What the fuck?
I don’t know anything about the relationship between the O’Malleys and the Connelly family except that Ronan married the oldest Connelly daughter—I think there was a younger one, still a child when I left Boston—and that Siobhan died violently. That her death spun the events into motion that eventually led to me being here, taking over from Rocco, her murderer. Ronan hasn’t talked about it beyond the absolutely necessary details, and the last thing I intended to do was pry. But he hadn’t mentioned Desmond. And I wonder, watching the two of them, what Annie is doing with Siobhan’s brother.
The rational part of my brain knows I should walk away. The rational part of my brain knows that Annie O'Malley's dating life is none of my business, that she's a grown woman who can make her own choices, that getting involved would be the fastest way to destroy everything I've built here.
But rationality has nothing to do with the rage that floods my system when Desmond pulls Annie closer, then leans down and presses his lips to hers.
She doesn't pull away. She doesn't resist. She lets him kiss her right there on the street, lets him stake his claim where anyone can see.
Where I can see.
My hands clench into fists at my sides, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to cross the street and rip him away from her. Not to show him exactly what happens to men who touch things that belong to me.
Except she doesn't belong to me. She never has, and she never will.
The kiss ends, and Annie's cheeks are flushed when she pulls back. Desmond says something that makes her laugh again, and the sound is like acid in my veins.
As if sensing my stare, she glances in my direction. Our eyes meet across the distance, and I see surprise flicker across her features. Then something else—guilt? Embarrassment? She says something to Desmond, who follows her gaze and spots me watching them.
His expression hardens, and he pulls Annie closer to his side in a gesture that's clearly territorial. A warning. A claim. Then he's guiding her toward a black Mercedes parked at the curb, his hand still possessively touching her back.
She doesn't look at me again before they drive away.
I stand there on the sidewalk for a long time after their taillights disappear, trying to process what I just witnessed.Trying to compartmentalize the fact that seeing Annie with another man feels like someone reached into my chest and tore out my heart with their bare hands.
My phone buzzes with a text message, and I pull it out with hands that aren't quite steady.
Gia:Thank you again for dinner. I really am looking forward to the next time we see each other.
I stare at the message for a long moment, then delete it without responding.
Because suddenly, the idea of marrying Gia Marcelli—of marrying anyone who isn't Annie O'Malley—feels impossible.
And that realization terrifies me more than anything else that's happened since I came back to Boston.
8
ELIO
The cognac burns going down, but it's nothing compared to the fire that's been eating at my chest for the past nine days. It’s been nine days since I watched Desmond Connelly kiss Annie on that street corner. Nine days of trying to convince myself it doesn't matter, that what she does with her personal life is none of my concern.
Nine days of failing spectacularly at both.
I toss back a second drink and then nearly slam the crystal glass down onto my dresser, stopping just short of it when I consider that the broken glass will make me late. I’m already on the verge of it—and on the verge of having a buzz before I get to my own party.
I haven’t seen Annie all week. I have a feeling she’s been avoiding me, making sure she’s not in meetings with Ronan when I would be. But I know I’ll see her tonight, at the party being thrown in my honor. The celebration of my ascension to the position of don of the De Luca—now Cattaneo—empire, hosted by the man who made it all possible.
The same man whose sister I can't stop thinking about.
I’ve practically rubbed my cock raw thinking about Annie over the past week and a half. Frustrated, angry bouts of release peppered with self-loathing for not being able to let go of her, for being unable to want anyone else, unable to slake the lust burning through me like the jealousy and the alcohol with someone who wouldn’t get me killed. My cock is fucking sore from how much I’ve jerked off these past nine days, imagining anything other than Annie in someone else’s arms.
It hasn’t helped anything. And I’m going to see her tonight with another woman on my arm.
Gia is my date tonight. It seemed fitting, since I’ll want to see how she is in social situations if she’s potentially going to be my wife. Another ‘audition’, as she’d probably call it. And it will please Ronan, which is always important.
The thought of Annie seeing me with another woman makes me feel almost as sick as seeing her with Desmond did.
Get it together, Cattaneo,I scold myself as I check my appearance in the mirror once more.Tonight is important. Too important to let personal feelings derail everything I've worked for. Boston’s most influential crime families will be there, along with representatives from some of the families we work with in other cities—Chicago, Philadelphia, New York. This party isn’t just a celebration, it’s a declaration—a statement that the alliance between Ronan’s empire and the one I’ve inherited is strong once again. That the golden era when Giuseppe De Luca and Padraigh O’Malley were allies and compatriots has returned.
