"She's complicated. She always has been. The things that happened in this house, the way things were?—"
"I know about Orla Geraghty," I say.
Now it's his turn to still. Good, he’ll finally stop with his bullshit excuses.
"I know what Daire did to her. I know that Quinn came to Bridget and told her what was happening and Bridget hit her and called her a liar." I take one step toward him. "I know that your right-hand man has been sleeping with your daughter since she was a minor." I take another step. "And I know that you buried the truth about Orla to protect this family's reputation while your youngest daughter spent years being blamed for something your eldest did."
Ronan's eyes widen, red heats his face. He’s shocked, whereas Bridget is not. The outrage on her face is immediate, as though she's the injured party here. As though Quinn is the one who has done something wrong.
Fucking bitch.
"She was my daughter," Ronan says. "Whatever happened here, I had my reasons?—"
My vision goes red. I don't remember deciding to move. One second he's standing in front of me. The next second, I'm across the room. Ronan's eyes widen. Too fucking late. Someone really should have taught him to watch what he says.
I catch his wrist.
"Lorenzo—"
The crack echoes through the office. Bridget screams, and Ronan drops to one knee with a roar of pain, his face finally losing that calm mask he's been wearing. His hand hangs at an unnatural angle, fingers already swelling.
I don't let go. Fuck no, he’s not even felt half the pain I want him too. I tighten my grip and another strangled sound tears from his throat.
"You hit her on our wedding day."
His face drains of color.
"Lorenzo—"
"You hit her." My voice is deadly quiet. "On the day she married me."
I twist his wrist and Ronan curses.
Bridget rushes forward. "Stop it!"
I look at her. Just a fucking look, that’s all it takes for her to freeze on the spot.
Good. Because if she takes one more step, I'll deal with her too.
"You don't get to stand there and talk to me about reasons." Every word comes out colder than the last. "You don't get to justify it and you don't get to explain it away."
Ronan's breathing is ragged, I crouch in front of him, getting in his face.
"You put your hands on my wife."
The room goes silent.
"My wife."
Ronan closes his eyes briefly, maybe because of the pain, or it could be because he finally understands how badly he's miscalculated. I don't particularly care which.
"If I ever see another bruise on her," I say quietly, "I'll break more than your hand."
His jaw tightens, and I lean in even closer. "If she cries because of you, if she flinches because of you. I'll fucking bury you."
The threat hangs between us. No, not a threat. A fucking promise, and we both know I keep my promises.
I turn to Bridget. She's on her feet, one hand pressed to her mouth, looking between me and her husband sprawled on the floor.
