Brutal Vows, page 2
And come face-to-face with the young man standing inside.
Hiding inside between a mink coat and a beaded evening gown, shrinking back as far as he can against the back wall.
He’s good-looking, I’ll give her that. With liquid brown eyes, full lips, and a chest that could be featured on magazine covers, the boy is undeniably attractive.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight white briefs, through which his erection is clearly visible.
He can’t be more than eighteen.
I slowly close the wardrobe door. Then I turn back to Lili.
She stands with her arms crossed over her chest and her lips pulled between her teeth, her shoulders rounded. If she had a tail, it would be tucked between her legs.
I say quietly, “You know what would happen if your father discovered this.”
She doesn’t bother with lame denials. She simply nods.
But it has to be said aloud. Things gain a certain gravitas when they’re spoken.
“He would kill him, Lili. Whoever he is, the boy standing in this wardrobe would die. Slowly. Painfully. And most likely, you’d be made to watch.”
Lili’s eyes well with tears. She nods again, swallowing hard, her face contorted with misery. She whispers, “I know.”
My heart breaks for her.
She’s a fool. A young, reckless fool, but I understand her completely.
I was young once, too. I had dreams once, too. I had needs and desires and a wide open future that stretched out ahead of me like a golden, glimmering dream.
Until all the beautiful dreams were destroyed by the cold, killing weight of a wedding ring.
I gather her into a hug, pulling her close and wrapping my arms around her shoulders.
“I don’t know how you got him in here,” I murmur into her ear, “but make sure no one sees you when you get him out. I can buy you ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but no more. Meet me in your father’s office. Wear your blue dress, the one with the pearl buttons. Smile and look sweet. Let me do the rest. Deal?”
Nodding, she sniffles. “Deal. Thank you, zia.”
Hearing voices drifting up from the courtyard below, I release Lili and hurry to the bedroom windows. I nudge aside the curtain and peer out.
Below on the circular driveway, a shiny black Escalade is parked in front of the fountain. Two of my brother’s armed guards stand several feet away from a man I don’t recognize.
He’s big and barrel-chested, larger than both of the guards, but he has a friendly smile and manner. Clad in a black suit and shiny black oxfords, he cuts an imposing figure.
The guards and the man continue to speak. One of the guards pats him down, searching for weapons, then all three of them nod. The guards step back, the driver rounds the car and opens the passenger door, and another man clad in black exits the vehicle.
My breath catches.
This man is leaner than the first. Just as tall and wide-shouldered, but not as bulky. A quarterback to the other’s defensive lineman.
His hair is dark gold. It looks carelessly styled, as if he dragged his fingers through it instead of using a comb. His beard is a darker shade, closer to bronze, covering an angular jaw. One of his nostrils is pierced with a small metal ring.
He’s incredibly handsome. Half aristocrat and half bare-knuckled street fighter, he exudes a kind of raw, brutal power, unmistakable even from this distance.
Clearly visible above the collar of his starched white dress shirt is a spiderweb tattoo.
He glances up at the window and catches me staring.
Our eyes lock.
My heart skips a beat.
And in that instant, I know with dark certainty that I’m gazing into the eyes of the man who will tear my family to shreds.
2
Spider
I get only a glimpse of the woman in the window before the curtains fall back into place and she disappears, but the image of her is seared onto my retinas.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
And eyes that glittered silver in the afternoon sun like the flash of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.
She can’t be Liliana, the lass I’m here to meet. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has a sweet, innocent face. A shy, lovely smile.
The woman in the window looks like she’d only smile if she were slitting your throat.
Mindful of the armed guards, I say in Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”
Standing beside me, he follows my gaze and looks up at the blank window. “Aye. Why?”
“Who else lives here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”
She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes.
She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle.
“This way,” says the guard nearest to me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the circular driveway into an interior courtyard.
Dismissing the thought of the mystery woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked on either side by towering marble columns.
The main house looms over us, three sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.
Inside the main foyer, the décor becomes even more ostentatious.
Naked cherubs frolic with hairy satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble, the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to water from the kaleidoscope glare of stained-glass windows.
Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”
He’s right. It’s fucking awful.
I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”
I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.
He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder-blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.
His cologne reaches me before he does.
His smile is blinding.
I hate him on sight.
“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”
He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.
Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclets teeth of his.
“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.
“Sir.”
“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.
Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Until she walks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is.
I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
“Mr. Quinn, Kieran,” says Caruso, gesturing to each of us in turn, “this is my sister, Reyna.”
I’m on my feet before I consciously make the decision to rise. Kieran stands, too, murmuring a greeting.
Reyna returns his hello and smiles at him, but when she turns her gaze to me, her smile dies.
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.”
It sounds like I’m going to eat your spleen for supper.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or ask what her bloody problem is, but go with a neutral greeting instead.
“Good afternoon to you, Ms. Caruso.”
My gaze drops to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s encircled by a small black tattoo, some wording in cursive too tiny to read from where I’m standing. “Or is it Mrs. something?”
I glance back up at her face to find her stony gaze turned to withering heat.
It’s a look that could melt steel. I’ve never seen such hot, wordless fury. It makes the burning lakes of fire in the deepest pits of hell look like cozy bubble baths in comparison.
All that heat and hate she’s blasting at me goes straight to my dick, which throbs in excitement.
Figures. The fucker only ever wants what he can’t have.
When she doesn’t answer my question long enough to make it uncomfortable, her brother answers for her.
“My sister is a widow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Like a switch has been thrown, all the heat in her eyes cools to ice. “Thank you.”
She turns and walks stiffly to the windows behind her brother’s desk, where she gazes out with her arms folded over her chest, sending a wintry chill over the courtyard below.
I’m surprised the windowpanes don’t crackle with frost from her nearness.
Kieran and I share a look, then take our seats again.
Caruso says, “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?”
Kieran declines. But I think I’m going to need liquid fortification to get through this meeting, so I accept.
From a bottom desk drawer, Caruso removes two cut crystal glasses and a carafe of ruby-colored liquor I assume is wine. By the time I’ve swallowed a mouthful of the bitter shite, it’s too late.
It sears a path down my windpipe, singeing all my nose hairs in its wake.
Caruso smiles at me with toothy anticipation. “It’s Campari. You’ve had it before?”
A shake of my head is all I can manage. If I tried to speak, I’d retch.
Over her shoulder, Reyna throws me a glance. She sees the look of disgust on my face and quickly turns back to the window, but not before she can hide her small, satisfied smile.
Maybe I’ll burn the house down after I marry the daughter. The neighbors would thank me, no doubt.
Caruso’s still rattling on about the Campari, how it’s famous in Italy, blah blah fucking blah, but I interrupt him to ask when I’ll meet Liliana.
“Oh. Yes. Liliana.”
For a moment, he looks disoriented, like he lost the plot. But he pulls himself together and plasters on his shite-eating grin again. “She’ll be right down.”
He turns slightly toward Reyna for confirmation.
She remains silent but nods.
In his smarmy politician’s way, Caruso says, “In the meantime, Mr. Quinn, allow me to extend my gratitude to both you and Mr. O’Donnell for the visit. I’m looking forward to getting to know both of you better as we join our families—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I interrupt, setting the glass of foul liquid onto his desk. “After I meet your daughter, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about the future. As of right now, this deal hasn’t been inked.”
“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice subdued. “Please forgive me.”
Reyna turns from the window again, this time to send her brother an outraged, tight-lipped glare.
She’s thinking he’s a pussy for acting so weak. In his own bloody house, no less.
She’s right.
I rise from my chair, gazing at her. “Actually, I’d like to speak with your sister first for a few minutes. Alone.”
Caruso looks startled by the request.
Reyna looks like she’s wondering where the nearest hatchet is so she can bury it in my skull.
I have no idea why this woman hates me so much, but it’s starting to get annoying.
Regardless of what my dick thinks about her, she’s pissing me off.
Kieran stands, already knowing my request will be granted. Caruso follows, sending a nervous look in Reyna’s direction.
“Certainly. We’ll give you a moment. Kieran, why don’t I show you my collection of Fabergé eggs?”
With a straight face, Kieran says, “Can’t think of anything better, mate.”
They leave. As soon as the door closes behind them, I look at Reyna. “All right. You’ve obviously got something to say to me. Say it.”
She turns from the window, blinking. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you mean.”
Her hand rests at the base of her throat. Her eyes are wide and guileless. She’s the picture of innocence, and she’s entirely full of shite.
I say, “Too late, woman. I’ve already seen the swamp witch you’re trying to hide under that human skin suit you’re wearing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not as good an actress as you think.”
She stares at me in blistering silence for a few seconds, then says icily, “Number one: don’t call me woman like it’s a pejorative. It’s not. Number two: if you’re not bright enough to know what the word pejorative means, ask your sidekick. He seems like he might have actually read a book once. Number three—”
“Will this take long? I’ve got a meeting to get through.”
Her nostrils flare. Her lips thin. Her body trembles with impotent fury, and I think I’m starting to have fun.
She says tightly, “Number three: I have nothing to say to you.”
“No?” I let my gaze travel the length of her body, down and back up again, relishing every dangerous curve. “Because it bloody sure seems like you do.”
With what appears to be a huge effort of will, Reyna holds back whatever vitriol is burning the tip of her tongue. She smooths a hand over her dark hair, straightens her shoulders, and forces a tight smile.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“But it won’t be pleasant.”
“I doubt you’re capable of pleasantries, wee viper.”
Her eyes flash. “Insulting me won’t win you any points.”
“I’m not the one here who needs to win points.”
That makes her even angrier. Her cheeks turn scarlet. “Why are you deliberately baiting me?”
“Because you’re better than your brother,” I say, holding her infuriated gaze. “You don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not. Now talk to me. I need to know why you’re so angry, and I won’t get the truth from him.”
She’s taken aback by the compliment and by my forthrightness, both of which she obviously wasn’t expecting.
I get the feeling there isn’t much she doesn’t anticipate, so that’s gratifying.
When she doesn’t speak for too long, I prompt, “You don’t like that I’m Irish.”
“I’m not that petty or prejudiced,” she says crossly. “I don’t judge people by where they were born.”
The way she says it, I believe her. She’s genuinely insulted by the suggestion.
Which is interesting, considering most of her kin would rather be burned alive than befriend an Irishman.
Our families might do business together when it suits us, but it’s a point of pride that we hate each other’s guts.
“So what, then?”
She gazes at me in silence, measuring me up. Then she shakes her head.
“You know I can’t possibly be honest with you. There’s too much at stake for my family.”
“There’s too much at stake if you’re not honest with me.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll walk out of here without meeting Liliana and without looking back, because there are plenty of other lasses in the Cosa Nostra who’ll happily spread their legs for me and gain advantage for their families if she doesn’t.”
She stares at me. Her eyes are an unusual color, a pale greenish-gray, like a mermaid might have.
On a woman without the urge to murder me and bury my dismembered body in a shallow grave, they could be mesmerizing.
“I hate you for saying that.”
“Add it to your list.”
My smirk is the thing that finally breaks her.
“Fine. You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. My niece is a good girl. She deserves so much better than to be sold off to the highest bidder without a damn say in the matter. She deserves so much better than a man who’d marry for money, position, or power. She deserves to be loved, cherished, and respected for everything she is. What she doesn’t deserve is to not have a voice. Or a choice. Or a life of her own!”
“What makes you assume she won’t have a life of her own if we’re married?”
Reyna blinks. Once. Slowly. As if what I’ve just said is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.
“Or that I wouldn’t respect her?”
She quirks her lips. “Now you’re toying with me, Mr. Quinn.”
“Spider.”
After a beat of confusion, she says, “Pardon?”
“Call me Spider.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because it’s my name.”
She laughs. It’s a lovely sound. It also seems to surprise her, because she stops laughing abruptly, looking as if she has no idea how she allowed something so pleasant to pass her lips.
