Chapter 4 #4
“Like a prisoner.” I realize Ida has melted away, leaving only Ronan and me standing in the entryway to the dining room. “Although the prison is very nice. Top-notch. And you still haven’t told me how you know my name.”
“You told me.” His expression doesn’t change.
I blink at him. “I told you?”
Ronan nods. “You woke up briefly on the car ride from the warehouse to my home, where you are now. You gave me your name.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. I was out of it at the time, so there’s no reason to question why I would have done such a thing.
“Are you hungry?” He pulls out the chair to the right of him. “You must be.”
I am, I realize. The sandwich from earlier is long gone, and my stomach growls at the mention of food. But accepting food from him directly feels like accepting the situation, like admitting that I'm going to be here long enough to need meals.
"I want to talk to my mother." I clench my jaw, glaring at him. Ronan looks like he wants to pinch the bridge of his nose, but is holding back.
"After dinner,” he says after a moment.
"Before dinner."
"Leila." There's something in his voice that makes me look at him more closely—not threat, exactly, but a kind of weary patience that suggests we could do this all night if I want to. "How long have you been gone? How long has it been since you were taken by… whoever sold you to Rocco?"
I swallow hard. “I don’t know. What day is it?”
“December 2nd.”
My chest squeezes. I went to see Neil for that fateful last time the day after Thanksgiving. “It’s been almost a week.”
“I thought it might have been.” He gestures at the bruising on my face. “I’m surprised they damaged your face. But the bruises are yellow. Either you have problems at home, or they kept you for some time.”
“The bruises are from the meeting I had with Neil just before Thanksgiving.” My jaw tightens, my eyes welling up despite myself at the memory of that terrifying meeting.
Ronan’s expression hardens. “Neil who?”
“I don’t know his last name. He runs a loan business out of Flanagan’s Bar.” The words spill out before I can decide whether or not to tell him.
“And how did you get the bruises?” Ronan’s voice is tight, and I realize he’s angry about the bruises. Why?
“I went to see him the day before Thanksgiving. Because of the loan. He had one of his men hold me, and another punched me in the face.” My voice quivers. I remember going home after, having to lie to my mother about slipping and falling on ice.
Ronan pauses for a moment. “Let’s go back to the beginning of this. But first, you need to eat.” He nods to the chair he pulled out. “Sit. They’ll bring the first course out in a moment.”
The first course. What the fuck? What kind of luxury does this man live in, that he has multi-course meals for two people?
I sit down, numbly, because my stomach is growling constantly now, and I realize that I’m actually so hungry I feel faint.
Now that there’s the possibility of food, my body is rioting.
Ronan sits back down at the head of the table.
I sit there stiffly as a staff member in a crisp uniform comes and pours wine for us both—red—and fills icy glasses of water.
I lick my lips and reach for it as another staff member sets down a bowl of what looks like butternut squash soup in front of me, and a winter salad studded with dried cranberries and pears.
“Eat,” Ronan says, probably seeing me looking at the food like a scavenger about to fall on a carcass. “We’ll talk in a minute.”
I try to pace myself, but it’s difficult.
The salad is exquisite, crunchy, and sweet and salty, with a blue cheese vinaigrette to complement the dried fruits.
The soup is velvety and rich, and I finish another glass of water before I try the wine.
It’s a little too dry for me, but I can tell it’s very expensive.
Ronan doesn’t say another word until the soup and salad have been swept away and a second course is brought out, this time baked mushrooms with an herbed cheese stuffed inside, wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with a balsamic glaze.
I reach for my fork and knife tentatively, and he finally speaks.
“I understand this is difficult for you.”
I drop my cutlery back on the table. Difficult. Like this is a minor inconvenience instead of my entire life being turned upside down.
“Difficult,” I repeat the word slowly. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you want from me, Mr. O’Malley?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Why do I need to want something from you?”
“Because in my experience, men like you don’t save others out of the goodness of their hearts.”
There’s a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. “And what kind of man do you think I am, Leila?”
My name sounds good on his lips, in his accent. It shouldn’t, and I do my best to ignore it, to ignore how handsome he looks, sitting at the head of the table so casually.
“A man with money,” I say finally. “And power. Apparently, a man in the mafia.”
“Mm.” He nods. “People have talked, then.”
“I have ears.” I shrug. “Was it a secret?”
“No. Although I would have preferred to tell you myself.” He looks at me with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “What do you make of that, Leila?”
“That you saved me because you want something in return.”
He takes a slow breath in. “What I want right now is for you to tell me the truth. About what happened, about why you were there, about what Rocco De Luca was going to do with you. Then, we can talk about the future.”
His hazel eyes meet mine, calm and implacable, a man who is used to getting what he wants.
“Tell me what happened, Leila.”