Liam’s gaze hardened. “I urge you to remember who is in charge. I gave you Chicago, not New York.”
Cillian leaned back in his chair. He failed to recognize the obvious warning. “Then keep me in Chicago. I’m only here because you refuse to let me move my wife out of this godforsaken city. I need Valentina with me.”
The sound of Marco’s lighter echoed in the room as he ignited a cigarette. The mention of Cillian’s wife made hisexpression shift slightly. He normally glared at Cillian with a look that boarded on anger, but this time it was different. This was envy.
“With her mother’s condition?” Liam wondered.
Sending Cillian to Chicago would keep the Americans out of our way, and if Liam’s plan with Mikhail worked out, the marina would have no audience. Perfect for several shipments.
Sean gave Liam a dark look—one that urged him to send Cillian to Chicago. I was sure, deep down, Liam knew that was the best option he had. He just didn’t want to uproot Cillian’s wife, whose mother needed to stay in the city for treatment.
Cillian shrugged. “She’s stable for now, but it’s only a matter of time. The doctors say it could go either way.”
Liam nodded slowly. “And Valentina? How’s she holding up?”
“She’s a tough woman.” Cillian replied with pride in his voice. “She’s managing, but it’s wearing on her.”
Liam sighed, rubbing his temples. “Cillian, moving her now could break her. She needs stability, not upheaval. We have to think about the long game here.”
Cillian’s expression darkened. “And what about my stability? I can’t keep running back and forth. Chicago needs me. Valentina will understand. Hospice is already managed.”
“Careful not to make your wife an enemy. You know how she is. She might slip up and ruin everything you have with the Americans.”
“She’s my wife, Liam. I’ll do what I damn well please.”
Cillian held the cards in this game, and Valentina, whether by choice or circumstance, was his pawn.
CHAPTER 7
ROSALIE
Rolling out of the bed completely, I stumbled toward the coffee machine, barely managing to stay upright.
Knock.
Knock.
KNOCK.
Ugh!
Those three sharp raps on the door shattered the fragile peace of my half-conscious state.
Right.I hadn’t exactly sprung out of bed at the crack of dawn with a chipper morning song on my lips. Whoever was on the other side of the door could just cool their heels. I needed my coffee if I was going to deal with anyone.
Fumbling, with bleary eyes, I jabbed random buttons on the coffee machine.
Please, please turn on.
Eventually, I heard the machine hum.Thank God.I’d never been a morning person. Never a patient one either.
“Hurry up,” I muttered.
The machine didn’t. It continued to take a millennium, and the knocking persisted, though it was a tad louder this time, maybe even impatient.
Squinting through the peephole, I strained to make out the figure on the other side. A man stood there shifting his legs slightly. I caught a glimpse of a smile, barely-there beneath the ...growthon his face. It was a beard, but it certainly wasn’t trimmed. His boots, scuffed and worn but well-maintained, completed the picture. But who was he?
A slice of light shined in my eyes, making it difficult to see, but I persisted. My gaze darted down, searching for a clue. There, pinned to the right side of his shirt, was a small plastic badge. The name tag read “Johnny,” and the company logo was beside it. He worked for a camera company, it seemed. I squinted again to get a better look.
