Page 81 of Possessive Mafia Vows

“What about your luggage?” I hate the accusation in my voice.

But something inside me seems to curl up into a tiny ball and die when his eyes flicker back and forth between me and his open suitcase. He had no intention of coming with me.

“Seamus can bring my luggage too.” It feels as if he has already checked out. “I don’t want to leave you like this, Sienna.”

Like what?

With a promise that you know you can’t keep?

With your cum still trickling out from between my legs?

“Go. Your brother needs you.”

There appears to be a whole bunch of stuff perching on the tip of his tongue, waiting to dive into the room and convince me that he’ll be there.

But instead, he turns around and walks out of the bedroom, his phone already pressed to his ear. It’s like watching him morph into a different person as he leaves, every footstep erasing another tiny piece of the man who whispers to me in Gaelic when I’m lying contented in his arms and replacing it with the Murray family lawyer.

An hour later, I’m sitting on the Murray’s private jet at Teterboro Airport, peering out of the window at the city lights in the distance. I haven’t heard from Kyle since he left his apartment. I don’t know if he is handling Cash’s incarceration from the comfort of his office in the Wraith, or if he’s sitting with the Police Commissioner pleading his brother’s case over a bottle of brandy.

I check my cell phone again.

Nothing.

The aircraft belongs on a movie set. The seating area is ivory, the cushions upholstered with ivory velvet, the trimmings polished mahogany, the strip lighting understated and classy. Seamus showed me the bedrooms when we boarded.

Fucking bedrooms complete with ensuite shower rooms!

No chance of having your knees crushed by the seat in front or turning into a contortionist while you try to wash in the poky restroom, not when you travel by private jet.

How did Victoria keep this to herself?

How does anyone ever learn to take this for granted?

It’s another reminder that Kyle and I exist in different universes.

The steward—because the Murrays employ their own private fucking airline staff as well—has stopped trying to offer me a glass of champagne. I’ve barely touched the ice-cold waterserved in a crystal tumbler that he served with a selection of ‘nibbles’ when Seamus and I first boarded.

My mouth is dry. My palms are sweaty. My brain hasn’t been able to focus on anything other than the minutes ticking slowly by towards take-off.

He isn’t coming.

He promised that he would do everything in his power to make this flight, but if he was coming, he’d be here by now.

My hopes keep soaring and dipping like a gull trying to navigate a sea storm, but each dip is sinking lower and lower, until the moment of truth arrives. Then, the doors will close, and the steward will tell me to buckle up during take-off, and I’ll be leaving behind the only home I’ve ever known for a strange country. On my own.

Eleven-twenty-five.

The flight is cleared for take-off between eleven-thirty and midnight.

Is Kyle sitting in a dingy police department somewhere in the city trying to convince the cops to release Cash, and panicking that he isn’t going to make it in time? Or is he waiting for an alert to inform him that the flight has taken off without him so that he can forget about me for a while?

I unbuckle the safety belt and pick up my purse and my phone.

I don’t even know how I allowed myself to be talked into this situation. This is where I belong. I should be at the gallery, overseeing the repairs that Kyle requested, reading emails, and getting back into the art studio.

Seamus is already on his feet before I can go anywhere. “Mr. Murray has just arrived.” His lilting accent is more pronounced than Kyle’s, but there’s no mistaking the relief in his tone. “You might want to fasten your safety belt. Once he boards, the pilot will prepare for take-off.”

“Kyle is here?”

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