I adjust my suit jacket and get comfortable. “Will you two shut the fuck up, I can’t hear myself think.”
Gunnar grunts, side-eyeing me with a smirk. “Someone’s a bit worried about this meeting.”
“Don’t worry, mate—you’ll be grand.” Killian shoots me his hundred-watt smile as he squeezes my shoulder. A smile so similar to Lennon’s that my heart trips in my chest. “You’re bringing Da an offer I don’t think he can refuse.”
I sigh. “As long as he sees this as a toe in the door and not a whole goddamn leg.”
The buildings fly past the tinted windows as we accelerate down the highway. What I’m really nervous about is that I haven’t heard back from my father yet. What if New York shoots down this idea? What if I promise Donelly an in, and I can’t deliver?
I need Lennon to be accepted by New York as my wife; this is the only way. Marriages are for alliances not love in our world. Especially with me being a Don.
I check my phone. Still no messages. Tapping my thumb on my phone, I can’t hold back any longer. I turn to Killian. “How’s Lennon handling all this?”
His gaze burns with a quiet intensity as he studies me. “Well, she doesn’t want to meet Da. Which is going to break his heart. But I’ll explain to him she needs time. He’s a reasonable man.”
“I sure the fuck hope so,” I whisper.
I catch glimpses of the Chicago River sparkling through the trees as we travel down I-55 to Bridgeport on Chicago’s south side. The limo makes a right and glides through an urban neighborhood with stunning three-story homes nestled up against each other. You don’t see that shit in Florida.
Parked cars and oak trees line the streets. After a few more turns, the limo parks in front of one of the tall, brick homes and we exit. As we climb the wide stairs—colorful flowerpots perched on each step—to the front door, it opens. A busty woman, wearing dark jeans and a green top, her gray-streaked red hair twisted on top of her head, is smiling down at us.
She holds her arms out to Killian. “Welcome home.”
He obliges her, kissing her cheek and then squeezing her shoulders. “Heard you were makin’ your beef stew. Would be a crime not to come home.” Looking back at us, he winks. “Mam, I’d like you to meet my new friends, Sandro and Gunnar.”
“Nice to meet you, Ma’am,” I say, stepping up to take her hand.
Then Gunnar offers his. “Pleasure, Mrs. Donelly.”
“No need for formalities here, lads. Call me Mary. Come on in and make yourself comfortable in the dining room.” She turns back, her warm smile and gold, dangling earrings glinting in thelight. “I did indeed make my famous Irish beef stew, so we’re having an early dinner.”
She slips her arm through her son’s as we walk through the marble foyer, around a grand wood and iron staircase, and down the hall. “Tell me all about Florida. Are your brothers behavin’ themselves? Did you swim in the warm sea? Were there sharks?”
“Aye, lots of sharks, Mam,” he laughs.
I listen to their banter, noting she didn’t ask about Lennon. I wonder how she feels about her husband’s illegitimate child. Were they married when he had the affair with Lennon’s mother? If so, is she resentful of Lennon?
She leads us to a large dining room with three cathedral windows letting in the late afternoon light. Two women in uniform are laying out food on the long, dark wood table. The delicious scent has my stomach rumbling.
“Sit, sit, Mac will be here in a few minutes. He’s just finishing up a call,” Mary says, as Killian takes a seat beside the head of the table, which I assume is where Mac will sit.
I take a seat across from Killian, and Gunnar pulls out the chair beside me, sliding it over a few inches to accommodate both of our broad shoulder widths.
One of the uniformed women begins to pour red wine in our glasses.
Mary is telling us a story about the French wine when Mac strolls in. He catches Killian’s eye first.
“Hello, Son. Ah, our guests have arrived.” He takes me and Gunnar in with a sharp gaze as he makes his way to his chair at the head of the table.
The way he says “guests” could be replaced with “enemies.” It’s not welcoming at all. I stand and shake his hand. “Sandro LaRocca.”
His cold blue eyes sweep my face. “The man who has my daughter’s heart.”
I shoot Killian a questioning glare. I hadn’t planned on Mac knowing how much his daughter means to me. Now he knows he can squeeze more out of the negotiation.
Killian shrugs and holds his wine glass up to me as Mac moves on to shaking Gunnar’s hand. “What’s your nationality, son? Obviously not Italian.”
“Mostly Swedish with a bit of Norwegian, sir.”
