Page 57 of Brutal Union
The kitchen. Why is the kitchen so quiet? There should be settling sounds, pipes groaning, something. But there's only silence, heavy and waiting.
"They're late," Marco says, checking his watch. His suit is immaculate as always, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand stays close to his concealed weapon.
"Power play," I suggest, though my voice lacks conviction. "Making us wait to show they're not desperate."
The front door opens, bells chiming with false cheer. Liam O'Brien enters, and my breath catches. This isn't the sweating, weak groom from my almost-wedding just weeks ago. Something has changed in these few weeks since Marco stole me. He's different now, his green eyes cold as winter lakes. The humiliation has started changing him into something that makes my instincts scream danger.
"Hello, wife." His voice cuts across the space like a blade, and I feel Marco tense beside me. "Strange to see you across a table instead of an altar."
Two Irish soldiers flank him, their hands casual but ready. The atmosphere shifts, electric with potential violence. Liam's gaze travels over me slowly, possessively, like I'm still his property despite everything. Despite Marco's ring on my finger, despite the marks his mouth left on my throat this morning, despite everything that's happened since that interrupted wedding.
"Mrs.Rosetti," I correct, lifting my chin.
His laugh is bitter. "Right. The stolen bride. Do you know what they call me now?" He takes his seat across from us, movements controlled and predatory. "The groom who couldn't keep his woman. You made me a joke in my own family."
"Business," Marco says, his voice carrying warning. "We're here to discuss territory, not past grievances."
"Everything's a grievance when it comes to her." Liam's eyes never leave mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach drop. "Did you think I didn't know this was your family's old haunt? That you wouldn't suggest it? You're predictable, principessa. Your mother trusted the wrong people too, didn't she? Thought neutral ground meant something. Thought tradition would protect her."
My blood turns to ice. "What do you know about my mother?"
"More than you, apparently." His smile is sharp as glass. "But then, daughters never really know their mothers' secrets. The deals they make, the people they trust, the reasons they die."
Dante's hand moves to his weapon, but Marco raises a finger, holding him back. The negotiation continues, but it feels like theater now, everyone playing roles while something darker lurks beneath. My skin prickles with the certainty that I've madea terrible mistake, that my need to be useful has led us into danger.
My hand finds Marco's arm just as the kitchen door explodes inward.
Irish soldiers pour through what should have been secure exits, weapons drawn, movements coordinated. This isn't a negotiation. It's a trap, and I led us straight into it.
My knees buckle. This is my fault. The taste of copper fills my mouth where I've bitten through my lip. My brilliant plan. My family's neutral ground. My catastrophic arrogance.
"Did you really think we'd negotiate?" Liam stands, pulling his gun in one smooth motion. "That we'd sit across a table and pretend you didn't destroy everything? I've been planning this since the wedding, studying this place, knowing you'd suggest it."
Dante moves faster than thought. He throws himself in front of Marco as Liam fires, his body jerking as bullets tear into his torso. Blood sprays across white tablecloths, across the abandoned restaurant, across the neutral ground that was never neutral at all.
"Dante!" Marco's roar fills the space as his brother collapses, blood pooling beneath him.
More gunfire erupts. Marco pulls me behind the bar as bottles explode above our heads, glass raining down like deadly snow. The booth where I'd hide as a child is now splattered with Dante's blood.
Marco snarls as he shields me, the sound torn from somewhere primal. Even in his fury at my mistake, his body moves to protect me.
Through the chaos, I see Dante trying to sign something with hands that won't cooperate, blood making his fingers slip. His eyes are wide with pain and frustration, unable to speak, unable to sign, trapped in silence.
"Ambush from the kitchen," Marco snarls, returning fire. "The exits you said were secure."
The accusation cuts deep because he's right. This is my fault. I wanted to be his partner, his equal, and instead I've proven why women in our world are kept safe and silent.
"I'll reclaim what was stolen," Liam calls out over the gunfire. "Both of you. The bride and the respect. Everything you took from me."
Marco drags Dante toward the front entrance while I cover them, my hands steady despite the terror coursing through me. Dante's breathing is wet, labored, and there's so much blood. His hands, the hands he uses to speak, are mangled from defensive wounds.
We burst onto the street where Marco's men are already engaged with Irish soldiers. Tommy has the car running, and we pile in, Dante's blood soaking into expensive leather.
"Drive!" Marco shouts, pressing his hands to Dante's wounds. "Get us the hospital now!"
As we speed away, I see Liam standing in the restaurant doorway, his promise hanging in the air like smoke: he'll reclaim what was stolen. Me.
The compound is silent. Dante's been in surgery for three hours, and the doctor's expression when she finally calls tells us everything we don't want to know.
