy. We fit in.
“Have you seen the women?” Seamus says, angling closer. At least he’s wise enough to keep his voice low. “Fucking gorgeous.”
An aura of a boy in heaven glows around him.
“Do not do anything stupid,” I warn.
He holds his hands together in mock prayer. “Please, dear God, don’t tell me my favorite cousin has come all the way to America just to become celibate.”
I roll my eyes, but other than Ian, Seamus is one of the only people who can get me to relax.
There are plenty of good looking women here. Diamonds dripping around their necks, their dresses dipping to show off their tits. Gia Akatov has held council in one corner all night. It’s the one area my da never even tried to get close to.
Seamus squeezes my shoulder. “Come on, what do you say? How about solidifying our prospects here by marriage.”
He throws his head back, his laugh carefree at my reaction.
There’s no way in hell I’m marrying anyone I meet here tonight. Advantageous marriages are a thing in our world, but I’m not giving my freedom over that easily. And my cousin fucking knows it.
“Come on,” he keeps teasing. He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Don’t tell me you’re pining after Rosa. For fuck's sake, man. She’s not into you.”
My fingers curl tighter against my glass of whiskey. The O’Connell men don’t get hung up on women. Uncle Cormac taught me that. But I’ll admit I’d like to fold Rosa over, flip her skirt up, and drill into her with the rage of a man who’s got something to prove.
Seamus’s hand on my shoulder relaxes. “You all right?”
He’s not to know that Rosa laughed at me the other night. Flat out told me what she thought of me.
I’m only interested in men who actually have money.
“Jetlagged,” I say, tipping back the rest of my whiskey.
“Here.” Seamus hands me another, like that’s the cure I need. “You know there’s a garden out back. For smoking. It was pretty empty earlier. Go and get some fresh air.”
He hands me a carton of cigarettes, knowing I don’t have any on me, and gently shoves me forward. I slip through the crowd, noticing how even the arched doorways are intricate.