Page 13 of My Irish Mafia King

“No, hell no,” he says. “I’m saying things are complicated. Yesterday, that dress highlighted how beautiful you looked. But you look gorgeous every single day, Lucy. Every time I walk in here, it’s a battle not to…”

“Go on,” I say again, my voice breathier this time.

“I shouldn’t,” he growls.

“Why? Have you got a girlfriend? Yesterday, you asked if I have a boyfriend. I don’t. But you never told me if you’re spoken for.”

“I don’t. I’m not.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Perfect as usual.”

I smile shakily.

“If I upset you yesterday, just know, if I had a choice, I would’ve done things differently,” he says earnestly.

“You’re not making any sense. You’re not spoken for… but you don’t have a choice? Is it because we knew each other before?”

“Come again?”

“Lost as a child in Ireland, you carried me to that cave, made me laugh, and helped me forget my asshole dad was chasing my mom across the country. When you made living seem worthwhile and gave me the ring and, the rain stopped, called me your lucky charm. Maybe you think it’s weird.”

“No, it’s not that,” he says. “I’m just not in a position to start a relationship. And I don’t think I could keep things casual with you.” He chuckles.

“What’s funny?”

“I need to relax. I didn’t come in here thinking I’d say any of this. I just needed to see you.”

“You’re not making any sense. You need to see me—you think I’m beautiful… but we can’t even go on a date. I can’t even believe we’re talking like this. I didn’t think you even liked me?—”

When Clover barks from upstairs, a bolt of pure terror strikes through me. I look at the ceiling, imagining all kinds of horrors. Quickly, I take out my phone and check the dog camera. The woman, the prisoner, is sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of Clover’s toys, a somehow hopeless smile on her face, like she can’t dare to let herself feel happiness even for a moment.

On the couch, Shane sits with the pistol casually aimed at them.

“Something’s wrong,” Killian says when I slip my phone in my pocket.

“I’m fine,” I say, standing.

He bolts to his feet, gripping my wrist before I can turn away. “What’s going on?” he demands. “Don’t tell me you’re fine. Or that it’s nothing. Is your dog sick?”

“What’s gotten into you?” He seems like he’s on the verge of an explosion.

“I learned some bad news recently. Maybe helping you would help me. Talk to me, Lucy.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, annoyed with myself when his image distorts, my eyes shimmering with tears.

“Woah… Lucy…”

He takes my other wrist and pulls me toward him. There are other people in The Celtic Crust—it’s not a huge bakery—but it’s like they all cease to exist.

“If I tell you,” I whisper, “I’ll be putting you in danger. You’re a good person, but you can’t do anything against…”

“Tell. Me.” He takes my hands, squeezing them encouragingly.

“The mob,” I whisper.

His expression drops, the light draining from his eyes. He lets my hands go and stares at me like he’s pissed I said anything, like he wishes he could turn back time a few seconds and make it so I never spoke.

“The mob?” he growls. “What are you talking about?”

I shake my head. “Killian, maybe you should stop coming by here.”

---