CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TIERNAN
Tierney: She ate everything. You need to pay her some attention. It’s not her fault her parents are assholes and her husband is psychotic.
I stared at the text message my sister sent me.
I never cared what women put in their mouths unless it was my cock, and my wife was no exception. Until now.
Lila had been losing weight. A lot of it.
Now, I wasn’t an expert, but I was pretty sure she was supposed to gain, not lose, weight in her condition. Infuriatingly enough, her beauty didn’t diminish along with the rest of her frame. She remained too delectable for her own good.
Her beauty wasn’t here nor there for me. What I needed was to make sure this woman didn’t drop dead from malnutrition. The Ferrantes’ army was crucial for my plans against the Rasputins.
If I wanted my siblings safe, I needed to finish them off.
I knew the solution to my predicament. Namely, to stop vying for every World’s Worst Husband Guinness record. I could do that. In theory, anyway.
My chief problem was that her absolute dryshite of a mother refused to send over any of her staff to keep my wife company.
I didn’t have time to play house with little girls. Figured the best course of action was to assign her someone she knew and trusted.
I’d called Luca and asked him which of the staff Lila would like with her. He said she’d want Imma.
When I called Chiara to ask her for the woman, she flat-out refused.
“You didn’t let me take her with me to Chicago, and now you want a babysitter for her?” she’d barked. “Fat chance, stronzo.”
“She’s not going anywhere without proper Irish security, and I can’t send my soldiers to Chicago because the Outfit would decapitate them before the sun’s up,” I’d explained stoically. “Punishing her through me is the height of idiocy. Surely, you’re not that fucking daft. The family eejit is Enzo.”
Enzo wasn’t really stupid, but he was both perky and agreeable, which was almost worse.
“My daughter shouldn’t be living with you for another minute, Callaghan.”
“Bitching about the situation won’t fix it,” I’d volleyed. “Your daughter looks like a corpse. She isn’t eating or sleeping. She is under my care, and we both know I don’t give two shites. Either you send someone over to put her back together or watch her slow and painful death,” I’d threatened.
“Happy to send pictures.”
I’d thought this would make her put the damn maid in one of their executive cars and send her my way.
To my surprise, the witch stood her ground.
“Let her die, then. See how that works out for you. My husband might not care much, but my sons?” She tutted. “They’d kill anyone with an Irish
last name in your zip code.”
My fingers flew over the screen now.
Tiernan: Cancel all your engagements for the next few months. Your new job is to feed her and make sure she sleeps.
Tierney: She’s not a Tamagotchi, Tiernan.
Tiernan: Tell me about it. She costs more than twenty bucks. So act accordingly.
My sister replied with a middle finger emoji, forever the picture of eloquence and grace.
I thrust my phone into my back pocket, then proceeded to unlock my apartment door. It was eerily quiet, the only audible sound coming from the industrial fridge in the kitchen.
Spending time with my wife was at the bottom of my to-do list, but bigger sacrifices had been made throughout history to achieve one’s objective.
Who knew? Maybe she’d try to kill me again and things would actually get interesting.
I raised my fist to knock on Lila’s bedroom door, realizing it was slightly ajar.
A rare oversight. Lila was an expert at locking herself away from me.
Taking her error as an invitation, I stepped inside, finding the room empty. The adjoined en-suite bathroom was also vacant, which meant she was probably in her walk-in closet. I stopped at the nightstand next to her bed. Her leather-bound sketchbook sat there, a pencil tucked between the pages. I made no effort to be silent or discreet. I figured if she was naked, it’d give her time to get dressed before she greeted me.
I flipped the sketchbook open, my brow furrowing. I didn’t know what I expected. Maybe finger painting or stick figures of people with lines for bodies and circles for heads. But it wasn’t this.
This was… Fuck me, it was spectacular.
A pencil drawing, realistic and shaded to its finest detail, like an old black and white picture.
The portrait of a man was vivid, alive, and…familiar. Very familiar.
Hold. The. Fuck. Up.
Tate Blackthorn.
My wife drew Tate Blackthorn’s entire dick-ass face. From memory.
Smoking a cigarette, staring into an invisible camera, his cocky half-smirk on full display.
The urge to burn down the sketchbook along with the entire street slammed into me, but I suppressed it. Of course, my wife, who was knocked up with someone else’s baby, was also obsessed with my
archenemy.
Of. Fucking. Course.
Perhaps she wasn’t raped, after all? Tate was at Luca’s wedding. She obviously adored the motherfucker. Yes, he was married, but he wouldn’t be the first filthy rich mogul to cheat on his wife when a young, pretty thing dangled herself in front of him.
What if she opened those creamy legs of hers for him?
I tipped my head back, taking a deep, greedy breath. My list of people to murder kept growing. The saying was accurate—there really was no rest for the wicked. But, I mean, a fucking afternoon off wouldn’t hurt.
Tate lived in the UK. I didn’t have time to start expanding my business into Europe.
Her drawing subject aside, my wife was either a savant or a genius. For her sake, I hoped she was the former. I’d hate to kill her and the unborn
baby in her belly.
No.
That wasn’t true.
The truth was, killing them would solve many of my problems. It’d just create a thousand new ones in the process.
Feeling much less inclined to honor her privacy now, I dropped the sketchbook on her nightstand, proceeding into her walk-in closet.
She was, indeed, dressed.
She also had her head buried in a cell phone she wasn’t supposed to own, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the screen. Her pupils
moved from side to side.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
She can read.
Venom spread inside my veins.
Can you read?
What else can you do?
Are you here to spy?
Is Blackthorn your baby daddy?
Are you texting him now?
I wanted to pick her up, pin her to her bed, and fuck every single answer out of her.
Or, I marveled, maybe she was watching something. Her mother mentioned she let her watch classical concerts. After all, this wasn’t the response of someone who was just caught doing something they shouldn’t.
She completely ignored my presence.
I rapped on the wall, crossing my arms and leaning against the
doorframe.
She didn’t look up.
Little shit.
I stepped inside, entering her line of vision. Her head jolted up, and her mouth dropped open.
Recognition and horror filled her pretty eyes.
“Hello, wifey.”
She scrambled to her feet, shoving the phone into her pocket and jutting her chin up defiantly. The facade of an insentient child was slipping almost
as fast as my patience for this marriage.
I knew asking outright wouldn’t get me anywhere. Lila was a Ferrante through and through. If not by blood, then by nature. I couldn’t break her
through torture.
But hey, it’d still be fun trying.
“Do you like fucking married men, Gealach?” I pushed off the doorframe, entering her domain. After that sketchbook, she couldn’t convince me she was intellectually challenged if her life depended on it. In a way, it did.
She stared at me steadily, refusing to balk.
“Do you like spreading your legs for older men?” I strolled leisurely in her direction. Blackthorn was twice her age. She had no business sucking
the old man’s cock.
“Do you call him Daddy?” I taunted.
She answered with a slow, bored blink. She wasn’t going to fall down on her knees and beg for forgiveness. My young wife had pride, and fire in her eyes.
I stopped when my abs were flush against her chest. She was tiny.
Finishing her would be easier than killing a fly.
“You know he’d never leave his wife for you.” I arched an eyebrow, smirking. “He’s crazy about her. Was fully prepared to give me the keys to his kingdom when I kidnapped her. You were just a quick fuck.”
Her cheeks flushed, and finally, finally, the mask slipped and her emotions showed.
“Did you fuck him?” I palmed her face, tilting it up, forcing her to stare at the grotesque husband of hers. Without the eye. Without the soul.
Her nostrils flared. She said nothing.
“Answer.” I clutched her jaw tightly.
She spat in my face in response. Her saliva hit my left cheek.
“Grave mistake, sweetheart.”
It was time to terrorize an answer out of her.
I reared my fist backward.
Lila whipped her head sideways, bracing herself for the hit, but didn’t close her eyes. Her jaw locked, her eyes blazed with anger. My knuckles landed square against the wall above her shoulder, denting it. The crack looked like spiderwebs.
A soft gasp escaped her. The first time she made a sound. It was so fucking soft I second-guessed I really heard it.
Shit. What was I doing, unraveling over a child bride?
It was time to try another tactic.
Threatening her with rape, murder, and the decimation of her already destroyed life didn’t work. Maybe I’d get more bees with honey.
“There’s an Italian deli down the street.” I stepped back. “Make yourself presentable. Wear something that isn’t fucking pink.” I grabbed my jaw, working it from side to side. “You could use some fresh air.” She hadn’t left the apartment since her mother left for Chicago.
As expected, she didn’t answer. But her teeth captured her lower lip contemplatively.
She didn’t hate the idea of leaving the house.
A weakness. I can work with that.
I pressed on.
“They have homemade gelato.”
Her throat bobbed with a swallow. She was conflicted. Confused. Torn between loathing me and longing to escape the cage I shoved her into.
She needed to eat, get better, and not stand in my way of dismantling the Bratva. The rest could be figured out later.
For instance, with what method did I plan on executing Tatum Blackthorn?
My current preference was dousing him in gasoline and making a nice campfire out of him. Roast some s’mores with the fire of his flesh and make
her eat it.
I’d make her watch, too.
“Move it, Barbie.” I stepped sideways to clear the path for her. “Hurry up, and you just might make it to see the famous Hunts Point sunset.” _______
We walked in silence side by side on the littered street. Logic dictated I lived where I ruled, so Hunts Point it was.
Fintan lived with Da in the suburbs. They didn’t care for rough neighborhoods. Tierney and I, however, showed our strength by making it our stronghold.
It made little difference that my da wasn’t around. Tyrone never truly was. Technically, he was alive. But for all intents and purposes, he was
good as dead. Murdered the night they killed Mam. He was a ghost. Living.
Breathing. Attending meetings. Pretending to be alive. I’d been managing the family business since I was a wee lad. Tierney and Fintan helped.
Lila was bundled in a pink faux fur coat covering a pink flowery dress.
A silent fuck you to my order that she wear something less childish. Other than hurling a whole-ass flamingo on herself, she did everything to let me know she intended to do the exact opposite of anything I asked.
She drew hungry, curious gazes that were promptly snuffed out by my lethal, intimidating glares.
I sowed terror everywhere I went, but especially in the South Bronx, where my word was gospel.
The orange sun dipped under the decrepit buildings, swallowed by urban decay. Lila took everything in with wide, alert eyes.
We entered Maggiano’s, where I picked up a basket and jerked my chin to signal her to start loading it. The food in my apartment left a lot to be desired. I preferred nourishing, dense in protein nutriments. Shchi soups, caviar, cold meats, pickled eggs, fermented dairy, and black breads.
Life had taught me that anything that could entice you could weaken you. I ate like a beggar and fought like a king. And I never loved anything that could die, other than my siblings.
My wife didn’t realize it, strolling through the narrow aisles of the minimart, but everybody was staring at her. A shelf stocker fell off his ladder following her with his eyes, a woman with a baby and drab clothes sucked in a breath when she passed her, and a group of pimpled teenagers froze in their spot, practically drooling.
Lila tossed various dry pastas into her basket, along with white truffle butter, cherry jam, and biscotti. When she reached for a top shelf on her toes to grab a lemon panettone, I stepped behind her and put it in the basket myself. The top of her head didn’t even reach my chin. And when I looked down and saw her tiny figure engulfed between my large feet, a visual of her getting brutally raped on Crimson Key by some asshole assaulted my mind, making my fist involuntarily clench.
She ducked her head under my arm, hurrying toward the deli and plucking a number from a ticket dispenser. She paused, realizing I could see that she possessed the forethought to do that.
I nonchalantly strolled to the front of the long line of people and motioned for her to join me. She winced, clearly unhappy about cutting the
line, but pointed at what she wanted quickly, not making a scene.
Olives. Glazed artichokes. Focaccia. Tuna-stuffed red chili peppers.
When we headed to the register, her eyes halted on a gelato display.
She needed to gain weight, or her brothers would take her away and my entire operation would flush down the shitters. I snatched her arm and marched her to the gelato. Her eyes flared at the sight of the pastel-colored ice cream. She swallowed hard, but didn’t make a move.
I led by example, ordering three scoops. She did the same, pointing at the colors. When we got to the register to pay for everything, the owner’s son—a guy in his mid-twenties with a mushroom haircut and juiced-up muscles—couldn’t rip his gaze from her long enough to scan our groceries.
That he had two fucking working eyes to admire her with pissed me off to begin with. On top of that, he looked exactly like the dashing Italian guy she’d probably end up with if she didn’t lie about her condition. It was the cherry on the shit cake. He grinned at her, and she gave him a shy smile.
The chances of him living to see next year significantly dropped.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?” he cooed.
“She found a husband who owns the entire neighborhood,” I answered on her behalf. His gaze jerked to me. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and his face drained of color.
“Y—yes, sir. Of course. I was just trying to be polite.” Gulping, he pushed our shit faster into grocery bags, forgetting to scan half the items.
“Being too polite to my wife might be hazardous to your health.”
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“Stupidity is not an excuse. This is your first and final warning.”
Once he got everything packed, I sent one of my errand boys to unload the groceries in my apartment and took Lila to the waterline. The direct view was of Rikers Island—not exactly the lights of Paris—and left a lot to be desired. Then again, I never romanced anyone in my life and wasn’t going to make exceptions for my wife.
All the benches overlooking the water were taken, but one wrathful gaze toward an elderly couple occupying the closest bench sent them tumbling to the other end of the street.
Lila settled on the bench; her brows crumpled in disapproval.
We watched the water. I sifted through my gray matter for an olive branch to extend to her. It wasn’t in my nature to appease, or even to negotiate, but Tierney was right. I needed this girl alive.
“You can be happy here,” I lied, holding my gelato without eating it.
She gave me a questioning look, her delicate frown deepening.
Progress. Her isolation from her mother took its toll.
“As long as you don’t cross me and play by my rules, I’ll let you thrive.
You can come and go as you please. Hire your own staff. I can buy you a place next to your parents.” One I would never set fucking foot in. “You can pursue your artistic ambitions. Study.” Her face lit up before she was able to conceal it.
I continued, knowing I had her full attention now, and not for the wrong reason for a change.
“Luca told me you go to Ischia every summer. You can still do that. Not this year, but the next one.” I wasn’t going to stick around for next year.
What did I care, throwing empty promises in the air?
She had the audacity to scowl at me. The little shit might have let Tate Blackthorn touch her. Impregnate her. It wasn’t particularly significant in any way, other than the carnage-fueling thought that he touched something that was mine.
She squinted at the horizon, popping the little spoon into her mouth, suckling it. The motion sent a throbbing ache straight to my cock. Sweet and merciful Jesus. I did not believe in karma, God, or anything else not backed by science, but it appeared I was paying for my sins by marrying the most enticing creature on planet Earth, knowing damn well I couldn’t have her.
The ice cream was melting in my hand, and I tossed it into the trash can next to the bench, irritated that I now had a sticky hand on top of a raging hard-on with nowhere to sink it into.
One of those problems could be mitigated by a quick hand wash. The other was here to stay.
Lila finished her gelato and the waffle cone that came with it. Quietly, she picked up my ice cream-covered hand and uncurled my fingers. She twisted her head, holding my fingers open as she stared at my palm.
She wanted to check the injury she inflicted on me. Unfortunately, it was covered in green gelato.
She studied the gelato stain, frowned, then brought my hand to her mouth, flattening her hot, wet tongue over it and licking it off me.
I growled, my blood roaring in my veins. Euphoric desire flooded me.
This felt better than sodomizing any professional escort I’d ever laid hands
on.
She was dangerous.
For my plans.
For my goals.
For that useless thing inside my chest.
The mark resurfaced. The wound had healed, leaving only a pale, pink scar. She rubbed her tiny thumb over it, and that simple move threatened to change my entire brain chemistry. I yanked my hand back and stood up.
“Enough.” I buttoned my coat with one hand. “You’re not a fucking dog, Lila. Stop licking everything you encounter.”
I spent the walk back to the apartment silently contemplating why the fuck I didn’t kill her at that fountain and save myself this headache. I’d never shown mercy to anyone before.
And the one thing I saved just might end up killing me.
