Page 2 of Savage Bratva King

“Good Samaritan to the rescue.” Cartier links her arm with mine and drags me towards Customs.

“No way I was touching his tighty-whities.” Mika flexes her fingers and takes my other arm.

“Well, this is it.” I pull my arms free and turn to face them, a sense of cold dread puddling inside me.

Since the day my father requested my return to Chicago, I’ve tried convincing myself that if I think the worst, then the reality can only be better. Can’t it?

I mean, Seamus isn’t an ogre. Well, he isn’t green, and he doesn’t live in a swamp, but he isn’t exactly unpleasant on the eye; he just isn’t the guy I’d have chosen for myself. If choosing for myself was an option. The real problem is that I’m not in love with him.

I’m not in love with anyone else either, so it isn’t like my heart is breaking at the thought of vowing to love him till death do us part. But one day, I might’ve fallen in love with someone else. I might’ve met my soulmate in a dog shelter in the Greek islands, or while feeding sharks in the Bahamas, or at an elephant sanctuary in Thailand, but all these opportunities have been snatched away from me before I’ve even had a chance to experience life.

Because of our family.

Family first and always, even for the youngest daughter.

Even for the youngest daughter who has expressed her desire to stay out of the family business. I guess an alliance with the Irish mob means more than a career spent working with vulnerable women and animals. I can already picture Seamus’s response when I tell him that I want to set up a women’s refuge in Chicago. “Yeah, right. Oh, you’re serious. Like you want me to care about people?”

“Stay in touch, Gi.” Cartier pulls me in for another hug.

“There’ll be fucking hell to pay if you don’t.” Mika buries my face in her faux-fur coat. “We’ll be on the first plane to Chicago to whip your sorry ass straight back here.”

I’m going to miss this banter and laughter and friendship.

“I will. I promise.”

And I mean it, I do. I’m just not sure how Seamus will feel about having my colorful friends come to visit his rambling mansion, or how I’ll ever explain my reservations to them when they see the kind of wealth I already have and am marrying into.

I walk away from them and don’t look back. I flash my fake passport at the guard working the security gate and head through to the departure lounge with the sinking realization that this will probably be the last time I ever see my friends.

I find an uncomfortable plastic seat and wait with every other economy class traveler for the digital board to announce the boarding gate number. My father protested about me traveling cattle-class, but this is the only time he has ever lost an argument since my mom died. Even my sister Mel fought in my corner and convinced him that blending in makes perfect sense. Who’s going to notice a young woman traveling alone wearing a patchwork coat picked up from a thrift store and practical footwear?

I keep my head down. I sense excitement, anticipation, homesickness and anxiety oozing from the pores of everyone around me. Everyone has a story. But I’d wager that none has a story quite like mine. It doesn’t make me extraordinary though, does it?

The women we help at the refuge are extraordinary. They’re survivors. They’ve been defeated, destroyed and systematically dismantled piece by piece by men who would rather speak with their fists than their tongues, and yet they get back up and they keep right on fighting. Because the alternative is lying down and giving up, and they refuse to let violence win.

Ha! if they only knew…

When the gate is finally announced, I shuffle onto the shuttle bus to the waiting aircraft, file on board, and find my seat. I’m next to the window. It means that I can stare at the clouds without having to pretend to be asleep to avoid making small talk with the person in the next seat.

Who almost lands on top of me while he’s trying to stow his carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment. “I’m so sorry.” He uses the back of the seat to regain his balance, a smile appearing on his face when he recognizes me from the check-in area.

“Hi.” I raise my hand in an almost-wave and gesture at the open locker above our heads. “At least your bag stayed intact this time.”

“Well, so far, so good.” He stands in front of his seat so that other passengers can pass him by and gets his arm stuck in his jacket as he tries to shrug it off. The jacket gets shoved in the overhead compartment, and the bag comes back out. He rummages around inside it for a packet of Swedish Fish and a book, zips it back up, and then finally sits down.

It’s exhausting just watching him. He’s the kind of guy who seems to be fidgeting even when he’s apparently sitting still.

“Candy?” He rips open the packet spilling colored fish into his lap. He mutters to himself as he picks them up, and when I decline, says, “I can’t say I blame you. I don’t really like them myself, but my ears pop if I don’t suck on something during take-off and landing.” His cheeks grow inflamed when he realizes what he said. “If I don’t suck on candy, I mean. If I don’t have something to keep my mouth occupied.”

I can’t help chuckling.

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll shut up now and let you enjoy your flight in peace.”

“I’m not sure that enjoy is the right word.”

He wrinkles his nose and peers around at the other passengers trying to get comfortable in the cramped space assigned to them. The man across the aisle stretches his legs underneath the seat in front of him. The woman behind me pulls the laminated information from the seat pocket and reads it. Everyone handles the impending flight in their own way.

“Lucky bastards who get to travel first class, huh?”

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