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Donnacha
The rain hammers down on my shoulders as I stand in the mud, watching the car disappear from view. The ghost of Romy’s kiss still on my lips.
What was that?
And why does it feel like half my heart is in the car heading back to New York?
“Boss.” Aiden’s voice is low and urgent behind me. “We’re ready for you.”
I tear my gaze from the horizon, rake back my wet hair, and force all questions surrounding my wife out of my brain.
Aiden, Jon, and Conor fall in step behind me as I round the dome, making a beeline for the Blacks’ private quarters. My men are everywhere, all on high alert after the Belsky sighting. Some are muttering into radios, their hands cupped to their mouths to shelter their commands from the wind. Others are stalking the perimeter, looking for any other suspicious behavior.
Fucking Belsky. I was scanning for Romy when I saw him, champagne in one hand, whore in the other. Smiling and joking like he has every right in the goddamn world to be here.
I curl my fists as we get closer to the entrance of the condo, my knuckles popping deliciously. Poppy and Lottie are hovering in the doorway, flanked by three of Cillian’s men and three of mine.
Lottie’s hand shoots through the circle of men and grabs me as I pass. “Don,” she whines, eyes watering. “I had no idea who she was, I swear.”
I pause to look down at her. “Who?”
“Isabella. She’s one of my clients. I had no idea she was this Belsky’s wife. I invited her. That’s why he’s here.” Her bottom lip trembles before letting out a sob. Next to her, Poppy’s fiercely silent, rubbing her friend’s arm protectively. “It’s all my fault, and now the night’s ruined.”
A tiny part of me softens. My men part as I stoop to kiss her wet cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Lottie. It’s not your fault.” I flash her the best grin I can muster. “You just throw the most awesome parties that even our number-one enemy couldn’t keep away.” Then I slide off my watch and hand it to Aiden, who pockets it diligently. “Now, we’re going to remove this gatecrasher so you can go back to being the belle of the ball, all right?”
She smiles shyly and tilts her head into a nod. I chuck her under the chin and continue into the condo, the anger under my skin intensifying with every step.
This asshole isn’t going to infiltrate my family and get away with it.
I start shedding clothes, like peeling away the most composed parts of me to unleash the beast underneath. My bow tie. My jacket. I even pop my cuff links out, letting them roll across the floor, so I can get the best reach possible when I swing for his jaw.
As I stride into Cillian’s living room, Belsky is lounging on the sofa like he owns the joint. Tie loosened, top button popped. Cigar dangling from the crook of his smirking lips.
Cillian sits opposite, legs wide and fingers steepled. That stone-cold expression on his face reminds me why he was always one of my best men. Lorcan stands by his side, hand on his shoulder.
My men lurk in the shadows, guns loaded and cocked, ready for my command.
Cracking my neck, I wade through the furniture and loom over Belsky. My men might be ready to pull the trigger, but I’m not letting this fucker take the easy way out.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl.
He looks up at me with uncertainty, then holds his hands up in mock surrender and slowly dips into his blazer pocket. Click-click goes several of my men’s safety catches. But he pulls out a lighter and kisses the flame to the end of his cigar. “Relax,” he drawls, puff-puffing until the tip glows red. “I was invited.”
There’s a flurry behind me. Heavy footsteps, then Lorcan is by my side, snatching the cigar from Belsky’s mouth. He snaps it in two and tosses it over his shoulder.
I can’t help but think the sudden burst of anger isn’t over Belsky’s cockiness. It’s because he bought Cillian this sofa and armchair set as a wedding present.
It belonged to JFK.
“Is this a no-smoking area?” he asks, trying to keep the ice in his voice. But I can tell by the way he runs his palms over his slacks that my cousin has him rattled. “I didn’t see the sign.”
“Start talking, Belsky,” Lorcan snarls, towering over him like a skyscraper. “What’s your game? You really think you’ll take New York from me?” He lunges, pinning him to the seat by his shoulders. “Over my cold, dead body.”
“Then so be it.”
I grip Lorcan’s arm and yank him back before he can curl his hand into a fist and connect it to Belsky’s smart-ass mouth. Not because I wouldn’t love to see him get sucker punched, but because it’s not Lorcan’s job. It’s mine.
With a huff, Lorcan takes a few steps back into the shadows. No doubt doing those fucking breathing techniques.
