Page 33 of Ruthless Savior
Different clothes were brought up for me this afternoon, clothes that fit me better—which means either they were borrowed from a different person, or Ronan had someone buy me clothes that he thought would suit. There were a handful of options, and I picked something that I thought would benice enough for dinner—a pair of slim-cut black pants and a soft, loose, dove-grey sweater that feels like cashmere. Ronan is dressed similarly to how he was last night, and he looks relaxed and at ease, casually handsome in a way that makes my breath catch.
He rises when he sees me, a gesture that seems automatic, ingrained, and pulls out the same chair for me that I sat in for our previous dinner, to his right. “Please, sit.” His voice is calm, controlled, but I can see tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way his jaw is held just a little too tight.
I’ve been trying not to think about this morning all day. I feel hot with embarrassment every time I recall the conversation, and it only gets worse the more distance I have from it. I feel like I temporarily lost my mind, making that offer to him—he must have thought the same thing. He was so quick to turn me down. It felt like a rejection, which it technically was—but it also felt more personal than it should have.
I was offering him a one-time deal, not a relationship, so why did it sting so much? I felt like I was shot down by a man I wanted, not a powerful mafia boss who holds my safety and my mother’s health in his hands. Maybe because it was the first time I’d ever tried propositioning a man, and it didn’t go at all the way I imagined.
But if it stung so much, it’s probably better that he said no. Especially if he meant what he promised, afterward. I still don’t trust him, yet.
The soup and salad course is already set out, the wine poured. Ronan nods to the food. “Eat,” he says firmly. “We’ll talk about the arrangements I’ve made, but you need to eat.”
I want to argue with him, to insist that he fill me innow, but if there’s one thing I’ve figured out about Ronan since I’ve been here, it’s that he’s a man who expects to be listened to andobeyed. I nod, taking a bite of the tomato bisque as Ronan fills my wine glass.
“Thank you,” I say after a moment’s pause. “For all of this, I mean.” I gesture to the food. “And the clothes. You’ve been taking care of me quite well.”
I think I see him flinch, ever so slightly, but he nods.
"Of course. I imagine this has all been quite overwhelming."
“That’s an understatement,” I mutter, taking a bite of the Caesar salad.Overwhelmingdoesn’t begin to cover it. It occurs to me that I probably don’t even have a job any longer. I haven’t been to work in over a week or contacted my boss. The thought makes my stomach twist. I didn’t have an emotional connection to the place I worked, but it was a really, really good position for someone right out of college. And without the reference from my boss—let alone the bad-mouthing he might do about me to others in the field—my future has dimmed considerably.
It occurs to me that maybe Ronan has contacts that could help fix that. But he’s a criminal, I remind myself. A mafia boss. Whatever financial connections he has, they’re probably not the kind I want to associate myself with. Not unless I want to start a new life as a shady accountant.
When the second course is finished—melon wrapped with prosciutto and dusted with a shaved cheese—I look at Ronan. “Can you tell me what arrangements you’ve made now? For my mom?”
Ronan nods, setting down his fork. "I've had my people look into her situation. She's currently receiving treatment at Mass General, correct?"
The fact that he already knows this sends a chill down my spine. "How do you?—"
"I needed to understand what we're dealing with," he says simply. "The extent of her care, the costs involved. I wanted to have a complete picture before we spoke."
I stare at him, my appetite suddenly gone. "You had people looking into my mother's medical records?"
“Leila.” I can see that he recognizes my distress. "I needed to know how to help. I couldn’t do that unless I understood completely what the situation was."
I swallow hard. “You could have asked me.”
“I didn’t want to burden you until I knew what I could do.”
I frown. “How did you even get anyone to tell you all of that? There are laws—” I break off as he gives me a knowing look, and it slowly dawns on me, yet again, that this isn’t a man for whom laws matter.
“I have money,” he says simply. “And contacts who owe me favors. I have connections and the ability to use fear, if need be, to get things done when money and influence aren't enough. I can get almost anything I want, Leila. Something like HIPAA isn’t going to stand in my way.”
This was all for my benefit, but it still makes my blood run cold. Somehow, vaguely, I knew there were men in the world like him, but I never thought I’d encounter one.
"Help." I set my fork down with more force than necessary. "Why would you want to help? You don't even know me. You don't know her."
Ronan is quiet for a long moment, studying my face. In the warm light of the chandelier, his hazel eyes look more green than brown, and I can see flecks of gold around the pupils. He's handsome in a way that makes my chest tight, all sharp angles and strong lines, but there's something in his expression now that looks almost vulnerable, if a man so powerful could ever be vulnerable.
"Because I'm the reason you're in more danger now than you were before," he says finally. "And because leaving you in that warehouse wasn't an option. Because if you’re going to survive,you can’t leavemyhouse, but your mother is clearly in an untenable situation without you."
“You said something about making this worse this morning.” I press my lips together. “What, exactly, is going on between you and Rocco?”
Ronan pauses, and I see a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. “It’s not something I want to involve you in further,” he says finally. “It’s business between mafia bosses. Violent business. I want—Ineedhim dead. And he wants the same for me. The fact that I took what he thinks belongs to him only complicates this. By taking you from him, I've made it personal in a way that goes beyond business."
"So you're saying that by rescuing me, you've made me a bigger target." I stare at him, the implications of all of this sinking in. That by taking out that stupid fucking loan, I managed to somehow put myself in the middle of a mafia war.
"Yes." He doesn't try to soften it, doesn't try to make it sound better than it is. "If you go home now, he'll come for you again. And this time, it won't just be about the debt you owe. It'll be about getting back at me."
