People step aside for him automatically, some instinct or recognition telling them to get out of his way.
He moves like a predator, like someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is and doesn’t particularly care who else knows it too.
The heir apparent to the Irish mob doesn’t scare me.
I know he was invited to the wedding and he gave a bullshit excuse about not coming.
I wonder why he’s here now and why he’s heading my way.
Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
I square my shoulders and give him my best bored look as he approaches.
He stops in front of me and he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating.
There’s a scar cutting through his right cheek, barely visible but there.
I bet it would look like a dimple but I don’t think this man knows how to smile.
His jaw is sharp and clean shaven, and those ice-blue eyes sweep over me—from head to toe and back again—in a slow, deliberate assessment that makes my skin prickle.
His lip curls slightly and I have to stamp down irritation.
Has he foundmewanting?
The dismissal in that look makes fury spike hot and vicious in my chest.
“Valentina Santoro?” His voice is deep, rough around the edges, with a subtle Irish accent that would probably be attractive if I didn’t want to punch him in his perfect face.
“That’s me.” I keep my voice cool, even though I want to throw my champagne in his face for that look. “And you’re Cillian Brennan. Emma’s favorite cousin, if I remember correctly.”
“Was,” he responds, his jaw ticking. “Past tense, especially given that she chose to marry the man who kidnapped her.”
“Careful, Brennan,” I say coldly. “You’re in a room full of Santoros. Insulting my brother and his wife at their wedding reception is a good way to end up with a bullet in your skull.”
Those ice-blue eyes look almost…amused? Seriously? “Is that a threat, princess?”
“It’s a promise,” I respond sweetly. “Though I suppose you Brennans wouldn’t know the difference. You’re more used to making empty threats than following through on them.”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Really? Because last I checked, it was aBrennanwho nearly brought your entire organization to its knees six months ago.” He smirks at me, folding his arms across his chest. “Your brother got lucky. It won’t happen twice.”
“Lucky?” I laugh, and it’s not a nice sound. “Is that what you call it? Connor crawled away with his tail between his legs and had to negotiate peace because he lost. Leo won. Emma chose us. Your family lost everything.”
“We lost a traitor,” Cillian says flatly. “That’s not exactly a tragedy.”
For a moment, I see red because he just called Emma—sweet, fierce, loving Emma who made my brother happy and is someone I consider a friend—a traitor. Not on my fucking watch.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I snap, all pretense of civility gone. “Or I’ll watch it for you. Permanently.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
The tension between us is thick enough to cut, charged with mutual dislike and the weight of our family names.
Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cream-colored envelope that’s sealed with red wax bearing the Brennan family crest.
“From Connor,” he says, holding it out to me with the tips of his fingers as if he doesn’t even want to touch my hands.
