Chapter 18 #2
"I want you to help your family." His voice sharpens. "The family that raised you, that gave you everything. Or have you forgotten where you came from already?"
"I have not forgotten anything," I snap, anger cutting through the numbness for the first time in days. "But what you are asking—Seamus would never—"
"Seamus was in on this," Patrick interrupts, and the words are like a slap.
I stare at him. "What?"
"The plan to take Brooklyn. Seamus knew about it.
He approved it." Patrick's expression softens into something that might be sympathy if I did not know better.
"Why do you think he agreed to the marriage so easily?
Why do you think he let you take Erin's place?
You were always meant to be our inside connection to the Italians. "
"No." I shake my head, denial rising swift and fierce. "No, that is not—Seamus would not—"
"He loved you, Rosalina. But he loved this family more." Patrick moves closer, and I instinctively press back into the chair. "He knew what needed to be done."
"You are lying." My voice shakes. "You are lying about him because he is not here to defend himself—"
"I am telling you the truth." Patrick crouches down in front of my chair, bringing himself to eye level, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture is too familiar. Too intimate. It makes my skin crawl.
"I know this is hard to hear," he says softly, his hand lingering near my face. "But you need to understand your position now. You are the bridge between two families. And you need to decide which side you are really on."
I lean away from his touch, my hands gripping the arms of the chair. "I need to leave."
"Not yet." His voice hardens. "We have not finished our conversation."
"Yes, we have." I start to stand. "I am going to tell Dante what you are planning, and he is going to—"
Patrick's hand shoots out, catching my throat and pushing me back into the chair with enough force to make the back of my head crack against the leather.
I gasp, my hands flying up to claw at his wrist, but his grip is iron, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make breathing difficult without cutting it off completely.
"You are not telling anyone anything," he says, and all the false sympathy is gone from his voice now, replaced by something cold and dangerous. "Do you understand me, Rosalina?"
I try to speak, but his grip tightens fractionally, and all that comes out is a choked sound.
"I know where Erin is," he continues, his face inches from mine. "Texas. Little farm outside Austin. Very secluded. Very isolated. Would be a shame if something happened to her out there, would it not?"
Terror floods through me, sharp and immediate, cutting through even the grief.
"You would not—" I gasp out.
"I would not want to," he says, almost conversationally. "Erin is family too. But if you force my hand by going to the Italians with this information, I will have no choice. She knows too much about the family operations. If she becomes a liability..." He shrugs. "Well. Accidents happen."
My vision blurs with tears—fear and rage and helplessness all tangled together.
"So here is what is going to happen," Patrick says, his thumb pressing against my windpipe.
"You are going to agree to help us. You are going to go back to that Italian mansion and you are going to gather information.
And when the time comes, you are going to make sure we can take Brooklyn without significant resistance. "
"And if I refuse?" I manage to choke out.
"Then Erin dies. And it will be your fault." He releases my throat suddenly, and I gasp, sucking in air, my hands coming up to massage the tender skin. "Do we have an understanding?"
I stare at him through tears, at this man I have known my entire life, who used to sneak me candy after training sessions, who taught me how to pick locks when I was twelve, who I called Uncle Patrick without thinking twice.
This man who is threatening to kill my sister if I do not betray the people I have come to care about.
"Yes," I whisper, because what choice do I have? "We have an understanding."
"Good girl." He straightens, adjusting his suit jacket like we just had a pleasant chat instead of—whatever this was. "I will be in touch soon with specific instructions. In the meantime, play the devoted wife. Do not give them any reason to suspect."
He moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob to look back at me.
"I am sorry it has to be this way, Rosalina. But Seamus knew—all things happen in time. His time came. Now it is time for the Irish to rise."
He opens the door, and I see Dante immediately straighten from his position against the wall, his eyes going straight to me, concern flooding his face when he sees whatever expression I am wearing.
I force myself to stand on shaking legs, to plaster something resembling composure onto my face, to walk toward the door even though every instinct is screaming at me to run, to tell Dante everything, to beg for protection.
But I cannot.
Because Patrick knows where Erin is, and I will not risk her life. Not even for this.
Patrick opens his arms as I reach the doorway, and I step into the hug because I have to, because Dante is watching, because this has to look normal.
"Take care of yourself, Rosalina," Patrick says loud enough for Dante to hear, patting my back with false affection. "And remember—family always comes first."
"I will," I manage, my voice barely steady. "Goodbye, Uncle Patrick."
I pull away and immediately reach for Dante's hand, needing the contact, needing something solid to hold onto before I fall apart completely.
Dante's arm comes around my shoulders immediately, and I let him guide me down the hallway, away from Patrick, away from that office, away from the conversation that just shattered what was left of my world.
I can feel Patrick's eyes on my back as we walk away.
Can feel the weight of the threat he just made.
Can feel the impossible choice settling onto my shoulders like a physical burden.
Betray Dante, Gabriel, and Luca—the men who have somehow become essential to my existence.
Or let Erin die. I can’t bear either one.