Iburst through the doors of the club with two terrors consuming me. Either that I’ll arrive to find my husband dead on the floor. Or that I’ll get in and see Raoul towering over my father’s cold body.
Which would hurt me more?
Right now, my heart’s pounding too hard for me to think straight. When Murphy called me an hour ago to tell me what was going down, I was certain he was bullshitting me. My father had sworn he’d leave Raoul alone.
But Murphy said that Raoul had called this afternoon, threatening mayhem if Dad didn’t meet him at this filthy fucking fight club. That’s when I knew all bets were off. I got here so fast that I think Paolo’s head is still spinning.
Jesus, I miss Parker.
And then I see it.
What the actual motherfuck?
Across the crowded room, a small group has gathered around a pair of half-naked men. I recognize one powerful, burly form as my father. The other is Raoul. Broad, muscular, still lethal despite the now-filthy dressing wrapped around his chest. Blood is soaking through it, dammit. And he’s smoking a cigar.
A freaking cigar!
They both are. Both leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against the broad bench behind them, battered and bloody and smoking motherfucking cigars around shit-eating grins. My father has two black eyes and a gash across his brow. Raoul’s lip is split, and his cheeks are peppered with bruises that match the ones he’d already sported after the explosion last night.
As I watch, Raoul raises a metal mug and clanks it against one that my father is holding. They both take a deep gulp. From the way they’re smacking their lips together, those mugs hold something with a kick to it. Raoul says something, and my father laughs like a fucking hyena.
They’re not dead. Not maimed. They’re having the time of their lives.
Oh, Jesus! Has Dad told Raoul about the baby?
Either way, now that I know they’re not dead, I’m going to fucking kill them. My blood pressure shoots straight through the roof, and I grit my teeth against a wave of giddiness as I barge a path through the gathered spectators toward them.
“Oy!” I bark as I reach the bloodied pair. I fold my arms across my chest and tap my toe in consternation. Like that’s going to make an ounce of difference.
“Lass!” My father’s eyes go round. Raoul straightens immediately, giving a quick look about the place.
“Buttercup! What are you doing here? It’s not safe!” he tries to warn me. Like I’m some fragile flower who can’t deal with a room full of sweating men throwing money at brawling orangutans.
“I can go anywhere I want, thank you very much! What the bloody hell are the pair of you up to?”
I know my temper is propelling my words, but I was so freaking terrified of what I’d find that the sight of them arm-in-arm, like they’ve been buddies for years, has my temper spiking.
“I was worried sick!” I add.
“Aww,” says Raoul, earning himself another demerit. “You care about me?”
“Bullshit!” I snap, but he’s already elbowing my father, winking over his mug of what now seems to be whisky because I can smell it from where I’m standing.
“She cares about me,” he says, grinning.
“Count yerself lucky, ya wop!” my father responds. “That girl’s pure class. You could never have done better!”
“Right you are,” responds Raoul nodding and then clanking his mug against my father’s again. “I scored a bit of a belter with this one.”
Is he speaking with an Irish accent?
“Excuse me!” I yell. “I’m standing right fucking here!”
“And you shouldn’t be,” Raoul changes tack. “This is no place for a lady.”
Lady? I’ll show him fucking “lady.”
“Ahh…that’s lovely, innit?” says my father, who appears to be drunk. “It’s good that you can look past all that bluster. She’s a lady, all right. Just like her Ma.”
