Page 2 of Iron Bride

Cillian

Four Days Later

“Red goes well with Green.” Randa’s crisp, pin-striped suit was as sharp as my own as we stood front and center, at the holiday altar of holly and berries.

She was remarking on my family name and the crimson decor that hung on every surface: red ribbons, red Christmas balls, and the red berries strung up above.

“Hmm,” I said, assessing the overdressed bishop who’d been carted in for the occasion. “A Christmas wedding. How nauseating.”

My fucking wedding day.

My parents had been planning this since I was two years old. Now that the appointed day had arrived, it felt oddly anti-climactic.

“Christ.” Randa lifted a single condescending brow. “We should change your name to Ebeneezer Green.”

“Bah, humbug!” I said quietly as we both chuckled at the procession of gowns and suits that paraded before us as the witnesses to this farce.

Randa, or Miranda O’Malley, was the daughter of my father’s favorite guard. Three years my junior, she was raised as family. Now, she was my right-hand man.

“Your mother is putting on a lovely event, Cillian,” Randa chided. “The least you can do is show some appreciation, you overgrown brat.”

Was she an unconventional choice for best man? Yes. But she was my only trusted friend. My brother, Riordan, tried to depose me at every turn. My sisters were as disinterested as could be, and as for other “friends”—well, they weren’t aware of thisshamof an engagement. One that was manufactured when we were still in diapers.

The people outside of the life weren’t privy to how medieval we were in these echelons.

“Appreciation?” I stared out into the crowd, where Riordan schmoozed with the District Attorney. “Thank you, Mum, for forcing me to stick my cock in the ice queen.”

I theatrically shuddered, and covered my nuts, as if they were shrinking from the cold.

“Gia’s really not that bad.” It was Randa’s same old song and tune. “If you’d take the time to know her.”

“She’s as frigid as a Serbian winter.” I was referring to the ice witch that was my fiancée. “And you don’t know her. You just spy on her.”

That was Randa’s gift. She had a network of backstabbers and spies that was unmatched. An intelligence network that clandestinely kept us in control.

“Truly, I wonder if I should abdicate the throne, and pass it to little Rio,” I joked. “Let him take the arctic bitch.”

I’d never give it up. Not now. Because the twerp was second. Second place, second to me. He was the first loser, and nothing more. I wouldneverlet him lead. Ever!

“Do you know why your fiancée came back to New York so suddenly?” Randa tilted her head, as if this was an interesting puzzle that would help us pass the time.

I hadn’t thought about it. I spent a lot of timenotthinking about Giovanna Eugenie Durante.

“I thought she was going to stay in Boston for a few more months.” Randa reached out and fidgeted with my pocket square, tugging at the corners where it had fallen limp.

“Is that right?” I faced Randa fully as we tilted our heads together in whispers.

“She packed up her apartment three months before her lease was up. As far as I can see, she hasn’t gone back to her mother’s house. I can’t track down where she’s been staying.” Randa clicked her tongue. “That’s not like her.”

My eyes flitted around the room, to the mix of Irish and Italian features that lingered, parted down the middle like they were the Red Sea.

The old war didn’t die when my father slit Eugenio Durante’s throat. It didn’t die when his granddaughter and I were betrothed. It was still alive and well, judging by the polarization of our wedding guests.

“She’s very steady and disciplined.” Was Randa impressed? “Not impulsive in the least.”

‘You mean icy and frigid?”

“Potato, po-tah-toe.”

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