Page 64 of Stolen Rival
I hope she’s right. It’s lonely being the stolen bride of the leader of the mafia, and I miss having people I can talk to.
“Garrett has worked with Patrick for years, and while I’m loyal to him, that doesn’t mean I can’t be a real friend to you. I know how isolating it can be, and frustrating, too. Add in how you came to be here.” She sighs. “I can only imagine how you must be feeling.”
My jaw trembles, the dam keeping all my emotions at bay threatening to spring a leak, but I can’t crumble. This could be a trap resulting in punishment when we get back. Or, worse still, if she tests my loyalty and I fail, I could be driven straight back to the Mahoney house.
No amount of frantic blinking or telling my tear ducts to catch a grip stops them from sending a torrent of tears down my cheeks.
“Oh, honey.” She reaches for me, restricted by the seat belt, and pulls me to her until we’re awkwardly positioned with my head on her shoulder. She runs her hand up and down my arm. “It’s okay. Let it all out.”
“I really am fine with Patrick. He’s not mistreating me. I just… I miss my family so much.” Weeks of bone-deep, heavy, and brutally unrelenting grief crash into me like a tidal wave as I melt down on this stranger’s shoulder.
Credit where it’s due, she holds on to me and doesn’t hurry me through the swells. I’m not sure how long she lets me cry for, but my face probably looks like I’ve been sobbing for a month.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t usually cry on people I just met.” As the tears finally stop, I sit back, and she offers me a tissue from her handbag and squeezes my hand.
“I’ve only ever lost my granda, and that was hard enough. Don’t you ever say sorry for mourning your losses. I’m sure it’s difficult to do it in that house surrounded by the people who…” She shudders, visibly recoiling at her own words. “If it was me, I’d be dead already. I’d have tried to kill him. If it didn’t work, I’d try again and again until he lost his shit and offed me.”
Her bluntness is refreshing.
“Really though, arranged marriages, or I suppose forced in your case, aren’t always the horror story you might think. I’ve been with my husband for over ten years now. Three kids later, and I still haven’t buried his body under the flower bed in the garden.”
“And they say romance isdead.” I smile. This woman has spunk and spine, just like my old best friend, and I hope we’re going to be good friends. Maybe I can model the kind of mafia wife I’d like to be on her.
She narrows her eyes. “You tried, didn’t you? To kill Patrick?” When I don’t answer, she points her finger at me. “I bet you tried. You don’t strike me as the kind of person to take shit lying down.”
Except he has my brother as collateral, so I can’t even attempt to kill him until I’ve made sure Cathal is out of his clutches. Except… when Patrick shows me a slightly softer side, it confuses me. Do I still want to escape, or is there a faint possibility I could make a life for myself here? God knows I don’t have anything else waiting out there for me other than Cathal.
Thanks to Patrick.
This constant vacillation of my emotions is giving me a headache.
The rest of the car journey to Grafton Street is uneventful. I learn Rosanna lives about ten minutes away from Patrick’s mansion, and she likes tennis, watching reruns of Friends, and hates pasta.
Who the fuck hates pasta?
Rosanna, apparently. She also offers to take me to more Serpents games if I want.
After over an hour of wandering through the shops, we break for brunch at a place called Brother Hubbard. Reading about their seasonal French toast on the menu makes my mouth water. Brioche French toast topped with a coconut mascarpone, raspberries, coconut and almond flakes, and served with a mango and lime puree. I throw in a portion of bacon for good measure. Because what meal isn’t made exponentially better by the addition of some fried pork?
Rosanna chooses the pulled pork Benedict: two soft poached eggs, hollandaise, pulled
pork, kale, pickled cabbage, mojo sauce, and topped with crispy onion. Her eggs are perfectly runny, and my French toast is pillowy soft with the right amount of crisp on the outside.
I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Maybe this is what brings me back from wanting to die or become a murderer. Sinking back into the delicious food the world has to offer and enjoying every bite like it might be my last. Because let’s face it, some days it feels like it could be.
“You should have bought that dress.” Rosanna spears a piece of pork and waves it in my direction. “It made your tits look fantastic.”
I shake my head. “I have no cause to buy a dress like that. Where would I wear it? To the library at Mahoney Manor?”
“You’d be the belle of the library ball.” She shrugs. “There’s still time to go back.”
In another life, I’d have done just that. Eabha is smart with her money, but Jules doesn’t give a fuck; she shops like it’s her job and encourages everyone else around her to do the same.
With Da’s bank account being as healthy as it was, I wouldn’t have thought twice about grabbing the cream, form-hugging, floor-length dress with a V-neck and a slit up to the hip. But if I’d picked it up today, it would be just another reminder that my life is very different now to what it was only a short time ago.
There’s enough salt in that wound already.
