Page 72 of Whiskey Kisses

Something small, warm and bright sparks in my chest.

“The queen’s the most powerful piece on the board. She can move in any direction and go anywhere she likes, but most importantly”—he leans in and whispers in my ear— “she has the power to checkmate the king.”

“Wait, are you the king in this scenario or is my dad?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Tristan leans his head back, his laugh echoing off the bathroom walls. “Your dad would be the enemy king, and you checkmated him when you married me,” he says, eyes shining in amusement. “But ifI’myour king in this little analogy, then I’m both the most important piece and the most vulnerable. You have to be smart and make the right moves to keep me safe.”

“I think I can do that.” I lock my ankles around his legs, bringing him in a little closer.

“I know you can,” he says.

If I thoughtthere were a lot of Boston boys before, it’s nothing compared to the cavalry that arrived earlier. Alex—Lucky’s best friend, apparently—came over with the guys that drove down yesterday. They’re staying close by; Tristan says they’ll be in town for as long as it takes to stabilize Doyle Whiskey’s new management.

There’s not enough fettuccine to go around, so I make the other two boxes in the pantry while Tristan sautés the rest of the garlic. Everyone lauds my culinary skills, which is hilarious, and there are no leftovers. Not one noodle.

We stay up late, drinking beer and playing cards while the boys talk shit and reminisce. It’s an interesting dynamic. Some of them are closer than others, but they all seem to have shared history. They have the kind of bond that comes from being on a team, being in the proverbial trenches together. Lots of inside jokes and references I suspect they keep veiled because of me.

They defer subtly to Tristan, but I infer by their conversations thatLucky’s the ringleader back home. Lucky kind of intimidated me with his snarky confidence when we were kids, but I liked him. Whereas Tristan was accessible and talkative, Lucky kept some distance. I remember feeling like he was more reserved with Maribelle than he was with any of us. Like he could see right through her.

I’m loading the dishwasher when the guys finally call it a night. Tristan and Malachi help me clean up, and then everyone goes their separate ways. I take a shower—solo, regrettably—and put on pajamas before climbing into bed with a book.

Tristan wanders in eventually, seeming distracted as he settles into bed with his phone. I try valiantly to read, but my mind is too busy and eventually I give up, putting down my book. Instead, I stare shamelessly at the man I married, admiring the topography of his profile. The plush curve of his lips; his slightly crooked nose, which may’ve been broken at some point; his long, dark eyelashes. His body. I’ve never been with a man that looks like this. I know it’s superficial, and beauty is skin deep, and it’s what’s inside that counts, but damn. I thrill every time I look at him. If he feels me staring like a creep, he doesn’t say anything. Who told him to come in here without a shirt?

“Maribelle called,” I say.

“What did she want?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the screen.

“She wants her share. What she would’ve gotten had Daddy not fucked everything up.”

“That can probably be arranged,” he agrees calmly. “She’s entitled to it.”

The stone of tension that lodged itself in my chest after Maribelle’s phone call dissolves. I didn’t realize how anxious I’d been about telling him. I shouldn’t have been. We might not be on the best terms with my sister, but Tristan understands family.

I reach up, tracing my finger along the scarred skin on his upper bicep. It’s hard to see with all of his tattoos, but once you notice it, it’s impossible to ignore.

“Tell me about this,” I say.

He sets his phone aside, silent as he seems to consider. “About a year and half back we had beef with a local Bratva outfit. It’d never been a problem, but then all of a sudden it was one thing after another,” he says, running his hand through his hair as he stares at the ceiling. “Interference in our operations, shipment losses that weren't making any sense, that kind of thing.”

He pauses, his eyes sliding to mine.

“Who are the Bratva?” I ask, because I think I know but I need him to be explicit.

“Russian mafia.”

My heart jackknifes as reality sinks in. I give a slow nod. “Okay.”

“It was getting more intense by the day, fights and shit. Anyway, Bria was Liam’s nanny back then, and Lucky had a security detail for them.” Tristan looks at me meaningfully. “He’d have had one for them even if nothing was going on, just because of who he is.”

Just like he insists on having one for me—he knows what could happen otherwise. It’s weird to think of Timmy as my detail, but that’s exactly what he is.

“Anyway, one morning they were ambushed outside Liam’s school. The bodyguard was killed, and Bria and Liam were taken.”

“Oh, my God,” I breathe, my heart in my throat. It’s so much worse than I could have imagined. “How old was Liam?”

“Four. But he had a smartwatch with a tracker, so the second they left the school, it alerted Lucky’s phone. He could see exactly where they were going.” Tristan scrubs his hand over his face. “He knew something was wrong, even though he wasn’t sure what. I’ve never seen him as scared as he was that day. It was fucking awful.Iwas scared.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, we rounded up a crew and tracked ‘em down. Surrounded the house, shot our way in, and got Bria and Liam back.”

“And you got shot in the process?”

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