Page 28 of Bargain with the Irish Devil

He has two grocery stores focusing on Russian food, one a luxury place and another for the plebians. It’s a cover for bringing in weapons, but they have also made him as rich as his non-legitimate business. I would have thought his office would be out of one of those places, but despite the silk suits in all black he’s forever in—he feels no need to flaunt his wealth the way some men in our business do.

I’m small compared to him. He’s in the billion-dollar range. The twenty percent of his business I clear in a year is likely what he does in a month or two tops. Yet Milos never remarks upon it. The way the Outfit member we used to buy from did every time I sawhis ass. Neither Tony nor Dom handled guns, so they referred him to me.

One thing about the mafia that’s barely blinked at is how racist it is. The Irish are no better than blacks to an Italian. Except Tony and Dom weren’t, and they had no patience for those who were. Dom was at the last deal I did with his associate and called a halt to the buy. Told his fellow capo to fuck off, and we left. He told me he was hooking me up with Milos. Milos was where his associate got the weapons—it would be cheaper, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the bullshit.

At the time, I steered clear of the Bratva, thinking they weren’t a whole lot better than the Serbians. Dom shook his head, telling me Milos was far more civilized than that. But if crossed, they were extremely violent and had no problem killing everyone, from a child down to the family dog, to make a point. Meeting Milos, I read that within him—a willingness to order a death without having a single thought after it was taken. We recognized it within each other. In the years since, respect has grown between us.

After we enjoyed lunch, he brought me into his office. He hands over a plastic bag, and I hand him the cash.

“The source said no more than twelve months of treatment is recommended. Apparently, it’s linked to ovarian cancer. And after a year, they move onto a different drug or treatment.” He shakes his head. “But he was still willing to supply me with sixteen months. In case you need to use it for more kids later. Another tip he provided was that a woman is often most fertile after giving birth. The six months after she delivers would be the best time to try again if you’re good with having kids so close together. Although the longer you can give her to recover from all the things pregnancy does to a woman’s body—the better for her and the child.”

Another shake of his head. “Good luck with all of this. I had no idea you married. If I did something to not receive an invitation?—”

“No, I’m not married—yet. I’m hoping this will give me the time I need for her to see it’s not as dangerous as she fears this world is and give us the shot we deserve.”

An eyebrow lifts. “You Irish. You have far more patience when it comes to personal matters. If you want the woman, you take her. If she wants you enough to want to fuck you, then the battle is half won. Keep her, and she’ll accept it eventually.”

I chuckle at his advice. “That’s called Stockholm Syndrome. And when they eventually come out of it, they’ll run hard and fast. There’s a difference between acceptance and love. It has to be their choice in the end. Otherwise, you’ll never truly have them. A woman’s heart isn’t the easiest to win, but once you have it—it’s forever for them unless they find out you betrayed them. My hope is that she won’t see this as a betrayal, merely an extension of what we both want, a forever with the other in it.”

CHAPTER 9

Miranda

When I wake up, I’m alone. I smell him on the pillow and burrow my face in it—I’m so fucked. I hate him so fucking much. He’s crawled inside where I thought I was going to be safe. Maybe if he had kicked down the door, I could have held strong, but he did it before I even knew it was done.

He was sneaky, telling me not to talk down on myself. Making me food to eat. Kicking out his psycho cat because it scratched me. Taking care of the scratch down on his knees. His honesty even when I hoped I was wrong—when I wanted him to lie to me. I needed him to lie so I could call him a liar and use it to keep my heart from him. Instead, he told me the truth.

I begged him to tell me that one day I wouldn’t feel like he was more important than the air my lungs needed to breathe. Instead, he told me he didn’t know because he’d never felt this way. Then he wrapped his arms around me and held me like he never wantedto let me go. The strong pounding of his heart beneath my ear was all I heard, all I felt. I wanted to melt into him until there was no skin separating us.

From that first night, I was in trouble. I should have run when I saw those men on my porch. Run and never looked back… Because now I don’t want him to let me go. Even if he doesn’t touch me, there will always be a before Declan and an after him.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost eleven. Oh my god. How is that possible?

I’m up and moving slow. God, I hate this time of the month. While I’m aware there are women out there who have it worse, I loathe it. For the first three days, the cramping and blood always make me nauseous until I only want to curl into a ball and not move—even with the over-the-counter pain stuff. When Aoife saw how bad I was, after she gave me the off-the-shelf stuff, she said fuck that and gave me something stronger.

At first, I told her no. She rolled her eyes, promising me that I wouldn’t get hooked on them because she wouldn’t allow me to. Declan didn’t touch drugs. They weren’t opioids—she had them from her doctor for her arthritis. I looked them up while she rolled her eyes and saw she was right.

She’d had me break it apart, for then and when I went to bed. Once I took it, I was almost in tears at the pain relief.

I want to blame the nightmare that brought Declan into my room on the pain pill, but it wasn’t why. It was from how badly I wanted to give in. What’s embarrassing is if I weren’t on my period—I would. The way Declan told me again and again, he didn’t care if I was. He didn’t find it gross. Michael had taken to sleeping in another room while I was on my period, it bothered him so much.

Downstairs, I find only Colm in the kitchen eating a sandwich. He jumps up. “I?—”

“Please quit acting like I’m Medusa and you’re terrified to meet my eyes. I won’t tell Declan you looked my way. You’re really giving me a complex.” I complain as I begin making coffee.

“Yes, ma’am.” I roll my eyes. At least he’s saying something to me. “Aoife isn’t in to cook today. It’s a Sunday and her off day. She made quiche last night like she promised. And there are a few meals she pre-made in the freezer. Or you can call something in. Declan said you weren’t to work today. He has things to see to and will be home for dinner. He’ll call my phone and ask you what you want before he leaves the pub.”

I roll my eyes again. “I’ll work?—”

“Ma’am, please don’t. He said if you were to work, then he’d be restraining you when he got home and giving your behind a firm spanking. I’ll be forced to carry you up to your room and lock you in the way he told me. Please don’t make me. On account of he also told me that I wasn’t to touch you or he’d kill me. He might be my cousin, and there’s love between us. But I don’t recognize him when it comes to you, so I’m trying not to die today.” He’s completely serious.

“Oh, for fucks sake, fine. I’ll eat and then go up to my room. This is the stupidest fucking…” And he’s left the room. Whatever.

It’s almost seven before there’s a knock on my door. “Ma’am. It’s Declan calling for you.”

“Tell him that I want him to fuck off and leave me alone,” I shout, angry at everyone.

Colm is quiet for a minute. “Ma’am, please don’t make me say that.”

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