“I don’t have time for this, Pietro,” I stress.
“But foreplay is the best part!” He whines his argument and I’m at the point where I am either going to hang up or mentally check out. “Don’t tell me you just get straight to the act. Rico, I thought you were better than that.”
“Pietro.” I heavily enunciate each syllable of his name.
He concedes. “Va bene, va bene. Sebastian Rourk,” he begins relaying the information soberly. “Thirty years old, born in Belfast, Ireland to Ada and Declan Rourk. Ada Declan, maiden name Hayes, died six years ago in a car accident.”
“Was her husband in the car and was it crime related?”
Pietro makes a dinging noise. “Right on the money. Crime related but had the detective alter details so it could stay mob business.” I hum in response. Not out of the ordinary. Majority of deaths within families are covered in order for them to get their pound of flesh. He then continues, “Sebastian has climbed up the ladder the past couple of years. Proved himself as a soldier and ranked up to a Skipper. Fairly intelligent as well. Graduated top of his class at Trinity.”
My brows crease. “His last known whereabouts?”
“As of three days ago The Murphy Estate. Since then unknown,” he tells me. It’s more than likely Sebastian and his soldiers were the ones responsible for the stolen shipment of Bliss and death of our men. And if he’s here that means he’s also here to retrieve his promised bride. My hand fists against the table as my vision tunnels. “Why are we concerned about this guy anyway?”
“Only a hunch I have,” I reply dismissively.
Pietro snorts disbelievingly. “You don’t have hunches.”
“There’s always a first.”
“Not for you. You don’t follow intuition. You lead based on facts. What’s the deal?” He demands.
I lean back in my chair, my eyes rolling shut. “Imogen was running away because she was arranged to marry him. Their marriage would make him the next in line to the Murphy heir. He believes we stole his bride. He’ll want his own revenge.”
A long pause. “How long have you known this?”
“A while.”
He curses in our native tongue under his breath. “And why wasn’t this information given to Carina and Constantine? This changes things.”
Because he’s mine alone to deal with. And I will make him live out every pain imaginable before death greets him. “I wanted more information.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “It has to do with her, doesn’t it?” The accusation lays thick and in truth I can’t deny it.
Everything has to do with her. The earth revolves around the sun. My world revolves around her. “You’re being absurd.”
“How long do you think this will last?”
“Will what last?”
“You and her,” he says. My hackles rise. “Theoretically speaking, how long do you think Imogen and you will last?”
“I’m not entertaining this,” I respond tightly.
“Fine. Allow me to entertain myself.” Dio mio, he just won’t let this go. The damn stubborn bastard. “Say she has developed feelings for you. Given the context it means she developed Stockholm Syndrome. A fucking psychological bond, Rico. Release her and give her time and what will happen?” He pauses for effect. “She’ll realize you were only her captor. A man who took her, kept her and deprived her of the freedom she was fucking running away from her family for.”
I grit my teeth loathing the fact he’s not wrong. Yet it still doesn’t explain the way I feel about her.
There’s never been a person who I can be comfortable around and yet I found that in her. She doesn’t only seem to understand me, she accepts me. My rituals. My need for routine. The meltdowns that cause me to isolate. My fucking literal thinking and need to question everything.
All that my father thought was peculiar and wrong, she does not.
“Then, if we are theoretically speaking you could be wrong.”
Dead silence answers me back. For a moment I’m inclined to believe he hung up. “Fuck,” he breathes. And in that breath there’s too many emotions to uncover for me to understand what he’s feeling. “I think it’s best for me to pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”
“Why?”
