Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cavin
Of fucking course Erin’s tripped out on a scene. The lass is ripe for it, primed and ready, but I need her lucid.
“Tell Declan to wait,” I mutter. “He can send whatever he needs to me. I’ll be sure she sees it.”
Then I wrap her tighter in the blanket while she shivers, holding her close to me.
If she wasn’t half asleep, the lass would be asking me a million questions, but she’s practically floating.
I kiss the top of her head. She’s half giggling, half asleep, high on what just happened. Christ, but she’s perfect.
I hold her in my arms, pliant and quiet. I’ve heard that if you hold somebody chest-to-chest, after four minutes, your heartbeats sync.
I like to think ours already have.
“What do they need?” she whispers, even as she looks up at me with her eyes blown wide, her cheeks flushed pink—even the top of her chest is pink. She’s naked under the blanket I’ve wrapped around her.
“They’ve got information you asked for,” I say. “We have three more weeks to find out who the fuck is demanding this tribute.”
“Mmm. Been mulling that over,” she says quietly as her head lolls to the side, and I make a decision right then. Whatever information Declan has to send me, he can send us right here at The Craic. It’s not that I don’t want to take her home tonight, but I don’t want to move her.
I want her right here with me until the morning light filters through the windows.
So I draw a bath. I squint at the little bottle next to the tub with pearly green-tinted beads and read “bath salts.” Okay, that’s supposed to be nice, I guess. So I shake some in, and soon the bath is lightly fragranced like eucalyptus and mint, and it makes the whole space feel clean and green.
We’re secure here. Her guards are at the door, as well as mine, and no one gets into the club without permission.
Maybe we’ll spend a few days here.
Maybe we’ll enjoy ourselves, have a little honeymoon. What better place to have a honeymoon than a kink club? I smirk to myself, unwrap her blanket, and lift her.
“I was thinking,” she says. “You know how sometimes thoughts come to you in the middle of the night when you’re turning them over?”
“I’ve heard that happens, but it’s not what happens to me when I dream. Yeah? What were you thinking?”
She swallows as I lower her into the water. “Oh god, you have to make sure I don’t drown.”
I grumble under my breath. That’s not a laughing matter.
“Why would you drown?”
She opens one eye. “Because this is so relaxing, and I feel like I’m going to fall asleep.”
Fair.
“I was thinking about the word ‘tribute.’ That’s not something used here very often, is it? We don’t pay tribute. There was a tradition years ago where one family would pay tribute to the next with a bride, right? My dad told me about it.”
I nod. “Aye, my Uncle Cormac was the last one who fulfilled that tradition, but it was a one-time deal and not one we continued.”
“But it’s sort of an American term, isn’t it? Tribute.”
My eyes narrow. “Aye.”
She nods, thoughtfully tapping her chin. “Who do you know in America?”
“We have some friends in New York,” I say quietly. “They’re Russian Bratva, but American Russian Bratva. The Romanovs. Mikhail Romanov’s the head. Zoya’s related.”
She nods. “Yes. What about Boston?”
“Why do you ask about Boston?”
“Because there’s a long history of Boston Irish.”
“True. The Rossis. We know the Rossi family, but they’re Italian mafia.”
“Right. That was the man with blonde-gray hair who was there the day of the bombing, wasn’t it? His sister’s Marialena Rossi. She’s a friend of a friend of Bridget’s.”
I nod. “Aye.”
“Okay.” She submerges lower in the bath once again so the warm water laps up to her chin. “Oh, this feels good. Have you seen anyone from America recently?”
“Aye, lads who came by and tried to lie their way into The Craic.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Why would Americans even know this place existed?”
Erin’s piecing things together. I can see it in her eyes—the way they dart back and forth, calculating.
She’s connecting dots I hadn’t even realized were there.
The American terminology, the Boston connection, the timing of it all.
Her mind works like a fucking machine, cataloging every detail, cross-referencing information I didn’t know she had stored away.
It’s brilliant, terrifying, and sexy as hell.
My phone dings with a text, and I immediately tap it, assuming it’s Declan.
It isn’t.
The terms and conditions have been laid out in our initial contract. As per our agreement, the tribute payments will now increase to every two weeks. Your next is due in six days
I blink at the screen and scowl. “Jesus Christ, I swear—”
Her eyes open wide. “What?” She takes a little washcloth from a shelf and starts washing her face and her arms, eyeing me thoughtfully. “What is it?” she asks warily.
I notice the way her fingers tap, even on the water’s surface. One, two, three, four.
I show her the text.
“How can they do that?” She shakes her head. “It’s almost as if they want you to find out.”
“Aye,” I say. “Or almost as if they want me to not pay.”
“And if you don’t pay, they’ll find a way to take your sister.” She squeezes the bridge of her nose and exhales.
“Aye. And there’s something I haven’t told you.” I sit on the commode, still clothed. I feel like I need to be ready, though for what, I don’t know.
She props herself up on her forearms at the edge of the tub, studying me as I tell her what a bollocks situation we're in.
“Every time payment’s due, something terrible happens. Something—it’s almost as if they’re trying to sabotage me.”
“Of course they are,” she says. “Who wants millions of dollars when they can have an actual kingdom? Makes total sense.”
God, I love the way she thinks. I love watching the way her mind works, the way she doesn’t try to sugarcoat or trivialize anything.
My phone dings with another text. And this time it actually is Declan, with file upon file of information.
“Okay, alright,” she says, nodding. “Show it to me. Give me some time. I want to take a look at it and see what I can find.”
I hand her the phone, watching as her eyes scan the information with laser focus.
This was the lass who aced every exam in school, got torn apart by the others for being too clever, and always handed in five pages when three were required.
Her brain is a fucking weapon, sharp and deadly, and I’m goddamn hard again just watching her.
She scrolls through documents, her fingers tapping that rhythm again. One, two, three, four. Financial records, shipping manifests, communication logs. Since Declan doesn’t know about the tribute, I kept neutral and only asked to see information that dealt with our adversaries and alliances.
Now Erin’s absorbing it all, filing it away in that magnificent mind of hers.
“Jesus, no wonder you got perfect marks in school,” I mutter. “You’re so fucking brilliant.”
She smiles. “Yes, this makes a lot of sense,” she says to me, not even looking up.
“What does?”
“It’s not someone here in Ireland, no… You have rivals, yes, but they’re too wise to how powerful you are here. And they know that if you found them out, you would destroy them. Right?”
“Right.”
“And then there are people like my da, who want to fortify themselves with your connections.”
“It’s a strange thing about connections with your da,” I say to her, shaking my head. “I’m not quite sure how he benefits.”
She gets a distant look and bites her lip.
“Erin,” I say warningly. She gets that look when she’s hiding something from me. It’s almost childish, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tighten. “What is it?”
“You met Bridget,” she says haltingly. “Do you remember, at our engagement party turned wedding… when I met Dr. Rosenberg?”
“Aye.” I cross my arms over my chest and nod. “Of course I do.”
“I knew about him and his treatments because Dr. Rosenberg is one of the few people… maybe the only one… who can help my sister.”
“What?” I stand up straighter.
“Yes,” she says. She sighs and blows out a breath. “I didn’t want you to think I was using you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Okay?”
“He wouldn’t have anything to do with my family. We tried. My father tried to send him money. Tried to bribe him to treat my sister. But he said that there are rules and regulations and whatnot, you know, with the free healthcare system. He has a two-year waiting list.”
Her eyes water, and she blinks. A fat tear rolls down her cheek.
“And we don’t…” She clears her throat and swallows hard. “We don’t have two years. Right. So my hope was that you would talk to him. Maybe use the connection that you have. Pull some strings, Cavin, and have Bridget seen by Dr. Rosenberg.”
She pauses, meeting my eyes with a fierce determination that’s wet with tears. “And I don’t know what else I can offer you, but I do have…” She clears her throat. “Seventy-two thousand quid that I’ve turned into two million.”
She eyes me, defiant and desperate all at once. She’s taken my purses, my winnings, and gambled with them.
“Is that how your brain works, Erin?” I ask, stunned.
“Aye,” she says. “It’s something my parents don’t know. Because if they knew I had the ability to gamble and make money, they would have used me as a bargaining chip much sooner than they did.”
“Holy Christ.” I shake my head. “That’s bloody brilliant.”
She shrugs. “I may not have been the popular one in secondary school,” she says quietly, “but I would definitely be the popular one in our circles now.”
I grin at her. She’s full of surprises. “You beautiful, frustrating thief. Of course we’ll call Dr. Rosenberg. You save that money. Save it for Bridget. Invest it. Do whatever. We’ll pay him. He owes us a favor. anyhow.”
“He does?” More tears. I know that I tore her wide open emotionally. That she’s vulnerable and susceptible to this, but I didn’t expect—