“Later Gabriel,” I say over my shoulder, sprinting off.
I race through the hallways, past servants carrying trays and guards exchanging shifts, ignoring the way my heart is thudding like it wants out of my chest. Erin will berelieved. Maybe excited for the wedding.
I swing open her bedroom door, a wide smile ready on my face. “Erin, he is—! What the hell?!”
Dolan and Erin jerk apart like my voice just lit the carpet on fire. Erin practically falls off the chaise, yanking her feathered capeacross her chest as if that will hide anything. Dolan shoots to his feet so fast he bangs his knee on the wooden frame, wincing while trying to stand like a gentleman instead of a man who very much had his hands all over the Irish princess ten seconds ago.
Erin’s face floods bright red. “Rosie!”
“What is this?” I snarl, my voice deadly calm as I take in the scene in front of me.
Dolan clears his throat, smoothing his shirt like the gesture might erase the fact that his lips are definitely swollen. “Rosalina…”
I don’t give him my attention. Not one fraction of it. I look straight at Erin—my best friend, my sister, my entire purpose. “Erin,” I say quietly, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Her breath stutters. “Rosie?—”
“Is this why you wanted to call off the wedding?” My voice cracks like a whip. “Because you’re fucking Dolan?”
Her eyes widen with guilt, not denial. “Rosie, it’s not like that?—”
“Then what is it?”
She steps toward me, hands shaking, desperation all over her face. “Rosie, we’re in love.”
I inhale sharply, and it feels like swallowing glass. “You don’t get to say that to me like it’s nothing.” My voice wavers once, then hardens. “I’ve been fighting for you. Planning your safety, your future—and you were hiding this from me?”
Erin reaches for my arm. “Rosie, please—let me explain?—”
I step back so fast her fingertips barely graze my sleeve. The look on her face shatters something inside me.
“Rosie,” she whispers, voice breaking.
“No,” I start to shake my head slowly at first, but it gets faster and faster with every step back I take into the hallway. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Rosie—please?—”
I turn away before she sees me crumble, and I run.
2
DANTE
“I appreciate your candor, Dante,”Seamus says, his hand closing around mine with a firmness that borders on indulgent. His palm is broad and warm, the skin rough with age and old work, the grip deliberate rather than friendly.
“It is a pleasure, Mister Seamus,” I reply, inclining my head.
He doesn’t let go right away. His thumb presses once into the back of my knuckles, a subtle increase in pressure meant to remind me who invited whom into this room. A test, dressed up as courtesy. I would do the same if I were handing my daughter to another man like a piece of contested ground.
The difference is, I would never make that trade.
Seamus O’Connor smells faintly of expensive cologne and cigar smoke, the kind that lingers in wool coats and old offices. His hair has gone steel-grey at the temples, his face carved with lines that weren’t earned gently. His eyes are sharp and measuring beneath the genial expression—eyes that have watched men beg, watched men die, and learned to smile through both.
He steps closer, turning the handshake into something almost like an embrace. His arm comes around my shoulder, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear it.
“You understand the arrangement is conditional,” he says, the words edged with a quiet promise of violence. “You respect my daughter. You care for her. You keep her safe.”
The pressure of his hand increases, just enough to be noticed. Just enough to be intentional.
