“Okay,” I answered, because the pause felt like it needed a break. My voice sounded steady. I was proud of that.
Our guest leaned back in his chair. He was well dressed in an expensive, tailored suit. His hands were clean. There were no visible scars.No blood.He looked like a man who drank expensive booze and never raised his voice. That somehow made him more dangerous.
“With us,” he said. His English had a lilting, sing-song quality. It immediately revealed his birthplace, and I wondered how I’d missed it before.
The Irish Mob.
But…which one?
I waited. The air felt thick. Too warm. I could hear the hum of the building through the walls. I became painfully aware of my own body. My heartbeat was loud in my ears.
“You will be married in a few weeks,” my father said.
The words did not make sense at first. They slid past me without sticking.
“To whom?” I blurted out, forgetting that I shouldn’t ask. A good girl bowed her head and accepted her fate. Mine was sealed the day I was born.
“To my son,” the Irishman smiled. “Liam McDonagh.”
That name rang a bell. Rumors crept slowly through my mind until my whole body jolted with the truth.
The masked man. Theburneddevil.
“Your son,” I said slowly, looking at the Irish boss.
Because that was what this guest was—a boss. A leader. The man who called the shots and wielded decisions like a blade.
The guest nodded once. “Yes.”
I felt it then. The drop. Like my organs had shifted lower in my body. Like the floor had tilted, and I had not adjusted yet.
I did not speak. I could not trust my voice.
“He is the heir,” Don Morelli added. “This marriage secures peace. Territory. Long term cooperation.”
My chest tightened. The room felt smaller. The edges of my vision blurred just slightly. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and inhaled through my nose. Slow. Quiet. I couldn’t panic. I couldn’t let them see it.
I couldn’t letPapasee it.
I winced despite myself. Hurrying to hide the reaction, I cleared my throat. “I am being married to the prince of the Irish mob—the McDonagh Clan.”
No one corrected me.
My father finally looked at me. His eyes were calm. Too calm. “This is good for us.”
Us. Not me.
“And you will not screw this up.”Those words were implied by the glint in his eye.
I nodded. I kept nodding because stopping felt like disobedience. And I knew all too well what came after the act of disobeying.
“In a few weeks,” I repeated.
“Yes,” my father said. “There will be no engagement period. No delays.”
The Irish boss folded his hands on the table. “My son will be informed of your decision tonight.”
Informed. Not asked.
