Page 63 of Stolen Rival
I snort. “How do you know? You don’t even know me.”
Patrick sighs. I’m surely on borrowed time before his patience snaps. “Don’t you want to make friends? To look at someone other than the three of us?”
Liam’s grin grows. “Speak for yourself.Some of us are quite nice to look at.” He brushes a flat palm across his shoulder.
“I have friends,” I press. And I do, or at least did. Shit. Did Patrick’s destruction go a step further than blood relations? I almost smile, because if he did have someone kill Eabha, she’d have dragged them to fucking hell on her way down.
“Those are McCarthy friends, from your past. Yournewfriends will be part of yournewfamily,ourfamily, our future.” His tone suggests there’s no room to push back, and if his facial expression didn’t telegraph his impatience, the fact he picks his cards back up tells me that the conversation is over.
My chest aches at the idea of never seeing my girls again and for them to live the rest of their lives not knowing what happened to me. One of these days, I’ll get access to the internet and try to contact them that way. Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. I refuse to accept that their faces will only ever live in my memories.
“Those are your options. Go out with Rosanna or stay here.” He tosses a bill onto the pile in the middle. “Call.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed once again. As I head upstairs to bed, I resolve to have a taste of normality with my new mafia-approved bestie, Rosanna. Maybe I’ll pick up some new shoes and find a greasy cheeseburger while I’m at it.
Tomorrow, I get to escape the clutches of my husband for a few precious hours, and I’m determined to make every second count.
Chapter 32
SORCHA
It’s embarrassinghow excited I am right now.
Like a kid on Christmas morning, bounding into their parents’ bedroom to tell them Santa has come, I hurry downstairs to meet my company for the day. Burly, surly bodyguard number three stands by the front door with a scowl on his face, clearly thrilled he’s drawn the short straw in taking me out on the town.
He should be grateful. Instead of being around Captain Grumpy Hole, he’s going to get the easy gig of waiting for me to get a rubdown and eat cake. What more could he want from his job? A quiet day and some cake. Sounds like bliss to me. Beats blowing someone’s brains out or cleaning up blood from the floor. He must’ve missed the memo that I’m a delight to be with, especially in comparison to his boss.
Next to my chaperone for the day stands a small dark-haired woman scrolling on her phone. She looks up when I reach the bottom of the stairs, and Patrick appears out of nowhere as her face morphs into a warm smile.
“Sorcha, this is Rosanna. Rosanna, this is my wife, Sorcha.”
The woman steps forward without hesitation or fear and offers me her hand. “So nice to meet you, Sorcha. Are you ready to have some fun?”
How that phrase lands differently now to when Eabha and the girls would say it only a few short weeks ago. Her idea of fun was getting off-our-tits drunk on shots and dancing on tables while Da’s cantankerous bodyguard stood nearby ready to rip the arm off anyone who got too close.
Am I even capable of having fun anymore? Life has shifted so drastically on its axis that keeping my head above water and not getting myself or Cathal killed has been my priority.
A warm hand finds the hollow of my lower back, and Patrick’s head brushes mine. “Go. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you when you get back.” He kisses my temple.
Wait, what?I don’t understand this guy at all. His mood swings are giving me whiplash.
To her credit, Rosanna doesn’t swoon at the morsel of affection he’s showing me. Instead, she takes my hand and leads me away from Patrick. I only get a few steps before it hits me that I have absolutely no money to my name.
I spin to face him, not sure how to say what I need to in front of one of his underling’s wives, but he steps forward and pats my upper arm. “It’s okay. You’ll be safe. Jack’s got you covered. Whatever you need.” He slides his hand down my arm, and my feeling-starved-for-affection, traitorous body heats under his touch. He presses a plastic card in my palm before kissing my forehead. “Enjoy yourself, you deserve it.”
Oh, I get it now. He’s playing the dutiful husband for his audience of one, Rosanna. At least I won’t have to ask my scowling heavy to lend me money to pay for lunch.
I manage a “thank you,” but inside, my gut stirs with bitterness and anger. I shouldn’t have to ask him for money or usehismoney. We were wealthy enough off our own bat before Patrick stole it all.
Ignoring the flames growing in the pit of my stomach, I say goodbye and head out to the car.
As soon as we’re seated, Rosanna puts up the privacy screen, and when I give her a questioning look, she purses her lips. “Force of habit. We don’t need to spend all day worrying about what might get overheard by the paid tattletale.” She winks at me as we pull away from the front of the house and down the driveway.
“So,” she says, sending a concerned stare my way. “As someone who is the product of an arranged marriage myself, I need to ask, how are you doing?” Her face is full of what seems like true concern, but as with everything related to Patrick Mahoney, this could be another test.
I give her a tight smile. “I’m okay, really.”
Her smile softens, and pity fills her eyes. “It’ll take time for you to trust me, but youcantrust me, Sorcha.”
