Page 12 of Irish Brute
Samantha took the bar. She landed a job in the Delaware Secretary of State’s office. She met Trap Prince at a fundraiser dinner and convinced him she was the lawyer Diamond Freeport needed.
Samantha conquered the world.
But Don Antonio has known where I was the entire time. That Night will never truly end.
“Here.” Braiden pushes a glass against my knuckles. The scent of Jameson coats my throat like medicine.
It’s not even noon. “I can’t?—”
“Drink,” he says. That simple one-word command pares away all my protests. It flays me, the same as his ordering me to eat that omelet last night. Braiden Kelly makes me forget how to argue.
No.
He makes me forget there’s any reason to argue at all.
I drink, tossing back the entire shot. The whiskey carves a golden path down my throat. It cuts off the spinning in my head, the endless rounds of guilt. It shuts away That Night entirely, opening a sunlit door so I can breathe again.
Braiden pours us both another.
This time, I sip my whiskey. And I’m utterly astonished when he says, “A week should be enough time for you to find a dress.”
“A dress?”
He’s staring at me, those cobalt lasers slicing through the pleasant Jameson fog. His words don’t make sense. I don’t wear dresses. Braiden surely learned that when he pawed through my closet. My nightstand too.
Fuck Water. I can’t believe he announced that to Don Antonio.
Before I can blush, he shrugs. “Trousers, then. Vows are vows, whatever you’re wearing.”
“Vows—” I plant my glass on the coffee table. “You don’t actually believe we’re getting married?”
“You have another plan?”
I stare at him. “Iplanon staying here in Dover. Iplanon going into the office tomorrow, to catch up on all the work that’s piled up yesterday and today. Iplanon living my life exactly the way I always have.”
For the past eleven years, anyway. The way Samantha always has.
“And what’s your plan when Antonio Russo shows up at the freeport, waving his gun around before he shoves it up your cunt?”
His voice lilts around the vulgar word, like we’re talking about melodies and flowers.
“The freeport has security.”
He raises an infuriating eyebrow. We both know the freeport’s security failed last year. In the aftermath of a deadly attack, new protocols are in place. But am I willing to trust my life to them?
“And this building?” Braiden says, gesturing around us. “Russo’s been here once. You honestly believe he won’t return?”
“I— I can move.”
“Where?”
Where can I go that a Mafia kingpin can’t get me? My parents couldn’t escape. Eliza either.
Braiden waits until I’m looking at him again. “Once we’re married, you’re mine. I can keep you safe. The East Falls Crew won’t risk open war to touch you.”
You’re mine.
His claim makes no more sense than Don Antonio’s. I’m not an object, something he can grab to make another man jealous.
