“She’s at the church. Our priest took her, on orders from the bishop, back home from Scotland. This is my penance for making deals with the Italians.” He spits out his words, glaring up at me with glazed eyes as if he believes this is all my fault.
That hasn’t even crossed my mind, and I dismiss it, admittedly.
“You’re a fool, old man. From this day forward, she isn’t yours to take care of, and you’ll remember this moment each time you look in the mirror, you fucking coward. You don’t deserve her, handing her over on a silver platter. I’d rather die protecting her.” I shove him back in disgust, sneering at his drunken stupor and nodding at my second in command to get the men ready to meet us at the church.
Enzo nods in response and leaves the room with his phone to his ear. Gemma approaches Danny and spits at his feet before following our cousin out to the car.
“What are you going to do?” He grunts out in pain, a complete fucking mess as blood pools under his chair, but I don’t give a shit if he bleeds out.
“You lost my respect, O’Connor. I think I’ll be making her my wife a lot sooner than planned. You had your chance to get in my good graces by taking care of your daughter, but you failed. You better hope she’s still alive, or I’ll torture you for days and make sure you stay alive while you slowly bleed out.” He gapes up at me in shock and tries to stand, but he’s too fucking drunk and collapses back, breathing heavily.
“You have no right—” he starts, but I cut him off before he can finish.
“I have every right. She’s no longer your daughter. She will become my wife tonight. Goodbye, old man.” I straighten my suit jacket, cracking my neck as I turn around, ignoring his anguish-filled howls echoing through the house, and stride outside toward my future.
“I’m on my way, Kitten,” I say to myself, promising I’ll save her and make her mine in every way.
CHAPTER 7
IRIS
For once, I have the penthouse to myself without Inga hovering over me, and it feels like absolute freedom I haven’t realized I’ve been missing. I have the speakers turned up so loud that I can feel the vibrations under my feet on the hardwood flooring. It’s fortunate that the penthouse is very isolated; otherwise, I would likely have the police at my door for a noise disturbance. A Stevie Nicks song plays from each surround sound speaker, about her ex being an asshole, which happens to be my favorite one. I dim the lights just as I pop open the wine. I want to live in the dark right now, dance with the shadows to music while drinking a glass of wine, acting like a complete lush, but I don’t give a fuck. For once, this is my world, and I’ll do what I want. No one can see me anyway.
‘All American Rejects,’ ‘Hope It Gives You Hell,’ comes on next, and I can’t resist grabbing the remote to sing the lyrics into it as loud as I can.
When you see my face, I hope it gives you hell.
I’m full-on belting out the lyrics drunkenly, practically on my knees, and the image ofhimpops into my head.
Freaking Romeo Messina.
If he ever sees my face again, I do hope it gives him hell.
I gulp back the rest of my wine from the wineglass and trade it for the bottle as my favorite and worst song comes on. Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls. This song kills me, but I feel so fucking much inside my heart with the lyrics as if the song was meant for me.
I settle down on the fur rug in front of the fireplace and stifle a cry into my wine bottle as the words hit me hard in the core.
You’re the closest to Heaven that I’ll ever be, and I don’t wanna go home right now.
At that point, I’m sobbing into my bottle as I tip it back, not caring as the sweet red wine drips down my chin and onto my long nightshirt. I’m drowning in my sorrows, and it can get messy. Thank God no one can see this shitshow.
“You need to get yourself together, Iris. It’s been years; it’s time to move on,” I slur to myself, feeling slightly dizzy as I hug the bottle to my chest and sway on my butt for the rest of the song.
When the music stops, my bottle is empty, and I’m having a drunken pity party by myself. Even Sofia abandoned me long ago when the dancing started; my poor dog is probably frightened of me now.
“Sofia. Girl. Come cuddle with Mommy. I need a cuddle!” I cry out loud, trying to get to my feet to go find her to apologize for being a lush, but I just end up back on my ass as I stumble.
I may have drunk too much.
“Yes. You have, but don’t worry, Pet. I’m here to take care of you.” The deep, sinful voice, smooth like silk, penetrates my ears with the softest of whispers, causing me to stop breathing for a second and turn my head toward the sound that haunts me every day but leaves me craving more. Just one more word that I can carry with me in my memory even when it hurts. Maybe this is all a dream, and I’m peacefully in bed while Inga is on the otherside of the penthouse sleeping too, instead of visiting her sister for the night.
But that can’t be right. Although the music has stopped playing, I still feel the sticky residue of wine on my chin and chest, and I can hear even the smallest hum from the fridge in the kitchen. So why am I hearing his voice? It sounds so clear I’d almost swear he’s in the same room as me. My breathing picks up with my heartbeat; a glimmer of hope hits me, but also anger. I harbor deep-seated anger towards him. How can one person crave someone so much it literally hurts to go without them but still want to carve their eyeballs out with a rusted spoon for hurting you?
“Romeo?” I whisper in the quietness, the one word coming out slurred and longing even to my own ears.
I strain to listen for the faintest sound, and I swear I pick up calm, soothing sounds of breathing that aren’t mine. As I inhale deeply, the scent of leather, with a hint of cinnamon and a distinct masculinity, overwhelms me. It’s the same scent from the elevator, and it now makes sense why it smelled so familiar and filled me with a rush of desire.
“I know you’re here.” I slur my words, yet my voice comes out strong.
