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One of those?
To face the past, to live up to it, and with any problems my youthful idiocy triggered, I had to deal with them head on. While, back then, I’d made that promise about Inessa and Camille as Victoria hadn't even fucking existed, honor demanded I protect her too.
Goddammit.
Gripping the back of my neck, I rasped, “What’s the favor?”
For the first time, she wasn’t confident. If anything, she was hesitant as she asked, “Why are you here?”
I frowned, pinning her in place with my stare. “Why the fuck does it matter?”
“It matters because when an Irishman approaches Italian territory to speak with a daughter of the Bratva, it doesn’t bode well.” Her chin tipped up again, another spark appearing in those stormy eyes, making the irises look like lightning sparked inside them. Fuck, she was pretty. “Before I tell you what I need, I want to make sure you weren’t sent here to kill me.”
I snorted. “That’s a bit below my pay grade.”
Her hands tightened into fists at her side. “I’m relieved to hear I’m so unimportant.”
I shrugged. “If I were you, and considering the current situation, I’d be glad about that too.” Before she could ask me again why I was here, why today was the goddamn day I’d decided to bring this shit to a head—and look what I got for trying to be as fucking honorable as her Ma had described—I rasped, “What’s the favor, Camille?”
Nerves had her licking her lips. Those plump lips that parted just so, that made me think about pressing my thumb to the soft cushion of the bottom one, that made me think about watching her swallow me whole.
These weren’t things I should be thinking of. Not with the daughter of an ex. Not with a daughter of the Bratva. And sure as fuck not with someone who thought I owed them.
God, I hated owing anything to anyone.
That wasnothow the O’Donnellys worked.
Owing her mother was bad enough, but marriage had seemed like the simplest way to protect Mariska’s eldest from the wolves I knew were nipping at her heels.
I had no idea what she’d want from me, and could only imagine it would start a shitstorm—
“I want you to marry me.”
For a second, I couldn’t believe my ears.
Her favor and my reason for being here... it was improbable they were so aligned. Yet, the improbable had happened.
Here was me thinking she might ask me to kill her father for her, or Abramovicz, that cunt Sovietnik who was sniffing around her pussy like he was a tomcat in heat, but she just wanted me to marry her.
I saw the tension in her muscles, like she was just waiting to leap into the fray, to fight me on this. More than that, I saw the one thing she was trying to hide—desperation.
And like that, the balance tilted, slanting in my favor again.
I came here with this intention in mind, thinking I could kill two birds with one stone. Fulfill that fucking promise, and pick the woman I wanted to wed rather than have Da select one for me.
But now, I could have all that and more.
She wasn’t going to argue about my claiming her.
In fact, her desperation was going to make this even sweeter.
Far better for her to be beholden to me than vice versa.
Like any Irishman, I could scent a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, but I had a feeling my pot was filled with platinum instead.
I wasn’t about to complain about that.
Did I look like a fool?
