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A week later Bridget had convinced herself that Nolan was better off without her. They’d begun treatments for Owen, had begun to understand how devastating — financially and emotionally — his disease was going to be for their family. It had been easy to convince herself that however much she might have held Nolan back before, it was nothing compared to being chained to someone with a sick relative who was going to rack up millions in health care costs and years of emotional turmoil.
And Nolan wouldn’t take no for an answer. She knew that about him already. Knew he would empty his trust fund to help her, would sacrifice everything, even his relationship with his mother and stepfather, to take care of her and Owen and her family.
It was something she couldn’t allow. Something she didn’t want.
She’d told him it was over the next day. Had told him she didn’t love him anymore for good measure, both to shut down his objections and to ensure he wouldn’t try again. She’d gone home and cried until her eyes were almost swollen shut, the ache in her chest like quicksand, threatening to bury her.
When the sun finally came up, she’d showered and gotten dressed, stopped by the bank to deposit the check from Nolan’s mother, and gone to her shift at Southside.
And that had been that.
“Bridget! I said ten minutes not ten hours, love!”
Her mother’s voice drifted up the stairs and down the hall. Bridget blinked, surprised to find that she was still staring at her reflection in the mirror. Surprised to find she almost didn’t recognize the tired, sad-eyed girl staring back at her.
She stepped away from the mirror. “Coming!”
There was no point feeling sad. No point feeling guilty or tired or anything but determined.
Her family — taking care of Owen — was all that mattered.
Sorrow was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
3
Christophe kept his jacket buttoned as he walked into the Black Cat. As always in these situations, he thought of Julien, his best friend and underboss, dead nearly three years. He should have found someone else, someone to watch his back, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Julien had been like a brother, had understood Christophe in a way few people did. Most importantly, he’d died protecting Charlotte, a gift Christophe would never be able to repay.
He could have asked one of the other men to accompany him. Nico, Luca, and Farrell were out for reasons already discussed, but the Syndicate had thousands of men in their employ on the East Coast, many of whom Christophe would have trusted to watch his back.
But it hadn’t felt right. After months casing the Boston territory, instinct told him Seamus O’Brien would be even more threatened by a show of force from the Syndicate, that O’Brien might want to prove a point on principle.
Confronting him alone was a risk, but Christophe was more than equipped to defend himself if the situation called for it, and O’Brien must know there would be hell to pay if he were to off one of the Syndicate’s leaders.
All eyes turned his way when he stepped into the bar. He’d tried to dress for the occasion by wearing jeans and an old pair of shoes, even forgoing his usual four-hundred-dollar tailored shirt for a T-shirt, but some things couldn’t be changed. His shoes were still crafted by hand in Italy, albeit years ago, and the jacket was still custom made for him by one of the best tailors in Paris. He was still a Frenchman, born and bred, with a useless title and a boarding school education that had him rubbing elbows with the monarchy of several countries. People seemed to smell it on him, especially people like the ones in the Black Cat.
He headed for the bar, ordered a bourbon from a middle-aged man with thinning hair and suspicious eyes, then started for the back of the long, dark room.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the bartender called after him.
Christophe ignored the question, continuing toward the back of the bar until a hand landed on his arm.
He stopped walking and looked down at the hand, tracing it to its owner, a meaty man of about thirty with thick red hair and a pockmarked face.
“You’ll want to remove that now,” Christophe said.
“And you’ll want to turn around and walk the other way,” the man said.
“I have an appointment,” Christophe said.
“What’s your name?”
The man’s hand was still on his arm. Christophe looked down at it before returning his eyes to the man’s face. “I’ll be happy to answer your question — just as soon as you remove your hand.”
The man’s laugh was abruptly cut off when Christophe smashed his glass into his face. He twisted the man’s arm behind his back and sighed as the man howled.
“I don’t enjoy fighting,” Christophe said calmly. “But I’d prefer to honor this fine establishment’s no weapons rule, and there was the matter of the drink in my hand.”
“Who are you?”
