“Why are you glaring at your ties? Did one of them do something naughty?”
Blinking, he cleared his expression as he reached for a tie at random and looped it around his neck. “No. Just thinking.”
“About?”
He started to brush her off, to tell her it was nothing. But Reagan’s words still echoed in his mind, and even though he’d won Aria’s heart, keeping it would mean making himself vulnerable in ways he never had with another person.
“I was thinking how I’m looking forward to the day I don’t have to wear a suit at home.”
Stepping into him, she reached for his tie, expertly wrapping the silk length around itself as she peered up at him through her lashes. “So the suit is a mob boss thing, not a Killian thing?”
He just managed to hold back a wince at being called a mob boss. It didn’t matter how true it was, he still hated the term, especially from her. “I suppose. People have certain… expectations of a man in my position.”
“Down to what you wear.” She nodded, giving the tie a gentle tug. “I get that. My dad’s the same way. Family time, he’s happy to wear jeans all day. But when he’s working or at the club, it’s all suits all the time. Judging people on their clothing choices instead of how kind they are or how much they contribute to society seems stupid to me, but I suppose that’s the world we live in.”
With a final wiggle, his tie was in place and she looked up at him, her expression suddenly serious. “For what it’s worth, I’m looking forward to the day you don’t feel like you have to wear this thing all the time too. I want our child to grow up knowing you as Killian, not Killian O’Rourke, leader of the Irish mob.”
“I want that, too.” More than he had even a decade ago when he’d first set off down this path. “I’m going to make it happen, Aria. For us and for our child.”
“Good. I plan to hold you to that promise.”
Aria
* * *
Hand in hand, they made their way down the stairs to the dining room, where the rest of the family was already waiting for them. It felt… heavier than before. Like a weight had come to rest on her shoulders between the last family dinner and now.
And, well, she supposed it had.
She stopped short when she realized the seat to Killian’s right had been left empty. Brody sat instead at Killian’s left, and when she met his eyes, he simply nodded his head toward the empty chair.
It’s just a chair. Stop making it weird.
But even as she stepped away from Killian, she knew it was so much more than a chair. That seat was a symbol of power, much like Killian’s suit, and by claiming it she wasn’t simply claiming a seat for dinner.
She was stepping fully into her role as Killian O’Rourke’s wife.
More weight, more responsibility she never would have asked for on her own. But she’d made her choices, so with her heart threatening to pound out of her chest, she settled on the seat that had been left open for her.
Killian pushed her chair in for her, and his hand came to rest on her shoulder. Only for a moment, but that moment was all she needed for her racing heart to settle. She was his, and he was hers, and together they’d put a stop to this madness and live out long, happy lives together.
They would. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
With her settled, Killian took his place at the head of the table, his gaze traveling around the table, pausing for a moment on each member of his family before he spoke.
“Our young cousin, Sean, was killed this afternoon in a cowardly, vicious attack on our family.”
Judging by the lack of reaction, they were all aware of the news, but the words still landed heavy in her gut. It was one thing to know it, even to have seen it, but having it stated so plainly hit harder than she’d expected it to.
Killian continued, his voice grim but strong. “Our contacts at the police have confirmed the hit was carried out by two of DeLuca’s men. One was fatally wounded by the police, the second is in custody. He will not survive the night.”
A chill raced up her spine. This was a version of her husband she’d only caught glimpses of so far, the ruthless mob boss who could calmly discuss ending a man’s life with the same inflection as if he were discussing what to have for dinner.
It was equal parts terrifying and enthralling.
He waited, but if he was expecting objections, none came. Seemingly satisfied by the lack of response, he nodded and pulled in a deep breath. “I owe you all an apology.”
Unlike his declaration that he intended to have a man killed, his offer of an apology did provoke a reaction. Furious objections, peppered with enough curse words to make a sailor blush, echoed around the table.
