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I have to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. Caterina and I get along well enough, but Sofia is rapidly becoming a thorn in my side. I don’t particularly have anything against her, other than thinking she’s a bit naïve, but she clearly blames me somehow for Liam and Ana’s misfortunes—or just dislikes me on principle.
Whichever it is, I’m thoroughly over it. But I’m well aware that this is a part of my duty as Connor’s future wife—there will be plenty of interactions with mob wives and other women who I don’t necessarily get along with. As the wife of thetheIrish King in Boston, it’s my job to grit my teeth and bear it.
It’s my mother’s final lesson in being a mob wife, I suppose.
“I’m looking forward to it.” I force a pleasant smile onto my face.
“It wassonice to meet you both,” Angelica gushes as Sofia and Caterina say goodbye to her and my mother, and I catch Maggie rolling her eyes.
“This is a part of my life,” I tell her quietly, before she can say anything. “It’s just how it is.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Maggie shakes her head. “I’ll never understand—”
“I don’t want to get into this again.” I hang back with her as the others leave, and my mother finishes the transaction for the dress. “It’s done, Maggie. There isn’t any going back.”
“Surely there could be.” Maggie lets out a small huff of frustration. “Saoirse, you have a degree fromHarvard. You’re brilliant, and stubborn, and tough as nails. And you’re going to marry a man who won’t appreciate any of that—”
“Actually, he does. He appreciates my commitment to my family, to my duty—”
“Your duty to pop out a few kids for him, and keep house?” Maggie pulls a face. “Come on, Saoirse. You could be anything—”
“This is my life.” I reach for her elbow, tugging her back so that we can talk a little more privately. “There’s more I can do with money and influence than just be Connor’s pretty trophy wife, Maggie. And I want your help.”
She frowns. “What are you planning?”
“I want to start my own charity foundation, not just sit on the board of one. There’s plenty of women who have been affected by the Bratva trafficking, and other criminal organizations that take part. Since Viktor Andreyev stopped participating, his wife is eager to do more to show that his family is trying to make a difference. She’ll be on the board, along with Sasha Federova, one of the survivors. And I want you to help too—you’re someone who is a part of the actual Boston community.”
“Is Sofia going to be a part of it too?” Maggie wrinkles her nose.
“She has to be,” I admit with a small laugh. “Her husband is one of Connor’s supporters, and I need to do what I can to bring her closer. She doesn’t like me, and it could affect Connor’s relationship with her husband, if I’m not careful.”
“Too much fucking politics for me,” Maggie says, shaking her head. “But yes, I’ll help you. It’s a good cause, after all. And you need me to keep you from losing your mind with these other women.” She laughs, slinging an arm around my waist. “I’ll be there tomorrow, too.”
“Oh, I know. I couldn’t bear it without you.” I tell her with a small laugh. “You’re my best friend. That will never change.”
“And you’re mine.” Maggie gives me a one-armed hug. “That’ll never change either, even when you’re some stuffy mob wife officially.”
I smile at her as we walk towards the doors and out to the waiting car. I have a dinner with Connor tonight, and I still need to get ready.
At least one part of my life still feels like it used to, before everything I’d been raised to do came home to change it.
4
SAOIRSE
My dinner with Connor is at a fine-dining restaurant in downtown Boston, a bistro that serves elegant French cuisine. He’s waiting for me outside when my driver drops me off, and I catch a glimpse of him before he sees me. It’s a bit startling—I’m used to seeing him in his London attire. In jeans, boots, a t-shirt and his trusty leather jacket, Connor was the picture of rugged masculinity, rough and exciting. Now he looks more like the man I remember, dressed sharply in a bespoke suit with his hair combed back, his stubble barely visible. The tattoos are hidden, and I find myself oddly missing the Connor from before.
“No motorcycle tonight?” I ask him as I join him in front of the restaurant, and I see his eyes sweep over me, taking in my knee-length dove-grey silk dress, my black Louboutin heels and pearl jewelry, the neckline of my dress dipping just low enough to give him a hint of cleavage, my curled red hair pulled to one side with a pearl clip.
“It hasn’t made it’s way over from London yet.” His eyes darken slightly, but he doesn’t make any effort to touch me as he opens the door for me. “It’s all cars and drivers right now.”
The restaurant is dim and romantic, with dark wooden tables and muted lighting from overhead chandeliers, string orchestral music playing overhead. We’re instantly whisked away to a back table away from other guests, and Connor motions to the hostess as we sit down. “Have the waiter bring us a bottle of chilled champagne right off,” he says. “And then red wine with dinner, whatever the sommelier suggests.”
“Are we celebrating something?” I smile coolly at him as I sit, spreading the linen napkin over my lap.
“Well we’re here, and getting married, so I suppose that’s something to celebrate.” Connor’s smile is equally tense.
“Your friends tried to throw us a celebration back in London, but you didn’t seem much up for it then.”
