Page 114 of Savage Union
Dante studies me with surprising intensity. "You were trying to protect him?"
I meet his gaze, tired of hiding. "Yes."
He lets out a low whistle. "So you don't want the boss dead. That's... interesting."
"Is it?"
"Very." He pops the last bite of bagel into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Most people in your position would be cheering for his demise. Stockholm syndrome notwithstanding."
"It's not Stockholm syndrome," I snap, though I've wondered the same myself. "It's... complicated."
"Life usually is." He wipes his hands on a napkin. "So what happened after he discovered your little Irish connection?"
Heat floods my face. "None of your business."
A knowing grin spreads across his face. "Oh, it wentthatway. Hate-fucking on the kitchen counter kind of 'none of my business,' I'm guessing?"
"How did you—" I cut myself off, mortification washing over me. "The security cameras."
"Don't worry, princess. I fast-forwarded once clothes started coming off." He winks. "Professional courtesy."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. "I've really messed up, Dante."
To my surprise, his tone softens. "Hey, look. We all make mistakes. Some bigger than others, granted, and yours is pretty spectacular—dealing with the Irish? Seriously?"
"I didn't know Vito then," I defend weakly. "I was desperate to escape my father."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know what I am." The same words I spoke to Vito last night. "Except that I'm getting married today, apparently."
Dante nods, surprisingly solemn. "The boss moves fast when necessary. It's how he's stayed alive this long."
"What's going to happen, Dante?" I ask, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. "With the Irish. With Liam."
He studies me for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. "War, princess. What else?"
"Because of me."
"Nah." He waves a dismissive hand. "This was brewing long before you came along. Costello's old man has wanted to expand into our territory for years. You're just the excuse."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"Wasn't meant to." He reaches over, stealing a sip of my coffee before making a face. "Jesus, how much sugar did you put in this?"
"Three spoons." I pull the mug back. "Get your own."
"Three?" He looks genuinely appalled. "That's offensive to coffee everywhere."
Despite everything, I find my lips twitching toward a smile. "My coffee, my rules."
"Speaking of rules," he says, suddenly business-like. "New security protocols starting today. You don't go anywhere without at least two guards. No exceptions."
"I'm a prisoner again," I mutter.
"No, princess. You're a target." His expression turns serious. "The Irish want you, either as leverage against the boss or as Costello's bride. Either way, your leash just got a lot shorter."
"Lovely metaphor."
