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Dinner with Shaecontinued without interruption. Umberto never noticed my split lip, and my father didn’t show up in my room to interrogate me about my night. I waited for him, certain he would appear any second. But as the minutes ticked by, and the buzz from two glasses of wine settled my nerves, I lay back in my bed and relished the brief sensation of happiness until sleep took me.
Despite everything going on around me, I’d had fun with Shae. I’d been in dire need of the escape. A chance to hang out with a friend and pretend my life wasn’t in tatters.
After Mom died and I was released from the hospital, I spent days in bed hiding from the world. From my reality and a father who had gone from absent to abscess, infecting my life with his venomous cruelty. I’d always known he wasn’t a good man—that his relationship with Mom was all show and no substance—but I hadn’t realized just how wrong things truly were. Not until that day.
I wasn’t supposed to be in the car with her, but I thanked God I was, or I never would have known the truth. I knew my father had orchestrated the whole thing and why he’d wanted my beautiful mother dead. She’d told me everything seconds before she took her last breaths.
I knew everything, and I’d been deciding what to do with that knowledge ever since.
For now, the answer was … nothing. I couldn't afford such a gamble until I could ensure Sante and I would both survive the fallout. And the more time that passed, the greater my anger and resolve. I would find a way.
In the meantime, I had a bullheaded Irishman to deal with. I couldn’t believe Conner had crashed my dinner or the way he’d laid claim to me. Marked me.
Why had he felt the need to make such a bold statement? No matter how long I lay in bed the next morning and pondered his motivations, nothing made sense. I knew he wanted sex, but he’d said in the beginning that he didn’t want the marriage any more than I did. So why the jealousy? Was he merely wanting to ensure others knew I was his? Men could be territorial like that. It didn’t necessarily mean he truly wanted me beyond the physical. Right?
I didn’t understand him, nor could I get the seductive taste of him from my tongue—cinnamon spiked with the burn of whiskey and temptation. I needed to brush my teeth and maybe Listerine my brain. I couldn’t keep losing myself in thoughts of him. Scraps of memory enhanced with a healthy dose of fantasy.
Sucking in a deep lungful of air, I finally forced myself from bed and into the shower. Dwelling on the infinite mysteries of Conner Reid would get me nowhere, and I had a bridal shower to prepare for. Aunt Etta was hosting a last-minute luncheon for me. Ladies from my family as well as Conner’s had been invited.
My aunt had insisted that a bride needed at leastoneshower. I knew she felt responsible for taking on the things my mother would have done, so I didn’t argue with her. In her eyes, a shower was a sign of celebration. A show of support and a source of joy. Personally, I would rather have shaved my armpits with a rusty razor than sit among the awkward assortment of women, but as with most things these days, my preference wasn’t important.
Umberto drove me to the tearoom Aunt Etta had booked for the gathering. There was a moment at the house before we left when I thought Sante might be allowed to accompany me. It would have provided a rare unguarded moment together away from the house, but my father ordered me to stay put until Umberto returned home to take me. My father was meticulous about keeping us apart. And if I hadn’t been so certain my father used microphones and cameras in the house, I would have tried telling Sante the truth at home. Hell, even the cars were suspect. I wouldn’t have put anything past my father.
Outfitted in my best designer sheath dress and a heavy swathe of confidence, I entered the restaurant with my shoulders back and a smile on my painted lips.
No soldier went to battle without armor, and this would be nothing less than an hour in the trenches. The silent freak set on a stage under blinding lights for everyone to gawk at. Hopefully, they would at least be too distracted by me and my circumstances to argue among themselves. As far as I knew, no one had ever attempted an alliance like ours.
The Italians and Irish meshed about as well as gasoline and a Zippo. They couldn’t even go to the same Catholic churches. Everyone knew the old St. Patrick’s Basilica was property of the Irish, while The Church of the Blessed Sacrament was Italian territory. Not even the priests deigned to cross those lines. I had wondered if anyone would even show up to such a highly precarious event as my shower, but I should have known better.
Curiosity was even more potent than fear.
The wives and daughters of New York’s underworld weren’t about to miss out on the tantalizing prospect of such juicy gossip. All but a handful of invitees showed up, packing the entire tearoom with women. A mountain of gifts filled two tables near the entrance, and every set of eyes in the building took turns glancing my way. Everything about it was overwhelming, but I knew better than to show any fear. Not among these people. That was exactly what they’d want to see.
Instead, I kept my head high despite my silence and pretended I was the queen who was under no obligation to talk to the peons. Ladies congratulated me and prattled on about who they were and how thrilled they were about the upcoming nuptials. I smiled and nodded, clasped my hand with theirs, then dismissed them with a glance at the next guest.
“Hey, love. How are you holding up?” Aunt Etta gave me a quick hug during a brief lull.
I nodded and grinned through the pain in my cheeks, sore from so much smiling.
“Good, good. You might not get another lull for a while, so I’d suggest you hit the restroom while you can.” She didn’t have to tell me twice.
I grabbed my clutch and hurried off in the direction she indicated, blowing her a kiss in thanks. Once I was in the stall relieving my suddenly full bladder, my adrenaline ebbed, making me reluctant to abandon the reprieve of my solitude.
Dropping my head into my hands, I rested my elbows on my knees and tried to motivate myself to rejoin the shower attendees. Before I could muster the energy, a couple of women entered the restroom, giggling voices hushed in confidence.
“It’s such a shame—that god of a man getting shackled to a demure mute—but at least that means he’ll still be available. There’s no way she’ll keep him satisfied. I should know.” The feminine voice curled with a catty grin. I didn’t know who exactly was speaking, but I knew the type well enough. Gorgeous. Ruthless. Completely self-serving.
“That’s so gross, Ivy,” said the other. “Isn’t he your cousin?
“By marriage,” the first one scoffed. “And besides, he’s adopted, you prude. It’s not like we’reactuallyrelated.”
Adopted? Pippa hadn’t mentioned that. I wondered how that fact had slipped past her radar.
“Still,” said the prude. “It sounds icky.” She paused. “Do you think all adopted people have to worry about whether they’re dating a family member?”
The women quietly contemplated the question as they preened in front of the mirrors. I continued to gnaw on the assertion that I’d never keep Conner satisfied.
Why did that statement itch and claw its way beneath my skin?
