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Okay, maybe I did a little.
When the doors to the elevator opened, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and bacon assaulted my senses. My mouth watered, and my stomach rumbled. Shit, I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday.
My gaze took in every detail of the floor, searching and cataloging everything I could. It was an open concept, with windows spanning from floor-to-ceiling across the farthest outside wall that overlooked the main street below. Wooden columns dotted the space that was softly decorated. The walls were red brick, unpainted, left in their natural state. It was homey as much as it was luxurious. Leather sofas in hues of burnt orange sat facing an overly large flat screen that hung on the wall. Bookcases crammed with books littered the space, which smelled of pine and tobacco.
Voices drifted from the dining room as we approached. They weren’t bothering to modulate their tone, and it became increasingly clear as we approached who they were talking about.
Me.
“Maybe because the arranged marriage he set up is about to come crumbling down.” That was Seamus. He sounded somewhat smug when he said it, his accent dipping slightly. It was one way I could tell him apart from his brother. That and the shiner Kiernan now had was a dead giveaway.
“How would you know that?” That wasn’t an Irish accent.
“Because I refuse to marry a cheating pig,” I interrupted as I stepped into the massive dining room. My eyes widened slightly, taking it all in. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
The table was long and sturdy. A rich, handcrafted acacia wood table with a river of blue resin winding through it. Several dishes stuffed with an assortment of foods, from crisp, mouthwatering bacon to a light fruit salad, were spread across its surface. I stopped just inside the doorway. All eyes were immediately on me. Suddenly, I was regretting my sudden outburst.
A sea of emerald stared back at me, plus the stormy eyes of one man everyone knew about, but few barely glimpsed.
Matthias Dashkov.
That was the accent I had heard.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Jameson.” The man at the head of the table pulled my attention. His smile was tight, not quite reaching his eyes. He was older, but his red hair graying slightly along the edges was his only sign of aging.
He looked like a king sitting at the head of the table with his well-trimmed beard, his muscles easily visible beneath the button-down shirt he wore that stretched tightly over his chest. It was a glimpse into the future—a replica of what the twins would one day grow to become.
One word. Yummy.
Yummier, anyway.
They were already mouthwateringly delicious.
Where the fuck do I come up with this shit?
“I wasn’t aware it was a choice.” I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “But thanks for the invite. I’m starving.” Kiernan smirked as I made my way toward him. The empty seat between him and the gaping Seamus had obviously been left empty for me.
“Close your mouth, Seamus,” I chided playfully as I took a seat. “You are not a codfish.”
The woman seated across from him at the table giggled while Dashkov, who sat closely to her right, chuckled lowly. Not every day you see a mafia boss chuckling at a reporter. That was one for the win column.
The man I easily inferred to be Liam Kavanaugh, the head of the Irish mob and the twins’ father, smirked in amusement, his green eyes lighting up.
“There is always a choice, Miss Jameson,” he told me. “You could have said no and gone hungry.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I muttered under my breath, absently looking down at my bare plate. There weren’t many memories of my mother left for my mind to cling to, but the ones that stood out above everything were the days I’d gone hungry. Left without food or care. She’d do that. Leave me without a care in the world while she sought her high in the back of some dealer’s car or in a back alley.
Shaking off the depressing thoughts, I smiled up at the feared Irish leader. “Call me Bailey. If your sons are going to hold me captive and feed me, you might as well drop the formalities.”
The redheaded woman snorted her drink at my words, which led the burly Russian mafia leader to pat her on the back as she struggled to cough up the fluid that had undoubtedly found its way down the wrong tube.
Oops. Apparently, I had more comedic prowess than I realized.
I stared at the coughing woman for a moment as she struggled to breathe properly again. She could almost be the twins’ triplet. Her red hair was wild and untamed, slightly darker in color, the curls falling well past her shoulders. Her green eyes were the same luminous emerald as the rest of the Kavanaughs’. There were faint traces of bruising along her face and scrapes across her knuckles.
This woman was a fighter.
“Tell me who put a hit out on our sister.”
