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Donnacha
The car comes to a stop outside the Three Pines Hotel. It’s a big brown slab of a building, and how it’s got five stars above the door will always remain a mystery to me. Tonight, it’s like a turd rolled in glitter; fairy lights applied with a spray-and-pray approach and spotlights giving it a favorable glow. A red carpet rolls out from the entrance like a tongue.
I draw in a deep breath and pop my knuckles. We’ve just rocked up to Belsky’s governor candidacy announcement party.
First step of the plan: Get in.
Ronan twists in the front passenger seat, pinning me with a dubious glare. “I’m gonna ask you again, boss. You sure you want to do this? ’Cause once you’re inside that building, it’ll take us at least forty seconds to get to you.” He jerks his chin out the window toward Belsky’s men stalking the shadows, giving the once-over to every guest. “And that’s only if these bastards go down like dominoes.”
“You know how much I enjoy a little risk, Ronan,” I drawl, tightening my cuff links. “It makes my cock hard.”
Romy shifts next to me, a reminder that I’m bullshitting. If she wasn’t here, I’d be drunk on adrenaline and ready to fuck some shit up. But now there’s this lump in my throat and sweat gathering in the creases of my palms. My heart is screaming to protect her. Asking me why the fuck did you bring her here in the first place? My heart, it beats with the need to bundle her into my henchmen’s security van behind us and demand they whisk her back to the safety of the penthouse.
But my head is telling me to throw her to the wolves.
Sometimes, the voices are so loud that I want to rip out all my organs and not have to deal with any of these emotions at all.
“Let’s go.”
“Good luck,” Ronan mutters. He slashes Romy a furious glare, then busies himself with loading his gun.
We step out into the cold, and I play the role of the doting husband. I could win an Oscar with how I white-knuckle her hips, pulling her close and grinning down the lenses of the flashing cameras as we walk the red carpet.
At the entrance, a bored woman scans her clipboard. “Name?”
I almost laugh. It isn’t often somebody asks me that in this city. Ask the men who make a beeline for me from every corner. I tighten my grip on Romy and say, “Donnacha Quinn.”
Before her jaw can swing open, Belsky’s little bitches are surrounding us.
“Get out of here, Quinn,” one snarls with unconvincing menace.
“I don’t think you have the authority to address me, kiddo,” I say, faking a yawn. “Get me someone on my level or move aside.”
He startles, then with a blistering glare, he cups the mouthpiece of his radio and mutters something in Russian. Romy stiffens against my hands. You don’t have to be Einstein to know who he’s summoning.
It doesn’t take long for Belsky to emerge from the hotel lobby at all, flanked by more men. To the untrained eye, they look like other partygoers, but I’d recognize that outline in their waistband anywhere.
Belsky’s eyes dart from me to Romy and back again, like he can’t believe his lackey was telling the truth. With a glance at the photographer just a few feet away, he switches on a winning smile and hisses, “You have some nerve showing up here. I’ll give you three seconds to crawl back into your car and drive off before I instruct my men to spray you with bullets.”
“So intimidating,” I drawl in a voice that suggests he’s anything but. The journalists and paparazzi are starting to circle now, their ears pricking up and their cameras ready at the whiff of potential drama. I flash them a megawatt smile of my own and say, “Gee, all these journalists from all the big newspapers. No doubt your party will be on the front of every page tomorrow morning. It’d be a shame, wouldn’t it, if we were to make a scene out here? All those column inches would be filled with this drama instead of your charming manifestos.”
I love seeing Belsky squirm. “What are you planning?” he says, bringing his head closer to mine, that smile still frozen on his face.
“Nothing. I’m simply keeping up appearances, Belsky. It’d be strange if at least one member of the city’s most powerful family wasn’t here to show their support.”
His nostrils flare, then he turns his back on us, whispering with his men in Russian. When he turns back around, he’s back to being the cool and composed asshole that I recognize. “Very well,” he says as politely as he can muster. “Please, come on in.”
He and his men tail us into the lobby, where Belsky tiptoes to meet my ear. “You’re in here because I refuse to let this hit the headlines, but be warned, Quinn, my men will have all eyes trained on you.”
I force eye contact as we pass through the scanners. Nothing beeps. To drive my point into his thick skull, I open my jacket, flashing him the bespoke silk lining. “Unarmed, see? Just here for a good time,” I say with a wink, picking up two champagne flutes from a passing waiter.
His ears tinge a girlish pink, and muttering something Slavic under his breath, he scurries off.
I allow the rage to refill my blood, my fingers twitching to stride after him, drag him into a dark corner, and feel every inch of his flesh tear under my ring. Instead, I look down at Romy and remember why we’re here. She looks ghostly pale, fiddling with the gems on her necklace.
“You okay?”
She swallows and straightens her spine. “Y-Yeah, I am. I thought he’d have an inkling that you know who I really am…but there’s no way he’d react like that if he did.”
