Chapter 6 Ronan
RONAN
Istay in the dining room long after Leila leaves, staring at the chair she abandoned and trying to get my body under control.
Beautiful woman.
The words had slipped out without my permission, and I saw the way they affected her when I referred to her that way—the slight intake of breath, the flush that crept up her neck, the way her pupils dilated just enough to tell me she wasn't as immune to whatever this spark is between us as she pretends to be.
Christ. What the hell is wrong with me?
The woman was held captive in a trafficking warehouse less than twenty-four hours ago.
She's traumatized, desperate to get back to her sick mother, and completely dependent on me for her safety. The last thing she needs is me looking at her like I want to strip that silk dress off her body—my late wife’s dress—and find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.
But that's exactly what I want to do.
Guilt sears through me. I didn’t want to ask Annie if she had anything I could borrow, although she’s more Leila’s build than Siobhan was.
Siobhan was tall and curvy, and her clothes swam on Leila.
The sight of her in that black dress felt like a shock.
I didn’t want to tell her where the clothes came from—what kind of man gives a girl he rescued and brought home his dead wife’s clothing?
I’ll get her some of her own, soon enough. But I still feel wrong for doing it in the first place. I should have asked Annie.
It wasn’t the clothes that made me want her, though. It was… everything else.
She wasn’t afraid of me. Or, at least, I don’t think it was me she was afraid of.
She talked back to me, which no one does.
She demanded things. She was brave, despite everything she’d been through.
And, despite the desperate, stupid decision to take money from a loan shark, I can tell she’s smart.
She’s clearly devoted to her mother, and I feel bad for keeping Leila from her, but I was telling her the truth.
If she leaves this mansion, she’s dead, or she’ll wish she were. Her mother will be too, if she makes it that far.
So, for now, she’s upstairs. Sleeping in my house. I think of her earlier, in those silky shorts and tank top that, once again, used to be Siobhan’s, and my cock twitches, jerking against my fly at the memory of her hard nipples peeking against the silk.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to remember the last time I felt this kind of raw, immediate desire for a woman. Years, probably. Not since before I married Siobhan, when I was young enough and stupid enough to think with my dick instead of my head.
My marriage had killed that part of me, or so I'd thought. A year and a half of scheduled, perfunctory sex designed solely to produce an heir, with a woman who made her distaste for the whole process abundantly clear. A year and a half of forcing myself to ignore other women who threw themselves at me, to ease my desire with my hand instead of a warm, willing body, to not think about what I was missing out on. Not just the sexual pleasure of being with a person instead of fucking my fist, but the intimacy that comes with that. I was never the type to spend the night—have never spent the night with a woman, not even my wife—but there’s something still intimate about the touch of skin and the exploration of someone’s body, even casually.
Somehow, Siobhan made it cold and callous. I felt like I was assaulting her every time I touched her, even if she was technically willing, she was so frozen. So uninterested in me. I’d never known how not intimate the act could feel.
And still, I’d been faithful. Meanwhile, she was screwing another man. Who knows if he was the only one—I certainly don’t.
I'd taken my vows seriously, even if she hadn't. And now she's dead, and I'm sitting in my dining room getting hard thinking about a twenty-something-year-old girl who should be off-limits for about a dozen different reasons.
I need a drink. Or a cold shower. Or maybe just a good beating from Finn to knock some sense into me.
I opt for the drink first, leaving the remains of the meal and heading to my study for a glass of whiskey. I’ve just taken the first sip when my phone buzzes.
“Hello?”
"Ronan. How did it go last night?" It’s my father. I’m surprised he waited this long to call, but I’m not surprised at his bluntness.
Padraigh O'Malley doesn't waste time on pleasantries—never has. Even when I was eight years old and crying over a skinned knee, his first question was always whether I'd learned something from whatever mistake had caused the injury.
"Mixed results," I tell him, sinking into the leather armchair next to the crackling fireplace as I take another sip of my whiskey. "We hit the warehouse, took out several of Rocco's men, but he got away. We burned the place. Sent a message, still, even if it wasn’t the one I intended."
"Casualties on our side?" There’s disapproval in his voice, and I wince at it. I haven’t managed to redeem myself yet. I’ve dug myself a deeper hole instead, because Rocco isn’t dead yet. Because I rescued Leila instead of going after him.
I know exactly what my father would have to say about that.
"None. Owen took some shrapnel from a ricochet, but nothing serious."
"Good." There's a pause, and I can picture him in his office in Miami, probably looking out at the water while he calculates how last night’s events affect our overall position. "What about intel? Did you find anything useful?"
This is where I should mention Leila. Where I should tell him about the cages waiting to be filled with girls, the evidence that he’s using the shipyard to move them, the manifests that we have.
I should tell him that I have one of them here with me.
He’s not a man who appreciates secrets, and I can’t afford to slide any further in his good graces.
Instead, I find myself saying, "Rocco's branching out. Trafficking, primarily young women from Eastern Europe, from the manifests we got. We destroyed the warehouse, but I’m sure he has other locations."
It's not technically a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. And I can't quite figure out why I'm holding back.
“I wonder if his father knew.” There’s disgust in Padraigh’s voice—my father is a lot of things, but he’d never countenance human trafficking.
“The operation was well set up. If his father didn’t know, then Rocco has been doing it behind his back.”
“Carlo was a businessman first, criminal second. He understood that some lines, once crossed, bring down heat that's not worth the profit." My father pauses again. "Rocco seems to think he's untouchable."
My jaw tightens. Inexplicably, instead of Siobhan, I think of Leila. "He's about to learn otherwise."
"What's your next move?" He sounds merely curious, but I know this is a test. Whatever I say now matters.
I think about Leila upstairs in her room, probably trying to figure out how to escape, how to get back to her mother, how to pretend that none of this is happening.
"I'm working on it," I say finally. "Rocco's going to ground, I’m sure, but he can't hide forever."
"Make sure you finish this quickly, Ronan. The longer it drags out, the more chance it has of spiraling into something bigger. He’ll find allies, try to start a war. You need to end him before he can do that.”
"I understand."
“Do you?” Padraigh pauses. “I got a call from the council in Dublin. Another from Sicily. They want to know if we’re going to war. If your failure to control your wife has started something that we’ll have to finish.”
I let out a breath through my nose. "What did you tell them?"
"That my son is handling a personal matter and that it will be resolved quickly and quietly." His voice carries a warning. "Don't make me a liar, Ronan."
"You won't be."
"Good. Keep me informed."
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down with more force than necessary.
He’s right, of course. This needs to be finished quickly, before the council or the Sicilians get involved, before it escalates into something that will cause blood to run in the streets.
And he’s right that it’s my fault, though I don’t agree that I should have controlled Siobhan.
Paid better attention to her, yes. Not taken her absence as a relief.
This is my fault, and I need to put it to bed.
I toss back the rest of my whiskey and set the glass down sharply, getting up to head upstairs, shower, and go to bed.
As I pass by the hall where Leila’s room is, I pause, looking at her door as I feel my cock twitch again.
I feel myself hesitating, listening for any sound that might tell me what she’s doing in there.
Nothing. Either she's asleep, or she's being very quiet.
What do you think she’s doing, idiot? I shake my head, trying to clear it. She’s undoubtedly sleeping after a week of being terrified, drugged, and starved. She’s certainly not humming with desire like I am, thinking about me in ways that she has no business doing.
If I’m not going to go to bed, I should go to my office, review the intelligence Danny gathered, start figuring out where Rocco might have gone to ground. Should do anything except stand here like a teenager hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl next door.
I shake myself again and then force myself to walk away, down the hall to my own room. It's larger than the one Leila's staying in, more of a suite with a sitting area and a view of the garden, but tonight it feels emptier than usual. Lonelier.