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I turn back to Callum who eyes me curiously as he hands me a welcome snifter of good Irish whisky, despite the early hour. My twin knows me too well. “Huh, well that was a surprise.” His comment is deceptively light as he takes a bracing sip of his own drink.
I join him, letting the oak-flavored liquid slide down my throat, embracing the burn and trusting Liam to take care of both Maricela and Róisín, because right now the hecking woman has done what no other female before her has managed to do, and has gotten my mind in a spin. I need to take some time to get my head on straight, so I can recover some clarity and decide what we do with her.
Chapter Eight
MARICELA
The girl is a surprise and I wonder who she is. She treated Ciaran with an acute familiarity. One that exceeds the deference of his men. Not that she was disrespectful, but there was an undertone of casual ease in the way she spoke to him.
A horrible thought occurs, washing through me like a douse of icy water as I wonder for one dreadful moment if she’s his wife. But no, Ciaran said to his men that Orla was his woman, and that’s why I've been taken, to avenge whatever the Viper did to her.
Although…. Does it make any difference? Vito made no secret of the many women he bedded. From long before I met him, right up until our marriage, he’d been chasing some poor girl - Gabriella Preston - I’d heard her name spat as a curse countless times. So much so that I knew he planned to abduct and bring back to the compound as his personal sex slave. Briefly I wondered if she and the English Duke’s fiancée are one and the same person. Not that I wished ill upon her, or any of those who were unlucky enough to catch Vito’s eye, but I’m ashamed to admit that the fate of those faceless women meant he focused less on me and allowed precious moments of reprieve.
A shudder rolls through me at the thought. Is that what Ciaran plans for me? Have I played right into his hands?
No! It's been my experience that men take what they want, whether a woman likes it or not. I'm only empowered by choosing to give what would otherwise be taken from me by force and against my will.
At least Ciaran is younger and a damned sight easier on the eyes than that aging pig, Vito.
Shallow? Maybe. But believe me, it makes a difference to my own resolve. There’s only so much acting I’m capable of, so if I get the choice of a couple fewer issues, then I’ll take them and be thankful. And I’ll take a young, handsome man over a brutal, sadistic asshole any day of the week.
There’s precious little else to be thankful for, after all.
And I don’t give two shits who judges me for it. They can walk a mile in my shoes and endure the same as I’ve had to these past six months before I’ll accept any comment on the actions I take to keep myself sane.
Of course, there’s nothing to say Ciaran won’t turn out to be a sadistic asshole like Vito, but although I reserve judgment on that, he appears more tolerable so far, even though I’ve only known him a short time.
Vito, by comparison, showed his cards from the second I was introduced to him, with a vicious backhand that had sent me flying while he warned me to always mind myself. He did so right in front of my father, whose only care was to mutter at me not to rile up the Viper, although I’d done nothing but stand there and say hello. That had been a mere taste of things to come, and it had hardened me against men in general and gangsters in particular.
And yet, despite everything, I’m still mortified to think I might have stepped on this woman’s toes. “I’m sorry if I overstepped,” I mumble as she leads me up a grand staircase deeper into the building, a surprise after the utilitarian space we’d been in before. “I didn’t realize Ciaran has a wife.”
God! What am I saying? I’ve been abducted and humiliated. Why the hell should I care if I’d sucked off another woman’s husband?
Because you’re better than that, the voice of my conscience insisted, so I let the apology stand.
And besides, this girl had been nothing but supportive, covering my near nakedness and getting me out of that den of pigs. I wasn’t naive enough to imagine any of the women who lived on the edges of the world of organized crime were so much better than the men. While a good many of them were mistreated and downtrodden, considered nothing more than possessions, the remainder were often equally as vicious as their male counterparts. And this woman could have been, too. Could have abandoned me to fate if she’d so desired. She certainly seemed to have enough respect in her own right to have made that happen.
She stops outside a wide, solid wood door and looks at me with a bemused expression on her face. Then to my surprise, she throws back her head and laughs before pushing open the door and entering the room beyond. Her friend grins too.
Liam, the driver guy who has shadowed us all the way here, closes the door behind us, a look of amusement on his own craggy face.
“That is both amusing and revolting in equal measures,” the redhead chuckles. “But eww… please never suggest such a thing about my brother again.”
My cheeks heat, and despite this unnatural situation, I find I like her. “Sorry… I shouldn’t have implied…" I huff out a frustrated breath. "But god knows I have no idea what I’m doing here or what in hell is going on.”
The girl shrugs. “Neither do I, but it’s clear you’re some sort of prize, taken in revenge,” she snorts. “My name is Róisín, by the way, and this is my friend, Emylyah.” She waves her hand at her statuesque, blonde friend, who has remained quiet throughout. Even now all she does is nod her head at me.
Róisín doesn’t look much like her brothers with her curly, ginger hair, but on closer inspection, she has the same cerulean blue eyes. I nod. 'I'm Maricela Escobar."
She surprises me by sticking out her hand, and I stare at it for a second before offering my own to shake. “So if you’re Róisín, and Emylyah, then who’s Janey Mack?” I ask, confused.
Roísín lets out a tinkling laugh which is contagious enough to have my lips twitching in response. “Ah, it’s an Irish thing,” she tells me, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s kind of what we say instead of cussing the Lord’s name.”
Laughing along with her, my curiosity continues to get the better of me, since she’s so friendly and chatty. I bite my lip and look away, wanting to know but not wanting to know. In the end, I wrap whatever tattered confidence I possess around me, because it's better to understand the circumstances than to be ignorant, and Róisín gives the impression she might actually answer, where I doubt the others will. "So, Orla, then. Was she Ciaran's wife?"
Róisín makes a rude noise, casts an unreadable glance at Liam, who remains by the door, then wanders over to the window of the huge suite we've entered. I don't hesitate to follow her.
"Orla was more like the family bike,” she eventually says in a low voice once the door is closed, and her brother’s watchdog is on the other side. “Ciaran availed himself of her... charms... a few times in the past few months. Enough for it to be noticeable and for her to brag about being his woman, though nothing could be further from the truth." Róisín kept her gaze on the landscaped gardens outside, not looking at me at all. "Stupid bitch should have known better and kept her mouth shut since she hadn't earned such a status and so didn't have a guard. That made her an easy target." Róisín purses her lips and narrows her eyes. "But what happened to her was dreadful, and no person should ever have had to endure it."
