Page 22 of Stolen Rival
What happens if I don’t pass this dinner test? What if I can’t convince his business partners, or whoever shows up at the table that I can be an obedient little mafia wife?
A flutter of panic threatens to take hold in my chest, but my hairdresser squeezes my hand, pulling me back from the brink. “You lookstunning,Sorcha.”
The other two nod. “Aye, Mr. Mahoney will swallow his tongue when he sees you.”
“His eyes will bulge out of his skull.”
“His heart will stop beating for sure.”
If only wishing made it fucking so.
After ushering me downstairs, the women leave. Part of me wants to scream at them to take me with them, but with Cathal’s care, his very life at stake, I need to stay in line and not make waves.
At least not yet. But when I do, I’ll make waves so big I’ll drown that arrogant fucker.
Patrick stands at the door to the formal dining room, tapping his foot and looking at his watch. There’s a tension holding his shoulders forward, and his jaw is clenched. Whoever he’s bringing to dinner must not be on the Christmas card list.
The sound of my heels on the marble floors draws his head up from his impatient timekeeping, and other than a flare of his nostrils, he doesn’t react at all. My heart sinks, stomach dropping to my pretty shoes as his gaze barely lingers on my pushed-up cleavage, or my nipped-in waist.
I haven’t felt this beautiful in a long time, and while I hate this evil piece of shit for virtually wiping out myentire bloodline, I guess I wanted him to react like a red-blooded man. There isn’t even a tent in his dress trousers. Not even a small one like you’d get from one of those cheap online shops where things that look full size turn out to be miniature versions of the real thing.
Embarrassment claws at my bare skin. I’d bet a hundred euros that Patrick Mahoney is a renowned player, one who’d stick his dick in any warm pussy he can find, and yet when he looked at me… nothing.
How am I supposed to marry a man, and stay married, when he looks at me like he’s sucked on a lemon?
He doesn’t wait another moment before he places his palm on my lower back and guides me inside. Titan, the devil dog, has plunked herself in the corner of the room, and Patrick’s brothers are in attendance. But they’re not the only ones here. Six well-dressed men sit in silence around the table. I recognize at least two of them. One is a friend of our Tiernan’s, and the other I saw at Da’s sixtieth birthday party with a group of men I was warned to stay the fuck away from.
My gaze locks on Patrick’s brothers, who look mildly bored by the entire event.
When they see us, the six men stand, but Patrick grunts at them. “Sit.”
I guess I shouldn’t take it personally that he’s a shit to me. It seems his mother never taught him any manners because he’s being rude to these men as well. No handshakes, no smiles… In fact, everyone who isn’t a Mahoney looks pale and shifty, and there’s an air of anxiety in the room.
Strike that, terror. The dinner guests are fucking petrified of Patrick Mahoney.
This isn’t good.
The waitstaff brings in the firstcourse without a single word or so much as a flick of Patrick’s wrist. Is he telepathic? Are they all under some weird mind control?
Bowls of soup are placed in front of some confused looking crooks. Patrick flashes them the same malevolent smile he gave me right before he told me where we were going earlier today, and any trace of an appetite leaves my body.
He squeezes my hand, but it feels like a warning. “Eat,mo mhuirnín.Maeve makes the best lentil soup in all of Ireland.”
I’m not sure I want to eat the fucking soup. The men are all eyeing each other warily, like they’re afraid the food is poisoned. If the atmosphere wasn’t so fucking tense and stifling in here, I’d laugh my arse off.
But as it stands, everyone apart from his brothers waits for Patrick to take the first sip, and right as he pauses to reload his spoon, and I have a mouthful of soup, he drops his bombshell.
“Your bosses are all dead.”
He takes another casual mouthful of soup like he’s just said it’s raining outside. Somehow, the men pale further, looking at each other like they’re afraid they might be next.
“You will report to my captains now.”
As the delicious soup slithers its way down my throat, another piece of the puzzle slots into place.
Da killed the O’Sullivans, then the Mahoneys killed the McCarthys, which means the Mahoneys reign supreme on the island of Ireland. Patrick Mahoney is now the head ofallremaining mafia in the country. And these men, a selection of my father’s captains, have been summoned to kiss the ring.
And from the deadly sneer on Patrick’s face, if they don’t bend the knee, they won’t leave this room alive.
