Page 16 of Stolen Rival
I take the only glimmer of solace left, my privacy. I crawl to the still-open door, swinging it closed with a dull thud. Pressing my back against it, I hug my knees to my chest, ignoring the tugging wound on my torso.
My options are to survive here under Patrick’s rule, or… what?
My throat dries up. Agony blooms in every space in my body, making it hard to breathe. I’ve never been a depressed person, I’ve never wanted to die, but sitting in the darkness of this fortress, it’s a thought that crosses my mind.
Shame spreads across my skin like a flesh-eating bacterium. Da always used to go on and on about how precious life is and how it shouldn’t be wasted. That I should live mine to the fullest because Mammy wasn’t here to live hers.
But how? How am I supposed to survive this without my family to help me? They might have been misogynistic arseholes with antiquated views on a woman’s place in the organization, but they were my flesh and blood. And nowthey’re gone.
I can’t do this without them.
I could break another window and throw myself to my death, but that sounds like a horrible way to go. And what if I don’t die? What if I end up paralyzed? I’d rather overdose, but it’s not like there’s a convenient stack of meds at my disposal.
For a moment I stare at the bedsheets. I could make them into a noose, but what would I tie them to? The light fixture?
Worth a shot.
Humiliation envelops my body as I work. Born and raised Catholic, even though I’m non-practicing anymore, I know this shouldn’t be my thought process. And yet, the lure of not being here at his mercy outweighs the fear of being at God’s mercy. Surely God will understand, right? He knows what a raging prick Patrick Mahoney is. He’s far more likely to offer me forgiveness than the arsehole downstairs.
But what happens to Cathal? If he’s even still alive out there. The care facility would look after him, right? He’d become a ward of the state; the government will pay for his treatment and care. If he made it through the Mahoney murder spree, someone would watch over him. They’d have to.
But what if they don’t?
Panic seizes me, and my body thrashes in sharp, jerky movements. A couple of seconds later, the light fixture gives way under my body weight. We both tumble to the ground in a muffled crash thanks to the bedsheet twisted around my body.
I can’t even kill myself right. I am utterly useless. My last ember of hope snuffs out. He really does control everything, even whether I live or die.
My chest is so tight the only reason I know I’m still breathing is because I’m aware of the bone-deep despair consuming my body. Wave after wave of body-shaking tears fall from my eyes as I hug my knees.
Being the only daughter of the head of a sexist mafia family was brutal. So many rules, so many secrets, so much death. But this… this is far worse. Being here, trapped without any allies, without a single living blood relative that I know of… being completely alone and not knowing how to fight, it’s a crushing pressure that makes my ribs hurt.
I’m not as cunning as Tiernan, or as strong as Ronan. I don’t have street smarts like Eabha or Eamonn’s power of persuasion. And I certainly don’t command the respect my father did from his soldiers.
I cry until my eyes sting, and my throat and chest burn. Emotional catharsis, letting the events, the grief of the past few days wash over me. When I’m all cried out and my body is heavy, I crawl back to the bed and settle under the covers, hugging one of the pillows.
I can’t escape, I can’t die, the only thing left for me to do… is survive. I just need to figure out how.
Chapter 9
PATRICK
Ignoringthe intrigued stares of my brothers, I set a half-drunk cup of coffee on my desk and flop into a chair. I pinch the bridge of my nose. This woman will be the death of me—if I don’t kill her first. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? If I do that, then I’ll lose the inheritance that belongs to me. I need her to marry me, but I don’t ever plan to share that piece of intel. She’ll use it to her advantage.
At least her being a McCarthy means she understands what it is to live our life. There won’t be any training required. She must’ve watched her father while growing up, and her brothers too, even if Brendan McCarthy kept her far away from the business.
That’s good for me because I don’t have the patience or the time to draw up a fucking PowerPoint on what it means to be the wife of a boss. I’ve an expanding empire to run. An empire that, if I play my part, and Dylan plays his, is about to grow exponentially.
With the McCarthys and the O’Sullivans gone, Ireland is mine. I’ve overtaken swathes of Britain thanks to my tie-in withthe De Vils, an old money English family whose morals are, fortunately, dark fucking gray.
I’m ready for the next move.
All I need is for my cousin to keep breathing long enough for me to put the fear of God into Sorcha and force her into saying “I do,” without her causing trouble down the line.
“She’s gonna keep trying to run.” Liam crosses my office, tugs the stopper off the decanter of whiskey, and pours himself a drink. Even though I’m teetotal, I keep alcohol in here as a reminder of what happens when I let myself go. When I let my control slip.
“And I know you. Your patience is as thin as a sheet of tracing paper. If you kill her, you’re digging the grave. You brought her here. Your problem, not ours.”
I glare at him, too tired to spar like we normally would. “Can’t kill her, can I?”
