Page 42 of Stolen Rival
I hope not. Two influential families might’ve been wiped out in the last couple of weeks, but in our business, there are always more threats waiting in the wings. Although it’ll take a while before any of them have enough strength and depth in their ranks to mount a real challenge.
Sorcha picks up her case. I peel it from her fingers, pick up mine, too, and exit through the front door. My car and driver are already outside waiting for us. I hand him our luggage andhold the door open for Sorcha. Once she’s situated, I close it, walk round the boot, and get in the other side.
Once our belts are snapped into place and the car noses through the gates, I turn to look at her.
“Do you have any questions about our trip?”
“No.”
“Just take your lead from me and you’ll be fine.”
Without responding, she looks out the window. A ripple of irritation settles under my skin. I prefer her talking back to this silent treatment she seems to have decided is her new strategy.
Reaching into my pocket, I withdraw my phone. “I have something to show you.”
Given this compliant little wife routine she’s playing, I probably don’t need to do this, but it won’t hurt to score the line in the sand a little deeper. I pull up the feed and show her my phone screen. Her eyes flare as she takes in the livestream video of her brother’s room at his care home, and the burly man stationed beside his bed as he sleeps.
“Who’s that?” She can’t hide the fear in her voice. Good. A healthy dose of fear is exactly what I need and expect.
“I thought as we weren’t going to be here for a few days, it was a good idea to give your brother a little more… protection.”
“Protection, or endangerment?”
A smile pulls at my lips. “That all depends on you,mo mhuirnín. If things go well with my cousin, and you play your part, then Cathal gets to make a new friend. On the other hand, if you were getting any ideas to fuck up several months of planning, all it will take is one phone call and…” I draw my forefinger across my throat.
She swallows, her throat bobbing with the effort. “I told you I understand what’s expected of me.”
“Good.” I return my phone to my pocket and reachfor her hand, settling it on my thigh. She flexes her fingers, her shoulders tightening. “Lesson number one. Flinching when your husband touches you doesn’t send the right message. You have seven hours to eliminate that reaction, which you’re perfectly capable of considering you consented to my kiss at our wedding. I suggest you start practicing now.”
She blinks several times and, biting her lip, spends the rest of the journey staring out of the window.
She doesn’t pull her hand from mine, though. I call that progress.
Chapter 22
PATRICK
Emerginginto the arrivals hall at JFK airport, I glance around, seeking the driver Dylan promised to send to pick us up and take us to his mansion on the shore of the Hudson River. It’s been some time since I’ve been on this side of the pond, but it’s somewhere I’ll have to spend a lot more time once I inherit Dylan’s business interests and extensive wealth, although Ireland will always be home.
A white sign withMahoneyin thick black lettering stands out from the crowd. Keeping a tight hold on Sorcha, I weave through the hordes toward the man dressed in a black suit, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. I almost laugh at the stereotypical mafioso. With that getup, he could audition for a role inThe Godfather.
As we approach, he lowers the sign and stuffs it underneath his arm, then holds out his hand. “Mr. Mahoney, sir. Right this way.”
Spinning on his heel, he beelines for the exit. An imposing Escalade with blacked-out windows is double-parked right outside the terminal building. A parking attendant approaches,their expression one of glee, but whatever our driver says has them hurrying away.
It pays to be powerful.
Our driver opens the rear door and takes our luggage to the boot. I motion to Sorcha to get in first. She does without question, continuing the silent treatment she kept up for the entire flight where she spoke only when spoken to.
Once our seat belts are fastened and the driver pulls out into a constant stream of traffic, earning a blare on the horn of an approaching vehicle, I activate the privacy screen and twist toward my wife.
“This monosyllabic attitude is wearing thin.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and her fingers clutch her handbag a bit tighter. “I thought you wanted a compliant wife.”
“I do.”
“Then I’m not sure what your problem is.”
