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Cal’s eyes widen, and he bursts out laughing. “Jeez, we’ve got a live one here, Ciaran.”
“Very much alive, and don’t you forget it,” the girl snarks like she’s not in the least bit of danger, never mind recently abducted from her wedding. At this point, I’d expected her to be overwrought and hysterical, and I’d come prepared with chloroform to knock her out.
I find I have to bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from smiling. Instead, I bite back. “You’d do well to curb the attitude during your… stay with us.”
She glares at me. “Or what? You’ll beat me? Starve me? Violate me?” Shaking her head, Maricela shoots daggers at me from her big, bottomless brown eyes. “Do your worst, Ciaran,” she says with a lift of her chin, emphasizing my name to prove a point since I refused to give it to her, and Callum let it slip.
Liam catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, his eyebrow raised, and Cal throws me a look that tells me I need to deal with this shit. And I will, but not until we get back to Ár n-áit.
Our place.
It started out as a joke, a play on La Cosa Nostra, which means ‘our thing.’ Ár n-áit, the Irish for ‘our place,’ is what we call the secure headquarters and senior accommodation of the New York Irish mafia. That’s where we’re heading now. A guarded compound housing all of our needs, right down to hidden underground bunkers which incorporate safe rooms, the armory, prison cells, and a secret escape route known only to a select few, should it ever be needed.
As we drive towards our bolthole, Maricela stares out of the window. Her gaze is distant, her thoughts hidden from us. I wonder what she’s thinking about. Is she planning her escape, or is she resigned to her fate? Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s ours now, an instrument in this game the Viper started... one which I intend to finish.
It feels like forever before we arrive at Ár n-áit, the time stretching, though it's no longer than expected. The guards wave us through the electrified double gates, the only break in the twelve-foot-high razor-topped fence surrounding the perimeter. It's only now that I can breathe a sigh of relief. I'd be lying if I admitted I never thought it would be this straightforward, but since I never admit anything, it's a moot point.
Liam escorts Maricela to the meeting hall. It's time for the men to be apprised of the situation, which Cal and I have kept under wraps until now so no loose lips could sink us. The one bad thing about drunk Irishmen is how much they tattle, and there are a couple here who will be learning the hard way if they don't watch their step.
Cal follows behind them, his eyes glued to Maricela’s backside. I give him a sharp look, warning him not to cross any lines. He knows better.
I can't really blame him. She does have a very fine arse.
The men, who have been sitting around relaxing, scramble to their feet at our presence, and Cal addresses them. "We are avenged," he declares, waving an arm in Maricela's direction as the girl stands there in the middle of the floor, her eyes wide and apprehensive, darting everywhere as the men surround her.
"Will she pay?" One of the men bellows. "Will we do to her what was done to Orla?”
There's a bloodthirsty roar amongst the men as they salivate over our pretty captive, bloodlust in their expressions.
It's the first time I see Maricela show any nerves. Despite the sassy display she's put on so far, her face pales beneath her natural olive complexion, and she takes several steps towards me, tucking herself close to me like she's not a beacon of bright white in her wedding dress.
That she turns to me for protection gives me pause. I could just as easily throw her to the wolves.
Before I respond, Liam holds his hand up and gives the men a piece of his mind. "Is this what we are?" he demands, an edge of anger grating through his voice. "A bunch of Neanderthals no better than the Viper and his crew?"
He shakes his head. "Ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves." His Irish accent broadens with his ire. "We are not heathens, lowering ourselves to the level of that snake in the grass. 'Tis not the fault of the girl what was done to Orla."
"Orla was my kin. This cunt needs to pay."
The din that erupts fills the room and doesn't abate until I take a step forward, Maricela’s trembling fingers clinging to my jacket as I move away from her. The moment I do, a lull of expectation takes its place. "It's the Viper who needs to pay." I won't stand for any of my men thinking they can take their anger out on the innocent. "Orla was my girl and the Viper done away with her... so now, I have his bride."
A riotous cheer, accompanied by the drumming of feet, fills the rafters, and I let the men have their moment of perceived glory. Better that than to have an actual riot on our hands.
Glancing back at Maricela, who is still standing close behind me, I see her eyes darting around the room, fear etched into every line of her face, as comprehension dawns. As the men celebrate their victory, I place a hand on her shoulder. I can feel her shaking, and I know she's terrified.
She has good reason to be.
But she surprises me yet again, hitching up the frothy skirts of her frock and coming to stand in front of me. Maricela looks me dead in the eye, then back at the men who quiet down to observe her with narrowed eyes. The enemy in their midst.
And what she does next shocks even me.
Chapter Six
MARICELA
All during the drive to their compound, I wondered what they had planned for me. If they’d hurt me? Keep me captive forever? Or worse, use me as a bargaining chip in their dealings with the Viper and his mafia family.
I never want to go back there. I’d rather die.
