39. Chapter 39 #2
Then Queen Sofija smiled, and for a moment I saw my mother in her. Mamá had been younger in every memory I carried, but the pale blue eyes were unmistakable. Stefan had her dark hair, and something about the shape of his smile made my throat tighten before any of us had said more than hello.
They saw her in me too.
After that, the titles stopped mattering very quickly.
They wanted to know about Mamá, so I told them enough to understand what her life had become without forcing myself through every terrible detail.
I told them how Ciro had taken her to El Salvador, how she and Rafael Duarte had fallen in love, and that Rafael—not Ciro—was my father. They learned how Mamá died trying to escape with me when I was thirteen and how Papá secretly protected me afterward until he died helping me finally get out.
There were tears and anger on both sides of the screen, but underneath all of it was love for a woman none of us had stopped missing.
The conversation lasted much longer than I expected, but the part I couldn’t get out of my mind came when Queen Sofija told me I already belonged to them. I didn’t have to earn my way into their family simply because I had grown up without them.
Mamá’s inheritance had remained within the Dravik family holdings, protected for her children if she ever returned or they were found.
The exact numbers made my heart skip a beat, but after a while I stopped trying to understand them. What mattered was that the money was mine. I could study anything I wanted and live in Manhattan, Eslovenya, or somewhere none of us had even mentioned.
My grandparents offered me rooms in their home as casually as Lacey had offered me coffee. Stefan said I could come for a week, a year, or forever, and no one would pressure me to know in advance how long I wanted to stay.
Then I told them about Lachlan.
I’d expected that part to require considerably more explanation.
It didn’t.
The Draviks knew who Nikolai Volkov was. They knew enough about The Syndicate to understand the world Lachlan belonged to, and apparently royal families with centuries of political history were less shocked by discreet underworld connections than fairy tales had led me to believe.
Then I explained to them what Lachlan meant to me.
I told them about the man who had refused to sacrifice women he’d never met, even while other men hurt him for it, who helped me escape, and whom Papá trusted with me while he was dying.
Somewhere between terror and freedom, I had fallen in love with Lachlan without ever knowing the exact moment it happened.
No one warned me away from him.
Queen Sofija only said she hoped the man her granddaughter loved would come with me when I visited.
Grandfather said any man Rafael Duarte trusted with his daughter deserved the courtesy of being judged by his own actions.
That conversation gave me the answer I hadn’t been able to find before. My mother’s family had offered me love, security, money, and another place in the world that belonged to me whether Lachlan was in my life or not. Having all of it available changed nothing about how badly I wanted him.
All I could think about was telling Lachlan, having him beside me when I eventually walked into my mother’s home, and coming back to Manhattan with him afterward.
I didn’t have to trade one family for another. I could have both.
The timer on the oven chimed and pulled me firmly back into the kitchen.
I grabbed a towel, opened the oven, and checked the carrots before they crossed the narrow line between beautifully roasted and ruined.
The carrots were perfect, so I took them out and placed them on a serving dish.
The kitchen side of the island was already set for two, complete with candles, wine glasses, and the good dishes I’d found after searching three cabinets and texting Scarlett to ask whether Lachlan actually owned anything that matched.
The answer had been yes.
The man owned cufflinks that probably cost more than some cars.
I lowered the music, checked the beef one last time, then smoothed the front of my sweater.
It had been eleven days since I’d seen him.
Eleven days since I had touched him.
In a couple of minutes, Lachlan would walk through that door, and for the first time since I had met him, I knew exactly what I wanted to tell him.
A soft chime sounded from the security panel near the kitchen.
I glanced at the small screen. The private elevator was coming up.
Lachlan.
My pulse jumped.
I turned off the burner beneath the colcannon, lowered the music, and gave the kitchen one last quick look. Dinner was ready, the candles were burning, and there was nothing left to fix.
I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel and hurried across the living room.
By the time I reached the front door, the elevator had to be nearly at our floor. I pressed my palm to the scanner, waited for the lock to release, then pulled the door open just as the elevator doors across the entryway slid apart.
Lachlan stepped out, and I forgot every clever thing I might have said.
I’d seen him in expensive clothes before, but never quite like this.
The dark bespoke suit followed the breadth of his shoulders and tapered at his waist as though someone had designed it specifically to make women lose all sense of good judgment.
His white shirt was open at the throat, with no tie.
One hand rested against his face, forefinger at his lower lip and thumb beneath his chin as he studied me, a silver cufflink flashing at his wrist.
His hair was neatly styled, his beard trimmed, and the evidence of La Cruzona’s brutality had faded from his face, leaving only the scar cutting across his right cheek. If anything, it made him look fiercer, adding something even more dangerous to a face that had already been unfairly handsome.
He looked polished, powerful, and wealthy—the kind of man who could walk out of a boardroom and straight into a room full of armed criminals without blinking an eye. This was Lachlan Byrnes in his element, every inch the Irish mafia captain.
Good Lord.
His gaze moved over me with the same slow appreciation, beginning at my bare feet, traveling up my leggings, then lingering where the loose gray sweater had slipped off my shoulder again before finally returning to my face.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Hello, Mouse.”
Hearing that low Irish voice was all it took. I ran at him.
Lachlan barely had time to open his arms before I jumped. He caught me around the waist, and I wrapped my legs around his hips.
I caught his face between my hands and kissed him hard. Eleven days without touching him had been far too long, and now that I had him in my arms, I wanted every inch of him pressed against me. I tightened my legs around his waist, needing him closer even though there was nowhere left between us.
His mouth opened beneath mine as one arm locked around my back and the other slid under my ass, holding me securely against him. He took two steps and slammed me back against the wall beside the front door, a low laugh rumbling from his chest before he kissed me harder.
I buried both hands in his hair.
God, I had missed this.
I’d missed his mouth, the scrape of his beard against my skin, and the possessive way he held me, as though he owned my body as completely as he already owned my heart.
Something hard pressed against the underside of my thigh.
I broke the kiss just enough to look down.
The black grip of a gun showed beneath the open edge of his suit jacket, seated in a holster at his hip.
He was every dangerous fantasy I’d ever been smart enough not to admit I had, and he was armed.
Lachlan followed my gaze.
“Problem?”
“Not remotely.”
One brow lifted.
“The suit almost made me forget how lethal you can be.”
His mouth curved. “The suit was never meant to make me look harmless, Mouse.”
“No. It makes the threat look expensive.”
His hand tightened beneath my ass. “Keep looking at me like that and dinner’s going to have to wait.”
“I’ve only been looking at you for thirty seconds.”
“And you’re already causing trouble.”
I kissed him again before his ego became completely intolerable.