“How could I forget, Liv.”
His lips twitch. Maybe he wants to say something else, something personal. But instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a flash drive.
He slides it across thetable. “Check this out in private.”
“What is it?” I ask, though I suspect it’s evidence of something dangerous.
“It's everything you need to know about Kingston’s past dealings. Including one tied directly to your father.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression composed. I reach for the drive and slide it into my hoodie pocket.
Roman leans back, eyes lingering on me before he speaks again.
“You think you know what the Viacavas are really capable of?” Roman’s voice is rough. “You don’t. But I do.”
I meet his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t hide a damn thing.
“You shouldn’t be wearing his ring, Liv,” he says through gritted teeth. “You didn’t choose him. We both know it should’ve been me standing at the altar.”
My exhale isn’t defeat, it’s from reluctant acceptance. I was born an Irish mafia princess and no matter what I do or how much distance I try to put between me and my family, they control every aspect of my life.
“And we both know that was never the path I could walk. My da made that very clear to both of us. Marrying Kingston is punishment alone.”
I tear my gaze from his and let out a short breath. “Did he put you up to this? Does my da think he can use me to ruin Kingston?”
Roman’s jaw ticks once. “He doesn’t know I’m here. This is me, protecting you whatever way I can. This is open warfare, Liv, and you know me, I won’t let that bastard make you collateral damage.”
There’s something fierce in histone now. It’s possessive, dangerous maybe. But he reins it in just enough to keep it from boiling over.
I nod once, even though my pulse is a mess and I can barely hold my expression steady.
Then I stand. “I have to go.”
Roman doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t reach for my hand or ask me to stay for a coffee. And I don’t look back.
The city’s still half-asleep when I step out onto the sidewalk, the early morning light pale and cold as it hits my face.
I tug the hood of my sweatshirt up again and keep my head down, blending in to become just another girl heading home from a yoga session.
However, a chill scatters my spine. The street seems to be quieter than usual. Awareness prickles the base of my neck like a warning. I glance over my shoulder, seeing the street empty. But that doesn’t stop the nagging unease.
I pick up my pace, ducking into narrower streets, sticking to familiar shortcuts through the West Village until a dull thud of footsteps comes from behind me.
My heart thumps as the cold seeps through my hoodie. I slip a hand into my pocket to grab my phone. Just as I wrap my fingers around it, a gloved hand clamps over my mouth.
I’m dragged into the shadows of a narrow alley, my feet skidding over concrete.
Panic explodes through me. My scream is muffled and my fight is subdued by the strength hijacking my body. An arm grips around my middle, securing me against a solid wall of muscle, and then gunfire explodes. The first shot whizzes past me, the second coming even closer.
My attacker jerks, curses, and lets go.
I scramble toward a dumpster, knees scraping the coldpavement, heart pounding out of my chest. Then their footsteps echo, fading fast as they disappear as quickly as they came.
Panting, I push myself upright and lock eyes with Kingstonwhoapproaches from the other end of the alley, gun in hand, black T-shirt tight around flexing muscles with every furious stride he takes.
Even though his dark hair is wind-tousled and his expression tight, his movements are precise in the way only a dangerous man can be.
“You really don’t listen, do you, Livvie?” he growls. “You could have been fucking killed.”
