Most days, I hardly recognize myself. I was trained from an early age not to show my emotions, to be better, and to make sure the family name means something because someone is always watching. They're waiting for you to fuck up so theycan take your kingdom away in the blink of an eye. That never happened to my father. People respected him. People trusted him to make the right decisions for both the family and the business. I’ve looked up to my Don since I was little, and that feeling still hasn’t gone away years after his death.
The ding of the doors sliding open brings me out of my thoughts; I didn’t even realize the elevator was moving again. Jack is waiting there for me to step out, his old eyes giving me a knowing look without him saying a word. Because he is such a good man, I pull a clip of money out of my wallet and silently slip it into his breast pocket as I walk by him.
Once outside, I glance both ways before crossing the street at a jog and head over to my building. Tossing my car keys to the valet, he sighs in relief and quickly runs to my car parked right in front of the building. The kid probably thought he was going to hear shit from the higher-ups at his job, but no one will say a damn word. They will take one look at my car and back off, admittedly. They don’t want to get on my bad side, and since I own the fucking building, no one questions me. There are benefits when you instill an unwavering fear of God in people. It only takes one glance into my eyes, which look like you're gazing into a starless night sky, for a man to piss himself. Most men claim it’s like looking at the devil; eyes so black, I seem soulless. I really do think I was born into this world to make people bend to my will. Becoming the Don was the second-best thing that’s ever happened to me; it gives me a purpose. The first… is and always will be Iris.
It takes no time before I’m stepping into my living room; the automatic blinds open at my arrival and bring in the morning sunlight from the east. I don’t bother bringing up my camera to check on my girl; I have a clear view from my windows into hers. Our floors are aligned directly across from each other. It’s my other favorite hobby. I love observing herfrom the comfort of my couch, enjoying a glass of scotch as she reclines on the ottoman near her windows, her face tilted towards the sun, as she tunes into smutty audiobooks through her earbuds. Her plump lips part in the beginning of a smile, her amusement showing with a twitch of her eyebrows. I see every detail, her face so expressive, and she’s not even aware I see all her movements, either through my cameras placed aroundourhouse or the times I actually get out my binoculars so I don’t miss a single moment of her life.
The temptation is too strong. I pull my binoculars from under the couch and peer into them, her image coming into focus without me having to adjust the lens. I might spend too much time watching her, but I’m starved for her. Any piece she will give me. It’s mine. So I help myself to watching her. She’s currently sitting by the window as always, her face tilted up towards the sky as she drinks from her favorite coffee mug. A small sigh leaves her lips at the first sip of coffee, her shoulders slumping in these few moments of peace. I just wish I knew what she was thinking about.
When she finds out I’ve been here this whole time, she’s going to be pissed as hell, but it will be worth it because we can finally be together. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since the first moment I laid eyes on her.
CHAPTER 4
IRIS
Two and a half years ago
Ashadow descends from above, momentarily obstructing the sunlight and causing my hand to stumble over my painting, a streak of white blending into the vibrant shades of blue.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath in frustration, scowling up at the bird that flies in circles above my head, no doubt looking for a rat to feast on somewhere nearby.
This is New York, after all—rats are everywhere. The thought alone makes me shudder, and I wish I were painting in the rolling hills of Scotland instead. I miss living there, but Da said it was time for me to come home. Apparently, spending most of my childhood in Edinburgh, Scotland, has spoiled me. I mean, my Da isn’t wrong. I was free to roam there, of course, with my nanny at my heels because I was always getting into mischief. It was so different from the Big Apple. It’s crammed packed here, the city flooded with the worst smells if you just happen to walk past an alleyway. You can’t even see the night sky, and the only greenery is in Central Park. I partially live in the park now, but I miss the green hills covered in grass and flowers of Scotland.I miss the peaceful moments just outside of town, when I could paint without any noise for miles. However, those days are no longer here. It’s like sardines packed as tightly as possible in a tin can. I also used to visit New York while growing up over the summers or breaks from school, but I always ended up taking a flight back home because Da said it was safer for me there. I never understood that as a child, but the older I got, the more curious I became, and one day I found out why I was always shipped back to Scotland.
Danny O’Connor isn’t just a businessman who runs a fish factory. He’s the head of the Irish Mob, a trader of illegal weapons, among other stuff that had me fuming mad when I found out. But it made so much sense, given the danger our little family was put in, that he had to ship me off to a whole other continent to keep me safe. Something always wiggles in the back of my head at that, like a memory I can’t grasp, and I wonder if something happened to me to make him fear for my safety. An image always appears when I think long and hard about it: worried dark eyes and a pain on my palm right over the bright pink jagged scar I have. But it always disappears right when I feel a hint of fear enter my mind, as if my body is fighting it off to keep me safe. It’s something I’ll always wonder about and probably won’t stop trying to figure out until it comes to me.
“My Rose, where are you?” I hear my Da call from inside the house, his gruff voice carrying through the open windows into the back courtyard, where I’m currently set up in the corner under the pink blossom tree with my easel and painting supplies.
“Out back,” I shout over my shoulder and turn back to my messed-up painting, tilting my head to figure out a way to fix it without throwing the whole thing away.
I am so focused on blending the colors, dabbing my brush into the blue and swirling it with a small amount of white, that Idon’t hear anyone walking up behind me. I’m streaking the thin brush over the canvas, across the clouds, and almost jump out of my skin when a throat clears behind me.
“Bloody hell!” I scream, the brush dropping from my mouth to land on the brick pavers by my feet as I swirl around with my hand over my chest as I try to catch my breath from fright.
“Language, my rose!” Da thunders under his breath at me, looking appalled as his eyes shift over to the left of my shoulder.
I spin on my heels, feeling a blush coming over my cheeks because I didn’t know I had an audience, and my mouth likes to run away from me before I can think. It doesn’t matter that I’m eighteen; it’s ingrained in me to act like a lady and not cuss like a sailor, even though I do anyway. Inga is going to be cross with me, scolding me if she catches wind of the words leaving my mouth, which will probably happen because I swear she can hear even a mouse let out a fart. Her hearing is extraordinary, really; I hated it growing up when I wanted to get into trouble and explore.
“S-sorry,” I stutter out, my cheeks turning warm as my eyes connect with ones so dark I can’t tell where his pupils begin or end.
The obsidian-colored eyes, framed by thick black lashes that blink slowly at me, evoke a surge of envy within my body. Firstly, his thick and long eyelashes make his eyes stand out even more. Secondly, he is probably the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life. He has smooth, tan skin that suggests he either spends all his time in the sun or is naturally that golden brown, with equally dark black hair to match his eyes, a long nose, and thick lips that stretch into a slow smile the longer I stare.
“Iris.” My Da’s voice sounds exasperated and more gruff with me, and it pulls my attention away from the beautiful man.
“Yes, Papa?” I turn to him and widen my eyes because my Da always melts at this look, and I use it well when I want something.
Queen of innocence over here. That’s me. I am not a daredevil at all.
Nope.
He lives in denial and still pictures me as his little girl who used to bring him wilted field flowers and make him play tea parties. I’m under contract that I’m not allowed to mention that to anyone, but the thought of him wearing a big hat to block out the sun and pretending to sip tea in the garden with me will always bring a smile to my face. When you see Danny O’Connor, you immediately start begging on your knees, wishing you hadn’t done whatever it is that might have upset him, even if you don’t know what that is. He is tall and stocky, with prominent muscles and a noticeable scowl between his thick red eyebrows. He always has a voice that matches the thunder, loud and booming. I’ve literally seen grown-ass men shake in their boots at the sight of him, but to me, he’s just my Da.
“Lord, have mercy on my soul,” my Da mutters to the heavens, pinching his big nose before letting his hand drop with a big gust of breath leaving his mouth, making his thick orange beard move as if in the wind, and he starts gesturing to the two men at his side, who are staring in amusement at his predicament. “Lass, I’d like you to meet my two new business partners. Emilio Messina and his son, Romeo Messina. You’ll be starting to see their faces around here more often.”
I try not to look at Emilio’s son while I shake his father’s hand. It’s obvious to me that he’s the older version of Romeo. He has the same tan skin, nose, and hair as Romeo, but he has streaks of grey at his temples and more wrinkles around his eyes, which are a lighter shade of brown. He’s quite handsome too, but not as magnetic as his son.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Messina.” I smile softly, but can’t help gripping his hand hard in a firm shake. I know what kind of company my Da keeps around, and they aren’t good men.
I’ve memorized every dangerous family in New York; it’s a long list, but the Messinas are definitely at the top. James, my brother, insisted I learn who’s who in the big game of the mafia so I know who to avoid and whose ass to kiss, but these lips will do no such thing. I’ll leave that to James if he wants to make a business deal and make our father proud. I shall live in my imaginary world where I can pretend life is grand and all I have to think about is why the sky is blue. Like my current painting, which is giving me a pain in my right butt cheek because the blue sky colors aren’t blending perfectly.
