AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Johnny was dying.”
Callum’s bushy eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. “Johnny died anyway. And now Michael’s little girl’s got a great big target painted on her back—albeit a problem somewhat of her own making—but you own a part of that now. The amount of damage control it took to push mute on that little stunt of yours was damn-near biblical. You’ve got a bleeding heart, Connor, and it’s too big for your own goddamn good. That’s always been your problem.”
He thumped his chest. “Stone cold, that’s what you’ve got to be in this life, boy. Oh, you look the part, got the guys shaking in their boots, whispering behind your back about how you’ve got ice water running in your veins, but don’t think I can’t see past that front. It’s what got Aiden killed, and it’s what’s going to get Michael’s little girl killed if you don’t harden up.”
That was a low blow, and it stung. I didn’t let him see how much.
“Michael always was the rational one, you know,” Callum continued. “He helped me see another side to this little predicament of ours. Kill two birds with one stone, if you will.”
“What do you need me to do?” I somehow kept my tone even.
“You’re going to marry Cassidy Quinn.”
I blinked. Surely, I hadn’t heard him correctly.
Callum’s face twisted into something approximating a grin. He leaned back in his chair. “You and the future Missus will be wed one week from today. It will be public. It will be legal. It will keep her safe, keep her in line, and keep her under our control. It will also solve that pesky little immigration problem you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Oh. That.
My jaw clenched. Two months ago, I’d ran afoul of the District INS officer—well, that was putting it lightly. Officer Spencer Halliwell had returned home early one afternoon to find his wife of seven years bouncing up and down on an Irishman’s cock like it was a pogo stick. This Irishman, to be precise.
You see, contrary to what Tommy believed, I did get laid from time to time. But unlike Tommy, who plastered Sloane’s face over every girl that traipsed through his bedroom, or Alfie, who fell in love just about every point-five seconds, my heart never entered into the equation. Sex was purely a bodily function, an itch that needed to be scratched from time to time. Kimberly Halliwell was a loose-legged lass I’d picked up outside a bar in Fort Point. She hadn’t been looking for anything serious, and neither had I. The relationship had seemed perfectly adequate at the time.
Aside from the fact she was married, a little tidbit she conveniently forgot to mention until it reared up and bit me in the arse. Ever since then, Spencer Halliwell had been out for my blood, because despite having lived in the US for the past ten years, I wasn't an American citizen.
I was sixteen when Callum had brought me over from Ireland after my parents were killed. It wasn't that I actively decided not to pursue citizenship, I had just never gotten around to it, and Callum's rule of thumb was always the less legal attention, the better. All of which had worked out just fine until I went and put my foot in it—or rather, my dick.
My visa expired years ago. Spencer Halliwell didn’t need to be god’s gift to the INS to get me deported, but Callum knew a guy who knew a guy, and had been able to keep Halliwell tied up in a labyrinth of paperwork and legal dead-end, up until now. Even Callum’s resources weren’t limitless, and unless something drastic was done, they were going to be bouncing my bum back across the pond any day now.
I looked back at the file sitting on Callum's desk, namely, the photograph of the woman pinned to the inside flap. Hell of a deal for her. A marriage to a mobster and a dubious protection detail. As optimistic as Callum was, I wasn't sure if this little plan of his was going to work out.
“Plan sounds airtight,” I said dryly. “Only one problem, though.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“How you’re going to convince the girl to go along with this grand plan you and Michael concocted. She hates our guts.”
“That’s Tommy’s problem,” Callum said, “and the only guts you’ve got to be concerned about her hating is yours.”
Cassidy’s photograph smiled up at me. Hating my guts was the understatement of the year. If our introduction in the hospital waiting room was anything to go by, I’d be lucky to keep her from sticking a knife in my guts, let alone hating them.
“Can I keep this?” I picked up the file.
“Might as well,” Callum said wryly. “Meet the new wife.”
Callum had turned back to the window, the meeting clearly over. The file in my hands weighed five thousand pounds. I stood and took the back way out of the bar, not wanting to run into any of the guys.
I needed to wrap my head around this.
5
Cassidy
Ifeltlikedogshit.
No, worse than that. I felt like the moldy dogshit you found on running sneakers you’d worn last fall, tossed forgotten in a corner and left to stew in their own juices until spring.
Okay. Maybe I was being a tad bit dramatic.
