Page 12 of Mated to the Kingpin

I stare at the velvet stitching on the nap of my skirt so I don’t have to look at her.

“He wanted to come,” she tells me. “He got dressed, managed it on his own despite the cast on his arm. He had flowers. He stood just outside our old gate for nearly an hour, heart cracking every second. And then John talked him out of it.”

Fiona shakes her head slowly. “We all knew it would only make the grief worse if they dragged him away in cuffs.”

The silence afterward is broken only by the delicate tick of the wall clock and the low chime of wind against the glass panes.

“He honored the distance they demanded,” she adds softly. “He stayed gone, even when it broke him, because he thought it was the right thing to do. Because he believed your world would be better without him in it.”

Would it have been, though? After the way my parents used Seth’s funeral service as a way to deepen business and political connections, I couldn’t forgive them. I make the appropriate calls on holidays and their birthdays, but otherwise I want nothing to do with them.

“And suddenly now he decides he’s not just going to be in my life, but force me to marry him?” I snap, though the words land dull in my throat. “Blackmailing me with a video and dressing me up and parading me in front of all of his friends? How is any of this okay?”

Fiona doesn’t flinch.

“He’s terrified and I doubt he even realizes it,” she says. “He’s still that young man you once knew and cared about, but with sharper teeth and many more scars. The world he lives in is harsh and nothing is given. He’s learned to burn the bridge to make sure no one else crosses it. None of this excuses how he’s hurt you, Claire. But it might explain it.”

We sit in silence after that; two women pulled into the same world.

“What am I supposed to do?” I hate how defeated I sound.

Fiona stands and rounds the table to rest a hand on my shoulder. “Demand answers from him,” she advises. “And trust in fate.”

Later, I stand at the balcony, wind stirring the hem of the dress I’m trying not to love, while watching people set up chairs and an altar in the back garden. He remembered cornflowers. He remembered summer breath and delicate lace and wild hope stitched into silk. And I hate how part of me still wants to believe in that.

But wanting Liam and trusting him? Not the same thing.

I might still ache for him. Still tremble when he looks at me too long and my instincts scream to submit to him.

But I’ve learned how to be on my own.

And tonight, when I walk through that courtyard in this beautiful gown, I’ll remember every wound behind each petal. Every slice he carved into my heart.

This dress might be his declaration of love.

But beneath it, I’m covered in armor stitched from the ashes of the girl he left behind.

Chapter 8

Liam

When I open the door to our warehouse near the river, the scent of blood greets me before my eyes adjust to the dim light within. It’s not fresh: metallic with an undercurrent of rot, soaked into the concrete foundation of this space. River Street warehouses tend to hold more ghosts than grain these days, but the real horror lives in what we do here, not what lingers from decades past.

Towards the center of the open area, two men hang from their wrists on an old rail no longer in use. The rusted iron creaks with each small movement they make, and the silence between their labored breaths is tense enough to snap. Their feet barely graze the gritty floor. The pressure on their shoulders is already working them past the point of endurance.

Declan prowls like a caged animal in front of them. The O’Reilly enforcer is eager to spill some blood. His movements are slow and deliberate, a coiled storm under tight control. His shirt is already unbuttoned and tossed to the side, sweat-dripping muscles lit starkly by the glare of bare overhead bulbs. He walks a tight circle around the two of them, slow enough for them to feel the weight of his gaze: sharp and hungry.

Connor is off to the side, leaning against a wide metal table with his arms crossed. His expression is relaxed, too casual for where we are and what we’re doing. That, of course, is intentional. Everything about Connor is meant to disarm. Polished exterior. Calm voice. It’s deceptive comfort. A man doesn’t rise to second in command in this family by keeping his hands clean.

He lifts a chin in greeting and I head in his direction.

Even though the sun is barely above the horizon, Connor is dressed as impeccably as always: tailored dark slacks, a crisp gray button-up rolled at the forearms, and polished shoes that somehow avoid the grime this place collects. He hands me one of the trio of coffees he clearly picked up before arriving.

“Let me guess,” I say as I bump my fist against his while taking the offered coffee. “They aren’t being helpful?”

“Not in the slightest,” Connor says dryly, his tone laced with boredom, but I can see it in the line of his posture. His restraint is wearing thin.

He’s too calm, which means he’s barely holding his own leash. Good. I’ll let Declan be the teeth and Connor be the shadow.

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