Chapter 33
Kellin
This dinner may go down in history as one of the most excruciating of all time. I bet plenty of inmates on death row enjoy their last meal more than I’m enjoying this one.
Though Declan’s wife can surely cook. Unsurprisingly, she’s a wonderful host and displays all the qualities a mob boss like him would seek in a woman.
She anticipates his every move, smiles at his comments, and nods on cue. Fills his glass before the last drop of red has drained.
Hertagliatelle al ragùand eggplant parmesan are the best I’ve ever tasted. But even that and the Van Winkle Reserve Rye aged thirteen years can’t remove the sick flavor from my mouth.
Maeve refuses to acknowledge my existence.
Her failure to so much as glance my way shoots my blood pressure through the roof. Any higher, and I might just stroke out.
I feel like such a fucking prick. I wish I could pull her into the other room, press my mouth to hers, and devour her rage toward me and that jackass of a father.
I want to swallow her heartache and help her forget all about this twisted mess.
I was wrong to suspect Maeve of manipulating me. She’s not involved in Declan’s shit show, not really.
But now she realizes I played her.
Her composure impresses me. Talk about cool under pressure. No wonder she can operate a pricey establishment like the Cypress as easily as some women paint their nails.
The woman continues to spellbind me.
When the eye contact finally occurs, my lungs flatten like a mule kicked me right in the ribs.
Holy fuck.
If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out in my pasta. But I prefer her daggers over her not connecting with me at all.
In between laughing at Declan’s stupid and generally sexist comments, I keep trying to convey a nonverbal apology.
Unfortunately, she ignores my every attempt to relay my message.
The rejection busts me up inside.
Fortunately for me, Maeve directs most of her hate-fueled glare at her father.
I’m feeling eight kinds of aggression toward Declan Gallagher too. I’d like to lance him with his own steak knife.
Though I do find the whole dynamic fascinating.
Connor Gallagher eats like an automaton. His perfect posture and old school manners don’t align with my mental image of Declan’s heir, though I suppose the behavior fits. According to rumors, he’s the brain behind the whole Port Kings operation.
Despite his aloof, detached demeanor, his gaze volleys between Maeve and me with far too much interest.Tone it down, buddy, or you might sprain an ocular muscle.
Meanwhile, Brody Gallagher practically vibrates with tension. He trades off between scowling at me and examiningMaeve with apparent concern. He hoards any conclusions he draws, drowning them in his IPA.
No one speaks out of turn. No one chats about their day or relationships or a movie they just saw or a book they just read. The conversation revolves around whatever spews from Declan’s mouth.
Declan Fucking Gallagher.
The cat who got the cream.
He set me up. He set usbothup and now reclines in his chair like a king on his throne, enjoying the havoc he wrought.
