Chapter One
EOGHAN
I hated church.
And that wasn’t something I said lightly.
I hated it with a passion, and as a Five Pointer, that sucked, because part of the position of being in our exalted brotherhood was that we attend church and confessed our sins.
Of which there were many.
On a daily basis.
Really, we should have had a hotline to the confessional with how much sin we perpetrated, but as much as my father, the head of the Five Points—the biggest Irish Mob family in the United States—donated to St. Patrick’s, it wasn’t enough for his entire crew to be outfitted with their own personal priests to service them.
My lips twitched at the thought, even as Father Doyle glared at me for daring to be amused within these hallowed walls.
While my father thought the sun rose and set on the old fuck, I didn’t, so I glared back at him, amused even more when his cheeks blanched and he stared straight ahead.
The day my father died was the day when this old fuck was being sent to wherever they sent old priests off to.
And yeah, I saw him outliving my father, mostly because of the life Aidan O’Donnelly led.
The lives we all led.
That Da had hit the grand old age of sixty-six was pretty much a fucking miracle. I wasn’t sure if I’d live that long, and maybe with a Bratva bitch as my bride, I wouldn’t last the fucking week.
The enmity between the Russians and the Irish wasn’t as bad as it was with the Italians—fucking hated that scum. Jesus, everyone did. They were cocksuckers who made the Albanians look trustworthy, and let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t trust an Albanian to look after a sandwich from Subway, never mind my territory—but the hostility between us was still bad.
Never the twain shall meet, and all that shit.
And personally, I didn’t appreciate playing Romeo to a fucking Muscovite Juliet, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.
Today was my wedding day.
Yeah, I was getting married, and I wasn’t fucking happy about it.
It was also my bride’s goddamn birthday.
Fucking eighteen.
Jesus.
I had about six hundred of New York’s elite at my back, we even had the Deputy Attorney General of the state in the pews, and the hypocrisy within these walls which, ordinarily, would have amused me, instead, irritated the fuck out of me.
The place stank of shit.
I didn’t give a fuck if these bastards were wearing eight hundred dollar an ounce scent, all I could smell was crap.
A lot of it.
The place was decked to the nines, both families’ wealth out on display in the way it was decorated, but also, with the level of protection we had on this event—most of which I’d arranged because security was my jam. For every two guests, we had one detail covering their asses because this wedding meant something.
It was a way of formalizing ties between the Bratva and the Irish Mob, a way of securing them too, but I knew it was also my father’s way of trying to take us up to another level. The number of famous faces, of political figures in the pews, spoke clearly of both families’ spheres of influence, and he wanted that—wanted his greedy mitts all over those spheres. He’d long been playing the property ladder in the city, and with our money man and close friend to the family, Finn O’Grady, working the figures, we were starting to take over shit, owning the biggest skyscrapers, holding controlling stakes of the best plots of land in space poor Manhattan.
I already knew my father was a whack job, but if I hadn’t known it, this wedding proved it.
He wanted my kid in office.
Or, at least, one of his sons’ kids in office.
That was the end game, and fuck, I wanted nothing to do with it and didn’t have a goddamn say in it either way.
My mouth tightened as the organ started playing the Bridal Chorus, and the slap of my brother Declan’s hand to my shoulder had me glaring at him in irritation—did the fucker think I didn’t know what that meant?
We’d already dealt with Pachelbel as two kids, a boy and a girl, had traipsed down the aisle, and a herd of fucking bridesmaids had soon followed.
Even in midsummer, St. Patrick’s was goddamn cold, so the Bridal Chorus came as a relief—my dick was about to fall off from the chill within the old stone walls.
“You look at her like that, she’ll have a heart attack,” Dec muttered, as he twisted around to stare at my bride.
Disinterested in the proceedings, I shrugged. “Will save me the trouble of having her as a ball and chain.”
His lips twitched. “She looks hot.”
“She’s eighteen. I don’t go in for kids.”
“She’s legal,” Declan replied, “and, let’s face it, you can’t not consummate it. Da won’t allow it.”
“What’s he going to do? Put fucking cameras in the bedroom to make sure I fuck her?”
A hissed, “Quiet!” had me glowering at Doyle.
Declan snorted. “Just bone her. She’s beautiful. You should have gone to her birthday party yesterday, man. That was fucking rude. She looked banging.”
My mouth tightened at the mention of the early birthday/rehearsal dinner I’d refused to attend.
Before now, I’d seen pictures of her, but every time the Bratva Pakhan, the leader of the Russian Mafia, tried to get me to meet his spawn, Inessa, I’d managed to be out of the country.
It had taken some fucking calculated risks, but I’d achieved it. Sure, there was more blood on my hands as a result, but I liked honing my skills, making sure that my abilities with a rifle were as hot shit as ever.
Plus, I had a couple of million in the bank which my father couldn’t touch, and that was always a bonus.
The prick had a habit of tithing us when we displeased him.
Beneath the organ, the throbbing notes that signified a death knell for every man’s freedom, under the low hum of the crowd’s oohing and aahing at my child fucking bride, I heard the hushed murmur of her skirts against the floor—that was only because my senses were honed.
I also heard her father’s tapping footsteps, and knew my fate was sealed.
I mean, I’d known that earlier, but still. This was it.
It was really fucking happening.
Those tapping footsteps, the shushing skirts, they signed my death certificate.
I twisted around when the scent of lilies invaded my nostrils, and though it wasn’t displeasing, I hated it instantly.
Because I wasn’t a schmuck, and I knew Inessa had to be as unhappy with this situation as I was, I didn’t glower at her, but I kept my face expressionless as I nodded at her father and accepted her hand.
I wasn’t sure how Da had managed to wear Vasov down and had gotten him into a Catholic church and out of an Orthodox chapel, but from the look on his face, he was as happy as Aidan Sr. was with the upcoming nuptials.
I knew why, of course. Women were a commodity to the Bratva. Children were property to be bought and sold, and while that was the case with the Irish Mob too, we didn’t tend to pimp out our kids to the enemy.
I cut him a look, more interested in him than my bride, and when our eyes met, his flashed slightly, a flicker of something I couldn’t read surging to life inside them.
Maybe he saw my lack of fear, something that probably surprised him, maybe he saw that I was so beyond over this I’d moved into a different stratosphere, whatever it was, he muttered something in Russian to Inessa, then scuttled away like the pond scum he was.
He’d fucked off to his pew where a woman I assumed was his wife—not Inessa’s mother, because she was definitely too young—had taken a seat, dressed like some kind of colorblind whore in a bright green dress that was more fitting for a nightclub than a wedding. Her hat looked like she had a nest of parrots on her head, so I knew Vasov hadn’t married her for her taste in clothes, but for the tits that were spilling out of the dress. Tits were thirteen a dozen in my world, especially falsies, so, disinterested once Vasov was seated, I turned to Inessa.
The first thing I looked at was her hand trapped in mine. Her fingers were slender, delicate. The skin white and soft against my callused digits. The proof of my trade was written into the rough flesh of my hands, and there’d been so much blood shed by them that it should have marred her purity in a flash. The ring my father had procured for her sat on her finger. It wasn’t gaudy, which told me Ma had helped purchase it, and the clear emerald was a dark, rich green that throbbed with life.
I had to think that, with her involvement, the emerald would suit Inessa’s character—Ma would know my bride more than me. She’d met the bitch, after all. That was more than I’d done. So, for whatever reason, she sported an emerald instead of a diamond, and the heavy stone suited her delicate hand.
Letting my gaze drift over her fingers to her wrist, I took note of the thin sleeve that covered her forearm, and when I saw no sliver of skin, her face held more interest to me. Only, her head was covered with a veil, a thick one. The lace so dense that it was a wonder she could see through it without tripping.
The cream color reminded me of paper that had been aged with tea, and it draped over her, covering her from head to waist, revealing only a tight bodice that was decorated with what were probably diamonds, and the flared skirt that was like fancy netting that flounced with each step. It was large, enough for the skirts to get in my way and to put a few feet of distance between us.
Her other hand was primly pressed in front of her belly where she held the offending bouquet of lilies. The sight filled me with relief, even if I knew lilies were usually funereal flowers, not wedding. That she didn’t use a lily-based scent actually perked me up.
What didn’t?
Why her father hadn’t raised her veil.
Why her maid of honor hadn’t darted forward to do the same.
I wasn’t a man who appreciated weddings, but I was Catholic. Weddings, funerals, and fucking baptisms were our stock-in-trade.
I knew the score.
And I knew that, even if the Orthodox rituals were different, they weren’t that different.
Even if they were, I knew my father. He’d have micromanaged the shit out of the ceremony, and he liked things done just so. He wanted the world to know the father was giving up the daughter, handing her over like a virgin sacrifice. He’d want Vasov to raise the veil, to look at Inessa, for the girl to know she was a commodity her father was willing to trade, before handing her over to the buyer.
Yeah, sick, but that was daddy dearest for you.
That was how I knew something was going on.
Something that set my nerves on edge.
I stared at her so long, I heard Dec whisper, “What’s the hold up?” I could easily foresee Da cutting him looks, glaring at him and waving his hands in an effort to get him to do something, but that wasn’t going to work now. Not here. Not at this moment.
Behind me, people started to murmur too, wondering why I wasn’t moving. I could imagine my father’s face had gone from jubilant at a successful plan coming to fruition, to infuriated as he wondered what I was waiting for.
I just knew my mother was having to calm him down, and behind me, I could feel Doyle shuffling, his cassock whispering against the altar, and the bridesmaids starting to grow uneasy as my pause went to extreme lengths.
I ignored it all, focused only on her, on the puzzle that I was about to uncover, because all my instincts were telling me something.
Something I didn’t fucking like.
They were hiding her away like she was some ugly bitch, where Declan had distinctly told me she was beautiful. He wouldn’t lie. Not to me. Not without knowing I’d castrate him if he lied about that.
So what the fuck were they hiding?
Whether I wanted Inessa or not, she was my property. Had been since my goddamn father had tied me into this fucking engagement.
And I knew, fucking knew what I was about to see.
So my stillness?
It was me trying to prepare myself.
Me trying to calm myself down, because if I didn’t, I would slice Vasov up like a motherfucker, and I didn’t care who was watching.
Deputy Attorney Generals, Lieutenant Governors, and five hundred and ninety other witnesses be damned, blood would stain the altar of St. Patrick’s for an eternity if I didn’t get a handle on my temper.
The bouquet trembled, and I knew I was frightening Inessa—unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. Not now.
The sight did stir me into action a minute later, because I didn’t want her fear to encompass me, didn’t want her to associate me with fright. So, I reached out, noticing she flinched at the movement, and slowly began to unveil my prize.
They’d done a skilled job of it.
I’d give them that.
The makeup was pretty flawless, but my trade was blood. Broken bones. Bruises.
I knew a black eye when I saw it.
I knew a busted jaw too.
My own popped out to the side as I processed the beating she’d taken, and I stared at her wedding dress, taking in all the covering, from the wrist-length sleeves to the way that not an ounce of her chest was revealed to me.
Sure, they might have been going for the demure look, but I’d seen nuns show more skin.
My mouth tightened, and I stopped looking at her flaws, and instead, looked at her.
My bride.
She was beautiful.
Dec was right.
She was a fucking stunner.
Her face was delicate, the bones strong, but somehow fragile. Like she was a fairy. Her blonde hair was in a fancy topknot, and tiny curls bobbed around her cheeks—it was a neat updo, but the way it teased and bounced with the faintest movement reminded me of the way a woman would raise her hand to grasp a hold of her hair during a blowjob when shit got real and she got down to business.
The thought, surprisingly enough, had my dick twitching when my mind’s eye switched Inessa into that role, but I pushed thoughts like that aside and focused on my future wife. Her ears sported heavy emeralds that complimented her engagement ring and her clear green eyes, and her mouth was made for sinning.
At my unveiling, the congregation hushed down, evidently thinking the show was about to start, but when I reached for her bouquet, more whispers stirred.
She frowned at me, her brow puckering at the move, and I appreciated the push and pull as she tried to evade my grasp on the bouquet, but I ignored it. And the second our hands collided, she did too.
Her eyes transmitted her confusion, but I wasn’t confused.
She was just registering the truth.
She was mine now.
Tossing the godawful lilies at the flustered maid of honor, who caught them with a gasp, I tugged her forward, being more gentle than I usually would have been, because rage was filtering through me with the purity of distilled vodka—and these fucks knew what that tasted like—and I didn’t stop until we were standing opposite Doyle. I’d curved an arm around her waist, bringing her into me.
The move was not traditional, and Doyle’s lips parted to scold me, but my scowl was evidently deterrent enough, because he instantly intoned, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”
As he got on with the ceremony, I tilted my head to the side. “I will make them pay for beating you.”
She stiffened. “I-I…they didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Another flinch.
“Don’t lie to me, Inessa,” I warned, and as Doyle droned on, I whispered, “They did a good job, but not good enough. You’ll dance in their blood if you want.”
She didn’t reply, and while she was tense from the unusual hold I had her in, she relaxed somewhat at that.
If there was any consolation to marrying Bratva scum, it was that she’d been raised in the life.
She knew aggression and bloodshed were the universal language. Aoife, who was married to Finn, wasn’t of the life, but she knew about the Five Points, had been raised in one of our neighborhoods, and the violence of our world still surprised her.
Not Inessa.
She was as used to it as I was, even if I doubted she’d ever gotten her hands dirty.
I twisted my fingers about said hand, surprised by the daintiness of it against mine.
My father had beaten the shit out of me just over a week ago when I’d raised hell about the upcoming wedding, but I was a man.
More than that, I was used to a beating.
Inessa?
She looked like a china doll, and while I’d never found that sexy in the past, had never found virginity or fragile women attractive, this was different.
She was mine.
I’d never put those pieces together until now.
She belonged to me.
This marriage would see to that.
She was mine to protect, mine to defend, just fucking mine.
Unlike every other aspect of my life, I wouldn’t have to share her.
Not with my brothers, not with the family, not with the Five Points.
She belonged to me, and Eoghan O’Donnelly protected what belonged to him.
That was a fucking fact.
* * *
Inessa
He knew.
Even as terror had filled me that he’d reject me, break off the wedding I knew he didn’t want—probably even less than me, considering he’d managed to evade every single one of my father’s invitations for us to meet—he’d raised my veil.
And he’d seen.
He’d seen what few men would.
He’d seen what I was supposed to hide, what fantastic makeup had tucked away, but he’d noticed. Had witnessed the truth of what had gone down a few days ago.
My heart had been beating like I’d been working out for hours on end, and by the time he’d tucked my hand into his, I wasn’t sure if I was going to pass out or not. Whether it was from discomfort at his focus, fear of his rejection, or terror of being returned to my family… The latter was a fate worse than death.
I would die if I failed in this, if I shamed the family name.
So, when he tugged me toward the altar, the sweetest relief filled me, and I took a second to gape at him and take stock of the man who’d avoided me for so long. My first impression? That Eoghan was like all the O’Donnelly sons—wickedly handsome.
But the term wicked came in two definitions. Everyone in our circles knew what he, in particular, was capable of.
An expert marksman who’d been dishonorably discharged from the army, his skills were renowned—even by my father.
And Antoni Vasov didn’t approve of anyone or anything.
The asshole.
But Eoghan’s talents were undeniable. As a sniper, he was famous in our circles. A dubious fame, of course, but then that was the world I lived in. A shitty one.
My mouth tightened as Father Doyle—a man I’d met more times than my fiancé—began to start the service in earnest.
Undoubtedly, Aidan O’Donnelly Sr. thought he’d won some kind of boon by having the wedding ceremony in a Catholic church, and by being able to hold a traditional Catholic wedding when, really, it was a sign of my father washing his hands of me.
There’d be none of the traditions my sister would get at her wedding.
No special ceremonies like the crowns brides and grooms were given on the day, the earrings a bride received during the ceremony—Eoghan’s family had given me a set that matched my ring as part of a bridal trousseau. There’d be none of the games that were played between a couple who was in love for the entertainment of their family.
This was a business transaction, and Father had made that very clear by not having a thing to do with the ceremony.
Not even to save face among our people was he willing to lower his disregard of me, and though I didn’t want to be married at eighteen, I did want to be out from under his thumb.
There were only so many times an animal could be beaten before they decided to bite back, and each and every time he hit me, each and every time Svetlana slapped me and I was expected to do nothing other than take it, I was finding it harder and harder not to fight back.
Gritting my teeth was almost as painful as the bruises they inflicted upon me. Things had gotten worse recently, and it had culminated in the beating I’d ‘earned’ three days ago.
My entire face was numb. I was a little high on Tylenol with codeine from the pain—not just from the wounds themselves, but from the fact I’d had three makeup artists flittering around me, torturing me with beauty blenders on delicate skin.
I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t cried my makeup off, but it stuck. Somehow. And here I was.
Somehow.
Maybe I shivered, I didn’t know, but Eoghan’s hand tightened about mine, and it brought me back to the here and now.
A here and now where I was getting married.
To a man I didn’t know.
To a man I didn’t want to know.
To a man who had killed only God knew how many people for cold, hard cash.
I bit my lip at the thought and forced myself to think of anything other than the clusterfuck of this week, and how I’d endured my worst beating ever because I’d dared to tell my father that Eoghan was, essentially, a serial killer and that I didn’t want to marry him.
Instead, I concentrated on the vows.
There was no divorce in our world.
Only death.
Either through the freedom of illness or violence.
My mother had died that way, when our house had been infiltrated by the Famiglia, and she’d been raped first before she’d been slaughtered like a pig.
I’d always thought that would be my fate, had always thought…
Despite myself, I turned slightly into Eoghan, curving my body toward his warmth.
He was a stranger, the aforementioned serial killer, but the people I knew had beaten me like I was a dog, so I had no place to go for safety.
And while his words weren’t comforting, they sure as hell stuck with me.
“You’ll dance in their blood if you want to.”
My vision blurred as I contemplated that, then I thought about the fact I no longer had to answer to my father.
He wanted me to listen out for things, keep him in the loop, but I didn’t want my new, relatively safe haven to be tarnished by my being a spy, so there was no way in hell I was going to do that.
And if I avoided him like the plague, there was no way he could ever expect that of me.
Well, that was naïve.
He could expect it of me, but I didn’t have to give it to him.
All week, loathing for him had burned in me like a fever. It had distracted me from the upcoming marriage, and I’d focused only on getting away from him, on getting out of the house that was my prison in Brighton Beach…and after that, when I was wed, to getting away from Eoghan. To running and starting a new life for myself.
But now?
I could dance in Father’s blood?
I tightened my hand around Eoghan’s, turned my attention to Father Doyle, who was glowering at Eoghan over something—I didn’t know what. Eoghan didn’t seem the most reverent of people. Far as I could tell, he didn’t give a damn for rules, which meant he either wanted this wedding—which I highly doubted—or someone had some power over him.
Having met my future father-in-law, I knew who that someone was.
I couldn’t blame him.
Aidan Sr. was scary, and I said that when I was a Pakhan’s daughter.
When I was the daughter of a woman who’d been slain for being married to said Pakhan…
Scary and me were friends.
But Aidan Sr.’s eyes said it all. He was insane. I wondered if his family knew it, and if they did, if they were as terrified of him as I tried not to be.
Like any predator, they distrusted fear, respected strength. The second I lowered my guard, showed Aidan Sr. I was scared, was the second he’d pounce. I just didn’t know what that might entail.
Eoghan tugged on my hand once more in the silent communication I was slowly getting used to, and I realized I had to get involved in the ceremony.
I’d read up on the Catholic ritual, so I repeated the words the priest intoned, then I headed to a pew to the side of the altar where Father Doyle began a sermon about the power of marriage and how it could bring peace to a world filled with strife.
Fitting, but I highly doubted most of the congregation knew just what kind of peace it was bringing to the city.
A truce.
Between the Bratva and the Irish Mob.
Sure, they weren’t the only players in the city. There were the Albanians, the Triads, and the Famiglia, but today’s union bound the separate brotherhoods together in a way that would reap misery on the other factions.
Even though I was kept out of the business, I knew that much.
I wasn’t an idiot, even if my family treated me like I was one because I had issues with the violent world I lived in.
“Who did it?”
His voice was like silk, whisper soft as it slid over me. I jolted in surprise because my focus had shifted when Doyle had started droning on—I knew my concussion wasn’t helping me appear lucid—and quickly shot him a look. I just realized he hadn’t let go of my hand, and his fingers tightened—not punishingly, but enough for me to feel his grasp.
“Why is it important for you to know?” I half-mouthed, not wanting to disturb the ceremony.
“It matters to me.”
I knew I was his property, knew what my father had done was essentially like giving Eoghan a backhanded slap, even if I was an unwanted bride, even if the beating was the only reason I was here today, but…
A united front, a merging of the Bratva and the Mob, would make us stronger.
Safer.
And I really didn’t want to die like my mom had.
I didn’t want to be raped by scum who hurt me just because they hated my husband.
I didn’t want to be butchered like an animal, even though I’d had no say whatsoever, just like she hadn’t, in whom she married.
Tears pricked my eyes at the thought, and I dipped my chin, whispering, “They can’t touch me anymore.”
He stiffened at that. “You’re damn right they can’t.”
I froze, a little horrified at how loud his voice had been. A hush fell over the church, and Doyle stopped mid-sentence and twisted around to glare at Eoghan again—this was getting to be a theme of the day—before he flared his eyes in warning and returned to the full lecture.
Despite myself, my lips twitched, and I whispered, “Your irreverence is showing.”
He snorted. “That’s one word for it. Doyle can’t stand that I don’t give a shit about this crap.”
“Why are you here then?”
“Because, like your father, mine rules with an iron fist. He might be an old bastard, but he’s handy with them.”
“You were beaten too?” My mouth rounded at that, and I gaped at him, unable to believe it.
Eoghan was…
He was, well, like a warrior of old.
I could see him in a kilt with a claymore on his back, could see him on horseback with armor covering him.
Sure, his features were a little baby faced, but his eyes? Those dark brown orbs held a multitude of secrets, and I got the feeling most of them were terrifying. His body was taut and trim, and the tails he wore—a long suit jacket with a ‘tail’ at the back—fit him to perfection. He gave off a slender appearance, I guessed, but there was something coiled about him. Like he was just preparing to spring into action.
And from his response to my very well hidden, expertly concealed bruises?
I figured that was pretty apt.
He had dark hair, so dark it was almost black, and his brows matched. They hooded gleaming eyes that, I got the feeling, saw everything and missed nothing, and his jaw was clean-shaven but, judging by the faint tan on his cheeks, he usually had a short beard.
The notion intrigued me, as did his handsomeness.
I’d known, at some point, I’d be married off to someone. Sure, I’d never thought it would be when I was eighteen, and I’d never thought I’d be married to a goddamn Irish man, but to be wed to a handsome guy who wasn’t thick around the waist, smelled of potatoes that had been lost in the back of the kitchen cabinets, and drank more vodka than water?
Yeah, technically Eoghan was a dream.
A technicolor one.
“You’re staring.”
His lips twitched, the dusky peach flesh moving, enticing me to smile with him.
I hadn’t expected any kindness from him.
If the Russians hated the Irish, that was nothing compared to what they felt for us. I’d known I was walking into enemy territory today, but, of course, life was full of surprises.
My ‘home’ camp had treated me worse than Eoghan who, the second he’d seen me, had stopped glowering at me, and had started glaring at the world like he was pissed at it and not me.
I couldn’t even begin to describe how much of a relief that was.
Not to be in his crosshairs? Bliss!
And the truth was, if he could keep me safe?
I’d do anything, be anything he wanted. I’d even stay, I wouldn’t run.
I just wanted away from my family, I just wanted a life of my own, even if it was still curtailed by being a wife to a high-ranking lieutenant in a crime family. “You’re very handsome,” I whispered, my voice husky.
He arched a brow. “Thank you.” His voice was toneless, but his eyes gleamed with humor.
I felt gauche, very young and stupid, until he leaned into me, pressed a kiss to my temple, and whispered, “A handsome groom for a beautiful bride. We’re going to make the congregation weep.”
It was my turn for my lips to twitch, and I grinned at him, liking the softer side he was showing me, and hoping and praying, even though I knew both were stupid and dangerous, that maybe we could have something together.
Maybe we could take this arrangement and make it work for us.
Even if we led shorter lives thanks to our affiliations, we still had a long time on this earth to be tied together. I didn’t want to spend every day miserable, and that kiss? His tenderness? While surprising, they filled me with dreams I shouldn’t have.
That I was foolish to have.
I hated church.
And that wasn’t something I said lightly.
I hated it with a passion, and as a Five Pointer, that sucked, because part of the position of being in our exalted brotherhood was that we attend church and confessed our sins.
Of which there were many.
On a daily basis.
Really, we should have had a hotline to the confessional with how much sin we perpetrated, but as much as my father, the head of the Five Points—the biggest Irish Mob family in the United States—donated to St. Patrick’s, it wasn’t enough for his entire crew to be outfitted with their own personal priests to service them.
My lips twitched at the thought, even as Father Doyle glared at me for daring to be amused within these hallowed walls.
While my father thought the sun rose and set on the old fuck, I didn’t, so I glared back at him, amused even more when his cheeks blanched and he stared straight ahead.
The day my father died was the day when this old fuck was being sent to wherever they sent old priests off to.
And yeah, I saw him outliving my father, mostly because of the life Aidan O’Donnelly led.
The lives we all led.
That Da had hit the grand old age of sixty-six was pretty much a fucking miracle. I wasn’t sure if I’d live that long, and maybe with a Bratva bitch as my bride, I wouldn’t last the fucking week.
The enmity between the Russians and the Irish wasn’t as bad as it was with the Italians—fucking hated that scum. Jesus, everyone did. They were cocksuckers who made the Albanians look trustworthy, and let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t trust an Albanian to look after a sandwich from Subway, never mind my territory—but the hostility between us was still bad.
Never the twain shall meet, and all that shit.
And personally, I didn’t appreciate playing Romeo to a fucking Muscovite Juliet, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.
Today was my wedding day.
Yeah, I was getting married, and I wasn’t fucking happy about it.
It was also my bride’s goddamn birthday.
Fucking eighteen.
Jesus.
I had about six hundred of New York’s elite at my back, we even had the Deputy Attorney General of the state in the pews, and the hypocrisy within these walls which, ordinarily, would have amused me, instead, irritated the fuck out of me.
The place stank of shit.
I didn’t give a fuck if these bastards were wearing eight hundred dollar an ounce scent, all I could smell was crap.
A lot of it.
The place was decked to the nines, both families’ wealth out on display in the way it was decorated, but also, with the level of protection we had on this event—most of which I’d arranged because security was my jam. For every two guests, we had one detail covering their asses because this wedding meant something.
It was a way of formalizing ties between the Bratva and the Irish Mob, a way of securing them too, but I knew it was also my father’s way of trying to take us up to another level. The number of famous faces, of political figures in the pews, spoke clearly of both families’ spheres of influence, and he wanted that—wanted his greedy mitts all over those spheres. He’d long been playing the property ladder in the city, and with our money man and close friend to the family, Finn O’Grady, working the figures, we were starting to take over shit, owning the biggest skyscrapers, holding controlling stakes of the best plots of land in space poor Manhattan.
I already knew my father was a whack job, but if I hadn’t known it, this wedding proved it.
He wanted my kid in office.
Or, at least, one of his sons’ kids in office.
That was the end game, and fuck, I wanted nothing to do with it and didn’t have a goddamn say in it either way.
My mouth tightened as the organ started playing the Bridal Chorus, and the slap of my brother Declan’s hand to my shoulder had me glaring at him in irritation—did the fucker think I didn’t know what that meant?
We’d already dealt with Pachelbel as two kids, a boy and a girl, had traipsed down the aisle, and a herd of fucking bridesmaids had soon followed.
Even in midsummer, St. Patrick’s was goddamn cold, so the Bridal Chorus came as a relief—my dick was about to fall off from the chill within the old stone walls.
“You look at her like that, she’ll have a heart attack,” Dec muttered, as he twisted around to stare at my bride.
Disinterested in the proceedings, I shrugged. “Will save me the trouble of having her as a ball and chain.”
His lips twitched. “She looks hot.”
“She’s eighteen. I don’t go in for kids.”
“She’s legal,” Declan replied, “and, let’s face it, you can’t not consummate it. Da won’t allow it.”
“What’s he going to do? Put fucking cameras in the bedroom to make sure I fuck her?”
A hissed, “Quiet!” had me glowering at Doyle.
Declan snorted. “Just bone her. She’s beautiful. You should have gone to her birthday party yesterday, man. That was fucking rude. She looked banging.”
My mouth tightened at the mention of the early birthday/rehearsal dinner I’d refused to attend.
Before now, I’d seen pictures of her, but every time the Bratva Pakhan, the leader of the Russian Mafia, tried to get me to meet his spawn, Inessa, I’d managed to be out of the country.
It had taken some fucking calculated risks, but I’d achieved it. Sure, there was more blood on my hands as a result, but I liked honing my skills, making sure that my abilities with a rifle were as hot shit as ever.
Plus, I had a couple of million in the bank which my father couldn’t touch, and that was always a bonus.
The prick had a habit of tithing us when we displeased him.
Beneath the organ, the throbbing notes that signified a death knell for every man’s freedom, under the low hum of the crowd’s oohing and aahing at my child fucking bride, I heard the hushed murmur of her skirts against the floor—that was only because my senses were honed.
I also heard her father’s tapping footsteps, and knew my fate was sealed.
I mean, I’d known that earlier, but still. This was it.
It was really fucking happening.
Those tapping footsteps, the shushing skirts, they signed my death certificate.
I twisted around when the scent of lilies invaded my nostrils, and though it wasn’t displeasing, I hated it instantly.
Because I wasn’t a schmuck, and I knew Inessa had to be as unhappy with this situation as I was, I didn’t glower at her, but I kept my face expressionless as I nodded at her father and accepted her hand.
I wasn’t sure how Da had managed to wear Vasov down and had gotten him into a Catholic church and out of an Orthodox chapel, but from the look on his face, he was as happy as Aidan Sr. was with the upcoming nuptials.
I knew why, of course. Women were a commodity to the Bratva. Children were property to be bought and sold, and while that was the case with the Irish Mob too, we didn’t tend to pimp out our kids to the enemy.
I cut him a look, more interested in him than my bride, and when our eyes met, his flashed slightly, a flicker of something I couldn’t read surging to life inside them.
Maybe he saw my lack of fear, something that probably surprised him, maybe he saw that I was so beyond over this I’d moved into a different stratosphere, whatever it was, he muttered something in Russian to Inessa, then scuttled away like the pond scum he was.
He’d fucked off to his pew where a woman I assumed was his wife—not Inessa’s mother, because she was definitely too young—had taken a seat, dressed like some kind of colorblind whore in a bright green dress that was more fitting for a nightclub than a wedding. Her hat looked like she had a nest of parrots on her head, so I knew Vasov hadn’t married her for her taste in clothes, but for the tits that were spilling out of the dress. Tits were thirteen a dozen in my world, especially falsies, so, disinterested once Vasov was seated, I turned to Inessa.
The first thing I looked at was her hand trapped in mine. Her fingers were slender, delicate. The skin white and soft against my callused digits. The proof of my trade was written into the rough flesh of my hands, and there’d been so much blood shed by them that it should have marred her purity in a flash. The ring my father had procured for her sat on her finger. It wasn’t gaudy, which told me Ma had helped purchase it, and the clear emerald was a dark, rich green that throbbed with life.
I had to think that, with her involvement, the emerald would suit Inessa’s character—Ma would know my bride more than me. She’d met the bitch, after all. That was more than I’d done. So, for whatever reason, she sported an emerald instead of a diamond, and the heavy stone suited her delicate hand.
Letting my gaze drift over her fingers to her wrist, I took note of the thin sleeve that covered her forearm, and when I saw no sliver of skin, her face held more interest to me. Only, her head was covered with a veil, a thick one. The lace so dense that it was a wonder she could see through it without tripping.
The cream color reminded me of paper that had been aged with tea, and it draped over her, covering her from head to waist, revealing only a tight bodice that was decorated with what were probably diamonds, and the flared skirt that was like fancy netting that flounced with each step. It was large, enough for the skirts to get in my way and to put a few feet of distance between us.
Her other hand was primly pressed in front of her belly where she held the offending bouquet of lilies. The sight filled me with relief, even if I knew lilies were usually funereal flowers, not wedding. That she didn’t use a lily-based scent actually perked me up.
What didn’t?
Why her father hadn’t raised her veil.
Why her maid of honor hadn’t darted forward to do the same.
I wasn’t a man who appreciated weddings, but I was Catholic. Weddings, funerals, and fucking baptisms were our stock-in-trade.
I knew the score.
And I knew that, even if the Orthodox rituals were different, they weren’t that different.
Even if they were, I knew my father. He’d have micromanaged the shit out of the ceremony, and he liked things done just so. He wanted the world to know the father was giving up the daughter, handing her over like a virgin sacrifice. He’d want Vasov to raise the veil, to look at Inessa, for the girl to know she was a commodity her father was willing to trade, before handing her over to the buyer.
Yeah, sick, but that was daddy dearest for you.
That was how I knew something was going on.
Something that set my nerves on edge.
I stared at her so long, I heard Dec whisper, “What’s the hold up?” I could easily foresee Da cutting him looks, glaring at him and waving his hands in an effort to get him to do something, but that wasn’t going to work now. Not here. Not at this moment.
Behind me, people started to murmur too, wondering why I wasn’t moving. I could imagine my father’s face had gone from jubilant at a successful plan coming to fruition, to infuriated as he wondered what I was waiting for.
I just knew my mother was having to calm him down, and behind me, I could feel Doyle shuffling, his cassock whispering against the altar, and the bridesmaids starting to grow uneasy as my pause went to extreme lengths.
I ignored it all, focused only on her, on the puzzle that I was about to uncover, because all my instincts were telling me something.
Something I didn’t fucking like.
They were hiding her away like she was some ugly bitch, where Declan had distinctly told me she was beautiful. He wouldn’t lie. Not to me. Not without knowing I’d castrate him if he lied about that.
So what the fuck were they hiding?
Whether I wanted Inessa or not, she was my property. Had been since my goddamn father had tied me into this fucking engagement.
And I knew, fucking knew what I was about to see.
So my stillness?
It was me trying to prepare myself.
Me trying to calm myself down, because if I didn’t, I would slice Vasov up like a motherfucker, and I didn’t care who was watching.
Deputy Attorney Generals, Lieutenant Governors, and five hundred and ninety other witnesses be damned, blood would stain the altar of St. Patrick’s for an eternity if I didn’t get a handle on my temper.
The bouquet trembled, and I knew I was frightening Inessa—unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. Not now.
The sight did stir me into action a minute later, because I didn’t want her fear to encompass me, didn’t want her to associate me with fright. So, I reached out, noticing she flinched at the movement, and slowly began to unveil my prize.
They’d done a skilled job of it.
I’d give them that.
The makeup was pretty flawless, but my trade was blood. Broken bones. Bruises.
I knew a black eye when I saw it.
I knew a busted jaw too.
My own popped out to the side as I processed the beating she’d taken, and I stared at her wedding dress, taking in all the covering, from the wrist-length sleeves to the way that not an ounce of her chest was revealed to me.
Sure, they might have been going for the demure look, but I’d seen nuns show more skin.
My mouth tightened, and I stopped looking at her flaws, and instead, looked at her.
My bride.
She was beautiful.
Dec was right.
She was a fucking stunner.
Her face was delicate, the bones strong, but somehow fragile. Like she was a fairy. Her blonde hair was in a fancy topknot, and tiny curls bobbed around her cheeks—it was a neat updo, but the way it teased and bounced with the faintest movement reminded me of the way a woman would raise her hand to grasp a hold of her hair during a blowjob when shit got real and she got down to business.
The thought, surprisingly enough, had my dick twitching when my mind’s eye switched Inessa into that role, but I pushed thoughts like that aside and focused on my future wife. Her ears sported heavy emeralds that complimented her engagement ring and her clear green eyes, and her mouth was made for sinning.
At my unveiling, the congregation hushed down, evidently thinking the show was about to start, but when I reached for her bouquet, more whispers stirred.
She frowned at me, her brow puckering at the move, and I appreciated the push and pull as she tried to evade my grasp on the bouquet, but I ignored it. And the second our hands collided, she did too.
Her eyes transmitted her confusion, but I wasn’t confused.
She was just registering the truth.
She was mine now.
Tossing the godawful lilies at the flustered maid of honor, who caught them with a gasp, I tugged her forward, being more gentle than I usually would have been, because rage was filtering through me with the purity of distilled vodka—and these fucks knew what that tasted like—and I didn’t stop until we were standing opposite Doyle. I’d curved an arm around her waist, bringing her into me.
The move was not traditional, and Doyle’s lips parted to scold me, but my scowl was evidently deterrent enough, because he instantly intoned, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”
As he got on with the ceremony, I tilted my head to the side. “I will make them pay for beating you.”
She stiffened. “I-I…they didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Another flinch.
“Don’t lie to me, Inessa,” I warned, and as Doyle droned on, I whispered, “They did a good job, but not good enough. You’ll dance in their blood if you want.”
She didn’t reply, and while she was tense from the unusual hold I had her in, she relaxed somewhat at that.
If there was any consolation to marrying Bratva scum, it was that she’d been raised in the life.
She knew aggression and bloodshed were the universal language. Aoife, who was married to Finn, wasn’t of the life, but she knew about the Five Points, had been raised in one of our neighborhoods, and the violence of our world still surprised her.
Not Inessa.
She was as used to it as I was, even if I doubted she’d ever gotten her hands dirty.
I twisted my fingers about said hand, surprised by the daintiness of it against mine.
My father had beaten the shit out of me just over a week ago when I’d raised hell about the upcoming wedding, but I was a man.
More than that, I was used to a beating.
Inessa?
She looked like a china doll, and while I’d never found that sexy in the past, had never found virginity or fragile women attractive, this was different.
She was mine.
I’d never put those pieces together until now.
She belonged to me.
This marriage would see to that.
She was mine to protect, mine to defend, just fucking mine.
Unlike every other aspect of my life, I wouldn’t have to share her.
Not with my brothers, not with the family, not with the Five Points.
She belonged to me, and Eoghan O’Donnelly protected what belonged to him.
That was a fucking fact.
* * *
Inessa
He knew.
Even as terror had filled me that he’d reject me, break off the wedding I knew he didn’t want—probably even less than me, considering he’d managed to evade every single one of my father’s invitations for us to meet—he’d raised my veil.
And he’d seen.
He’d seen what few men would.
He’d seen what I was supposed to hide, what fantastic makeup had tucked away, but he’d noticed. Had witnessed the truth of what had gone down a few days ago.
My heart had been beating like I’d been working out for hours on end, and by the time he’d tucked my hand into his, I wasn’t sure if I was going to pass out or not. Whether it was from discomfort at his focus, fear of his rejection, or terror of being returned to my family… The latter was a fate worse than death.
I would die if I failed in this, if I shamed the family name.
So, when he tugged me toward the altar, the sweetest relief filled me, and I took a second to gape at him and take stock of the man who’d avoided me for so long. My first impression? That Eoghan was like all the O’Donnelly sons—wickedly handsome.
But the term wicked came in two definitions. Everyone in our circles knew what he, in particular, was capable of.
An expert marksman who’d been dishonorably discharged from the army, his skills were renowned—even by my father.
And Antoni Vasov didn’t approve of anyone or anything.
The asshole.
But Eoghan’s talents were undeniable. As a sniper, he was famous in our circles. A dubious fame, of course, but then that was the world I lived in. A shitty one.
My mouth tightened as Father Doyle—a man I’d met more times than my fiancé—began to start the service in earnest.
Undoubtedly, Aidan O’Donnelly Sr. thought he’d won some kind of boon by having the wedding ceremony in a Catholic church, and by being able to hold a traditional Catholic wedding when, really, it was a sign of my father washing his hands of me.
There’d be none of the traditions my sister would get at her wedding.
No special ceremonies like the crowns brides and grooms were given on the day, the earrings a bride received during the ceremony—Eoghan’s family had given me a set that matched my ring as part of a bridal trousseau. There’d be none of the games that were played between a couple who was in love for the entertainment of their family.
This was a business transaction, and Father had made that very clear by not having a thing to do with the ceremony.
Not even to save face among our people was he willing to lower his disregard of me, and though I didn’t want to be married at eighteen, I did want to be out from under his thumb.
There were only so many times an animal could be beaten before they decided to bite back, and each and every time he hit me, each and every time Svetlana slapped me and I was expected to do nothing other than take it, I was finding it harder and harder not to fight back.
Gritting my teeth was almost as painful as the bruises they inflicted upon me. Things had gotten worse recently, and it had culminated in the beating I’d ‘earned’ three days ago.
My entire face was numb. I was a little high on Tylenol with codeine from the pain—not just from the wounds themselves, but from the fact I’d had three makeup artists flittering around me, torturing me with beauty blenders on delicate skin.
I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t cried my makeup off, but it stuck. Somehow. And here I was.
Somehow.
Maybe I shivered, I didn’t know, but Eoghan’s hand tightened about mine, and it brought me back to the here and now.
A here and now where I was getting married.
To a man I didn’t know.
To a man I didn’t want to know.
To a man who had killed only God knew how many people for cold, hard cash.
I bit my lip at the thought and forced myself to think of anything other than the clusterfuck of this week, and how I’d endured my worst beating ever because I’d dared to tell my father that Eoghan was, essentially, a serial killer and that I didn’t want to marry him.
Instead, I concentrated on the vows.
There was no divorce in our world.
Only death.
Either through the freedom of illness or violence.
My mother had died that way, when our house had been infiltrated by the Famiglia, and she’d been raped first before she’d been slaughtered like a pig.
I’d always thought that would be my fate, had always thought…
Despite myself, I turned slightly into Eoghan, curving my body toward his warmth.
He was a stranger, the aforementioned serial killer, but the people I knew had beaten me like I was a dog, so I had no place to go for safety.
And while his words weren’t comforting, they sure as hell stuck with me.
“You’ll dance in their blood if you want to.”
My vision blurred as I contemplated that, then I thought about the fact I no longer had to answer to my father.
He wanted me to listen out for things, keep him in the loop, but I didn’t want my new, relatively safe haven to be tarnished by my being a spy, so there was no way in hell I was going to do that.
And if I avoided him like the plague, there was no way he could ever expect that of me.
Well, that was naïve.
He could expect it of me, but I didn’t have to give it to him.
All week, loathing for him had burned in me like a fever. It had distracted me from the upcoming marriage, and I’d focused only on getting away from him, on getting out of the house that was my prison in Brighton Beach…and after that, when I was wed, to getting away from Eoghan. To running and starting a new life for myself.
But now?
I could dance in Father’s blood?
I tightened my hand around Eoghan’s, turned my attention to Father Doyle, who was glowering at Eoghan over something—I didn’t know what. Eoghan didn’t seem the most reverent of people. Far as I could tell, he didn’t give a damn for rules, which meant he either wanted this wedding—which I highly doubted—or someone had some power over him.
Having met my future father-in-law, I knew who that someone was.
I couldn’t blame him.
Aidan Sr. was scary, and I said that when I was a Pakhan’s daughter.
When I was the daughter of a woman who’d been slain for being married to said Pakhan…
Scary and me were friends.
But Aidan Sr.’s eyes said it all. He was insane. I wondered if his family knew it, and if they did, if they were as terrified of him as I tried not to be.
Like any predator, they distrusted fear, respected strength. The second I lowered my guard, showed Aidan Sr. I was scared, was the second he’d pounce. I just didn’t know what that might entail.
Eoghan tugged on my hand once more in the silent communication I was slowly getting used to, and I realized I had to get involved in the ceremony.
I’d read up on the Catholic ritual, so I repeated the words the priest intoned, then I headed to a pew to the side of the altar where Father Doyle began a sermon about the power of marriage and how it could bring peace to a world filled with strife.
Fitting, but I highly doubted most of the congregation knew just what kind of peace it was bringing to the city.
A truce.
Between the Bratva and the Irish Mob.
Sure, they weren’t the only players in the city. There were the Albanians, the Triads, and the Famiglia, but today’s union bound the separate brotherhoods together in a way that would reap misery on the other factions.
Even though I was kept out of the business, I knew that much.
I wasn’t an idiot, even if my family treated me like I was one because I had issues with the violent world I lived in.
“Who did it?”
His voice was like silk, whisper soft as it slid over me. I jolted in surprise because my focus had shifted when Doyle had started droning on—I knew my concussion wasn’t helping me appear lucid—and quickly shot him a look. I just realized he hadn’t let go of my hand, and his fingers tightened—not punishingly, but enough for me to feel his grasp.
“Why is it important for you to know?” I half-mouthed, not wanting to disturb the ceremony.
“It matters to me.”
I knew I was his property, knew what my father had done was essentially like giving Eoghan a backhanded slap, even if I was an unwanted bride, even if the beating was the only reason I was here today, but…
A united front, a merging of the Bratva and the Mob, would make us stronger.
Safer.
And I really didn’t want to die like my mom had.
I didn’t want to be raped by scum who hurt me just because they hated my husband.
I didn’t want to be butchered like an animal, even though I’d had no say whatsoever, just like she hadn’t, in whom she married.
Tears pricked my eyes at the thought, and I dipped my chin, whispering, “They can’t touch me anymore.”
He stiffened at that. “You’re damn right they can’t.”
I froze, a little horrified at how loud his voice had been. A hush fell over the church, and Doyle stopped mid-sentence and twisted around to glare at Eoghan again—this was getting to be a theme of the day—before he flared his eyes in warning and returned to the full lecture.
Despite myself, my lips twitched, and I whispered, “Your irreverence is showing.”
He snorted. “That’s one word for it. Doyle can’t stand that I don’t give a shit about this crap.”
“Why are you here then?”
“Because, like your father, mine rules with an iron fist. He might be an old bastard, but he’s handy with them.”
“You were beaten too?” My mouth rounded at that, and I gaped at him, unable to believe it.
Eoghan was…
He was, well, like a warrior of old.
I could see him in a kilt with a claymore on his back, could see him on horseback with armor covering him.
Sure, his features were a little baby faced, but his eyes? Those dark brown orbs held a multitude of secrets, and I got the feeling most of them were terrifying. His body was taut and trim, and the tails he wore—a long suit jacket with a ‘tail’ at the back—fit him to perfection. He gave off a slender appearance, I guessed, but there was something coiled about him. Like he was just preparing to spring into action.
And from his response to my very well hidden, expertly concealed bruises?
I figured that was pretty apt.
He had dark hair, so dark it was almost black, and his brows matched. They hooded gleaming eyes that, I got the feeling, saw everything and missed nothing, and his jaw was clean-shaven but, judging by the faint tan on his cheeks, he usually had a short beard.
The notion intrigued me, as did his handsomeness.
I’d known, at some point, I’d be married off to someone. Sure, I’d never thought it would be when I was eighteen, and I’d never thought I’d be married to a goddamn Irish man, but to be wed to a handsome guy who wasn’t thick around the waist, smelled of potatoes that had been lost in the back of the kitchen cabinets, and drank more vodka than water?
Yeah, technically Eoghan was a dream.
A technicolor one.
“You’re staring.”
His lips twitched, the dusky peach flesh moving, enticing me to smile with him.
I hadn’t expected any kindness from him.
If the Russians hated the Irish, that was nothing compared to what they felt for us. I’d known I was walking into enemy territory today, but, of course, life was full of surprises.
My ‘home’ camp had treated me worse than Eoghan who, the second he’d seen me, had stopped glowering at me, and had started glaring at the world like he was pissed at it and not me.
I couldn’t even begin to describe how much of a relief that was.
Not to be in his crosshairs? Bliss!
And the truth was, if he could keep me safe?
I’d do anything, be anything he wanted. I’d even stay, I wouldn’t run.
I just wanted away from my family, I just wanted a life of my own, even if it was still curtailed by being a wife to a high-ranking lieutenant in a crime family. “You’re very handsome,” I whispered, my voice husky.
He arched a brow. “Thank you.” His voice was toneless, but his eyes gleamed with humor.
I felt gauche, very young and stupid, until he leaned into me, pressed a kiss to my temple, and whispered, “A handsome groom for a beautiful bride. We’re going to make the congregation weep.”
It was my turn for my lips to twitch, and I grinned at him, liking the softer side he was showing me, and hoping and praying, even though I knew both were stupid and dangerous, that maybe we could have something together.
Maybe we could take this arrangement and make it work for us.
Even if we led shorter lives thanks to our affiliations, we still had a long time on this earth to be tied together. I didn’t want to spend every day miserable, and that kiss? His tenderness? While surprising, they filled me with dreams I shouldn’t have.
That I was foolish to have.
