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“Riveting. We established this last night. And?”
His fingers curled into the table. “And I know you encouraged Aiden to strike an agreement with me, thus making you my wife.”
Fucking Cillian. He was the only one who would have spilled that information to Raphael. Probably for drugs. There was no chance that it had been Aiden. He was too excited to claim the tremendous strategy as his own.
I grabbed my drink. Raphael watched my mouth seal around the glass with rapt attention as I drew in an ambitious sip. His hand slithered over the tabletop. My eyes tracked the deliberate movement as his hand wrapped around my wrist, his fingertips reading my pulse. A human polygraph. I was familiar with the process.
“I want to hear it in your own words—from your lips. Why would you suggest that we marry?” The pressure on my vein increased as Raphael leaned in so close his chest grazed his plate. With a forked tongue, he added, “We’ve never even met, Willa.”
Vodka burned a trail as it trickled down my throat at a telling pace.
Raphael knew I was the mastermind behind this sham, and if Cillian and my reasoning didn’t pass the cross-check, there was no telling how he’d react.
He only needed me breathing to make me his wife. That left a hell of a lot of room for creativity. Images of Tiernan intoxicated by my physical pain stabbed at my brain.
“Willa.”
I raised my head, defeat closing in and squeezing the air from my lungs. I set my empty glass down with an unsteady grip, still scrambling to come up with my answer. Then I realized the hushed murmurs of the other patrons had all but died out. In the next moment, Liam and Grifin pushed away from their nearby table with guns drawn.
Furious Russian words boomed across the restaurant, but Grifin moved in front of me, blocking my line of sight with his brawny form.
“Do you know where the fuck my son is?” The bellowing voice switched to English as it drew closer.
My eyes darted to Raphael. He took the time to sip his drink and wipe his mouth with excessive leisure before he replied, “I think the better question, Molotov, is—do you know where the fuck your son is?”
Grifin shifted to my right, giving me access to the scene before me.
We were in a standoff with the Pakhan.
Kostya Molotov—who I knew to be the head of the Russian Bratva—was as massive as he was intimidating. His salt-and-pepper hair was clipped short, and his wide-set black eyes held a fierceness similar to Aiden’s. He grasped a pistol in his right hand, but it remained pointed at the ground. I counted nine guns between Raphael’s and Kostya’s men, and I was certain Raphael had at least two on his person.
My mortality had never felt so fragile.
Without looking down, I reached for my dinner knife with my pinky finger and slid it under my palm.
The Russians continued to seethe as guests were escorted out of the room and more henchmen flocked to Kostya’s side.
“My men have been guarding him at Boston Med, and I’ve just been informed that he is missing!” Kostya spat.
Raphael chuckled. “Well, my brother does like a challenge. He’s also very fond of St. Patrick’s—as am I.”
Raphael’s cheeky response took me by surprise. I tucked my lips into my teeth. If I burst into a fit of drunken giggles, we’d all get popped. Raphael’s sarcasm and Lucifer’s brazen act were things I could appreciate. A character trait I’d certainly inherited from my da. A warmth settled into my chest, and I wasn’t sure if it was the vodka or nostalgia.
Raphael lounged in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and taking his sweet time to flick imaginary lint off his slacks before meeting Kostya’s icy glare. “Did you realize my fiancée was in the church last night when your goons shot the place up?”
I hadn’t expected to be drawn into the conversation. I peeked at Raphael, who looked as sincere as he was serious. He put on a good act. Even I could have bought it.
Kostya rattled off more frustrated Russian but never made a move to flex his power beyond words even though we were in his territory. And Raphael never bothered to stand up. I’d never witnessed anything like it, and the Brennans had involved me in all kinds of fuckery. Walking into the restaurant, I’d thought for sure that Raphael had a death wish, but now I wasn’t so certain. Maybe the rumors of his inexplicable self-confidence weren’t all talk.
When Kostya’s excuses sputtered out, Raphael nailed him with the same stare he’d used on me the night before. “Put my fiancée in harm’s way again, and I’ll be spoon-feeding you bite-size pieces of your own dick.”
A flustered Kostya tossed his hands in the air. “This is what happens when you deal with the fucking Albanians! You cannot trust—”
“Enough!” Raphael’s fist ground into the table as the force of his anger reverberated around us.
My fish flopped onto its side on my plate, and I propped it back up. Liam’s eyes flitted to me, and he shook his head.
“Never forget, Kostya.” Raphael’s imitation of a Russian accent sent a shiver up my spine. “You have sole control over your areas only because I allow it. I fucking own this city and therefore I. Fucking. Own. You. You got me?”
