Page 76 of A Game So Reckless

“It’s a political alliance,” I say, tension snapping throughout my back. My temples ache. “Nothing more.”

Nothing more but obsession come to fruition. Nothing more than needing to own her in all ways. Nothing more than maybe even losing myself in the process and knowing there’s nothing I can fucking do to change it now.

“I’ve warned you,” Grandda growls. “This is folly,mo gharmac. You’re already making deals for the Sicilians out east and you’re not even getting a piece of that action? And to top it all off, they’re paying you with a bride?” His voice goes hard. Hard as when he told me to get back up after he hit me. “I taught you better than that.”

Yeah, well. He never taught me what to do when your enemy’s daughter sinks her claws into you…

And never quite lets go.

“Like I said. It’s political.”

“You’re just like your da,” he spits out, and for too long a moment all I can see in my own reflection in the car window is my father’s mottled face above me, hanging from a beam. “I warned him, too. Just like I’ve warned you. Don’t do something stupid, Darragh.”

He hangs up just as Halifax appears in the distance.

I grip my phone so hard I’m half-surprised the glass doesn’t shatter and split open the side of my face. Lights and signs dance in the distance, but I barely see them with the rage smoking across my vision.

“Boss?” Rowan says a few minutes later when I’m still staring forward, still clutching my phone in a death grip against the side of my head. I snap my fingers open, knuckles cracking, and let the phone fall.

I don’t have the time – or the room in my head – for this shit.

I have a port to secure.

Chapter30

Valentina

“What was he doing in our house?”

It’s cloudy today, the sky heavy with an impending storm that promises to bring cooler weather. The grey light makes it look like it should just be past dawn, even though it’s close to ten in the morning, now. I’ve caught Papà just as he’s leaving the house for the day. He was gone all last night after Darragh’s sudden appearance in the kitchen, and I haven’t had a chance to confront him.

Until now.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific,” he says as he grabs a black umbrella from the stand near the front door.

“Darragh Gowan.”

Saying his name out loud – and to my own papà – feels borderline alarming. As if, by merely mentioning the man, everything that’s happened between us will suddenly be on vivid, humiliating display.

“Business. The fuck else you think?”

“Business,” I echo dully, feeling my eyes stretch wide. “Since when have you done business with him!”

It comes out accusatory. Nearly shrill. I cringe at myself, realizing that hysterical accusation is meant more for myself than it is my papà. I’m projecting my messiness all over him. Asking him when he started doing business with someone like Darragh when I should really be asking when I first thought it was acceptable to become as entangled in him as I am now.

“Since I run this fucking city, and I decide who I partner with!” He slams the end of the umbrella down against the marble, like a king with his sceptre. Then, he lifts it up and aims the end right at me. “You have no right to question me on this.Dio mio, if you weren’t my own flesh and blood…”

“What kind of business?” I ask, even though he’s just told me not to question him. I can’t help it. The gears in my head are all gummed up, smoking with friction, as I try to piece together what the hell sort of business Darragh could have with papà.

It’s like Darragh is extending his realm of influence beyond just the secret moments we’ve had together.

It’s like he’s closing in on all sides.

“The deal’s not officially done,” Papà says after a heavy pause. “I still half expect him to fuck it up. Or to fuck me somehow.” There’s a new, sudden depth to his gaze as it probes my face. Not anger now, but something more like a heavy pensiveness. “If things work out, I’ll let you know,” he finally says, strangely sombre and as cryptic as ever. “But it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with right now. Aren’t you planning some event?”

“The masquerade ball? Yeah. It’s in a little less than two weeks.”

Papà grunts, apparently satisfied with that response. And the successful subject change.

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