Chapter 9 Leila #2
“Rocco will believe that you do,” he says quickly. “Because I took you. He doesn’t understand empathy, that I couldn’t leave a woman in a cage when she could be rescued. It will have to be something more. And like I said—he sees it as me stealing from him.”
“I need to call her,” I say softly. “I haven’t been home in over a week. Everything you’re doing—it’s incredible, it’s more than I could have asked for, but I need to talk to her. Please.”
Ronan finally nods. “After dinner,” he says. “And you’ll need to be careful what you say. Don't tell her where you are or who you're with. Just that you're safe and that she’s going to be taken care of."
We finish the meal in silence. After dinner, Ronan takes me back to his office, where he shows me to a landline on his desk. I try not to think about what happened here this morning, about what I offered, or the fact that he’s very close to me as he reaches over to hit the button to dial out.
“It’s a secure line,” he tells me. As he pulls back, his fingers brush mine briefly. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, and I pull my hand back quickly before taking the receiver.
My mother answers on the second ring. "Hello?" She sounds confused—I’m lucky she picked up at all. She often ignores unknown numbers.
"Mom, it's me."
"Leila!" The relief in her voice is palpable. "Oh, sweetheart, I've been so worried. Where are you? What happened? You've been gone for days, and I called and called—"
"I'm okay," I say quickly, glancing at Ronan. He's pretending not to listen, sipping a whiskey with careful precision, but I’m sure he’s paying attention. "I'm safe. I made a mistake. I took out a loan to cover expenses, and it—it wasn’t a good one. It went wrong, but I’m okay now. It’s being handled. "
"What do you mean, handled? Leila, you're scaring me." Her voice shakes slightly, and I can hear that she’s weaker. Grief and worry rush through me, taking my breath away and making me pause for a long moment before I can speak again.
I close my eyes, trying to figure out how to explain this without explaining anything. "There were some complications, but I've found someone who can help. With everything. Your treatment, the bills, all of it."
"What kind of someone? Leila, this doesn't sound right."
"I know it sounds strange, but I need you to trust me, okay? Someone is going to come by to talk to you about arranging for a nurse, someone who can stay with you and help with your appointments and everything."
"A nurse? Sweetheart, we can't afford—"
"It's taken care of," I say, the words feeling surreal as they leave my mouth. "All of it. Your treatment, your medications, everything. If you need better specialists, someone will arrange appointments. You’re going to be fine. Better than fine."
There's silence on the other end of the line. "Leila, what have you done?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. "I've found a way to help you," I say, because it's the only answer I can give that won't terrify her more than she already is. "That's all that matters."
"Where are you staying? When are you coming home? Will you be home for Christmas?" She pauses. “The weather is supposed to be getting worse. You’re somewhere safe? Warm?”
"I'm somewhere safe and warm," I promise her. "And I'll call you again as soon as I can, okay? I promise."
"Leila—"
"I have to go, Mom. But I love you, and everything is going to be okay."
I hang up before she can ask any more questions I can't answer. My hands are shaking, and I look at Ronan, feeling my chest tighten.
I should tell him thank you. I should be more outwardly grateful, I know. But right now, it feels like it’s all I can do not to burst into tears.
“I’m sorry that you’re dealing with so much,” he says, startling me. He sets his whiskey down, looking at me with those unreadable hazel eyes, and I’m once again all too aware that we’re alone in this room.
He’s not at all what I expected. He seems… genuine. Real. Kind, almost, even if he is arrogant and clearly used to getting his way.
I swallow hard. He’s also a criminal, I remind myself. A man who talks casually about killing his rivals. A man who was in that warehouse for a reason, even if it wasn’t to hurt women like Rocco. A man with connections who is unafraid to leverage violence to get what he wants.
“I’ll send someone to your house to get your things,” Ronan says after a moment. “Make a list of what you want.”
“I—” I bite my lip. “I don’t like the idea of one of your men going into my mother’s place.”
He chuckles softly. “It’ll be a woman. I promise the men will stay outside. My intent is not to frighten her… or you.”
Too late for that. I am frightened by him, at least a little—who wouldn’t be? But he’s not as scary, I think, as he seemed to be at first.
“I’ll give you a list in the morning, then.”
He nods. “Good night, Leila.”
I realize I’m being dismissed. I swallow hard and nod, heading for the door before things can become awkward. The truth is, I want to be alone anyway. I’m on the verge of tears, aching to be home, and missing my mother more than I ever thought I could.
I’ve never felt so lonely before.
—
The next day, Ronan is gone by the time I come down for breakfast. According to Ida, he had "business to attend to" and wouldn't be back until late.
I spend the morning exploring more of the house.
It's massive—three floors of rooms that seem to stretch on forever.
Most are beautifully furnished but feel unused, like a museum display.
I find a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a music room with a grand piano that looks like it hasn't been touched in years, and what appears to be a study filled with dark wood and the lingering smell of expensive cigars.
Everything about this place speaks of old money, of generations of wealth and power. It's beautiful, but it's also cold somehow. Despite all the luxury, it doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a historic set piece, like something you could charge a tour fee for.
By evening, I'm back in my room, restless and anxious.
Ida brings dinner up to me at my request—a pumpkin bisque and grilled fish heavily seasoned with spices and a salty crust, along with roasted vegetables.
"Mr. O'Malley won't be joining you tonight," she says in her faint German accent. "He's been delayed."
I nod, trying not to think too hard about what kind of "business" keeps a man like Ronan out this late. "Thank you, Ida."
“If you need anything, just call,” she tells me before leaving, nodding to the phone by my bed.
It was brought up yesterday—not a phone that calls out, I learned, but one that goes to the staff, like a hotel concierge line.
Having that in one’s house seems insane to me, but it’s just another normal part of Ronan’s life.
After she leaves, I pick at my food, my mind wandering to my mother. Is she eating dinner alone, too? Is the nurse there yet, or is she still by herself, worried and scared? Has Alicia been by at all? Has my mother told her that I called?
When I'm done eating, I stare at the tray for a long moment. Having someone wait on me feels wrong. My mom taught me to be self-sufficient, not to depend on others to do things for me. The idea of leaving dishes for someone else to collect makes me feel strange and uncomfortable.
I pick up the tray and head for the door.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs. I remember the general direction of the kitchen from my explorations, though I've never actually been inside it. I'm almost to the landing of the first floor when I hear the front door open.
Ronan steps inside, and I freeze on the stairs. He’s wearing a suit without the jacket or tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled up. He looks tired, as if he’s been doing something strenuous.
He sees me standing there with the tray and stops. "What are you doing?"
"Taking this to the kitchen," I say, lifting the tray slightly. "I don't like having people clean up after me."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. "Ida can handle that."
"I know she can. But I don't want her to."
We stare at each other for a moment, and I can see him processing this. In his world, I'm sure people don't carry their own dishes. They probably don't even think about who cleans up after them.
"Your loan," he says suddenly, and his voice is different somehow. Harsher. "The original debt to Neil. It's handled."
I nearly drop the tray. "What do you mean, handled?"
"I mean you don't need to worry about it anymore. That doesn’t mean the situation with Rocco has changed," he clarifies. “You still need to stay here until he’s dealt with. But Neil is no longer a concern.”
My heart starts to race. "Did you pay it off?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and in the silence I notice something I missed before. There's something dark under his fingernails, and I see flecks of something else similar on the torso of his white shirt. Something that looks like—
"Oh my God," I whisper. "Is that blood?"
He looks down at his hands, and I see his jaw tighten. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are cold.
"What did you do?" The words come out as barely a whisper. My heart is beating rabbit-fast against my ribs, and I feel dizzy suddenly, feeling as if I’m looking at a different man.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he turns and walks toward what I assume is his study, leaving me standing on the stairs with my tray and a dozen questions I'm afraid to have answered.
The front door closes with a soft click, and I'm left alone in the silence, staring at the space where he disappeared and trying not to think about what that blood means.
But deep down, I already know.