Page 67 of Irish Brute
“It’s a sprain,” he says. “If that. We’ll ice it at home. A sling will help, for a few days.”
I nod. But then I have to say, “What Don Antonio s?—”
“He’s not your don.”
I blink. “That’s his name.”
“That’s his title. One he should have earned. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of your respect. Call him Russo, if you have to call him anything at all.”
I swallow. It’s harder than I expect to ignore a lifetime of conditioning, to start again with language Braiden will accept. “What Russo said, back there.”
“Yer not a whore.”Hoor, it sounds like. His accent’s gone thick again.
I shake my head. We could debate semantics, but I’m a woman who lets a man put a collar around her neck before he dominates her. I live in my husband’s house, eating his food, using his computers, wearing the clothes he buys me, and I don’t contribute a cent to our common household.
But I push out the words I really need to say. “Blood before marriage.”
This is it. The moment I can tell Braiden.Russo wants to know about your deals on the docks.
But then I’ll have to tell him about That Night. He’ll know the worst thing I’ve ever done—not only that I did it, but that I’ve kept it secret eleven long years.
He’ll be disgusted. Revolted. He’ll hate me. There is no way our relationship can survive his knowing about my past.
And maybe Iama whore, because I don’t want to be thrown out of Thornfield. I don’t want to give up the meals and the clothes and my shiny new office.
I don’t want to give up the sex.
I nearly melt with relief as Braiden’s hand cups my cheek. He looks into my eyes as he says the words carved into the ring on my finger: “Is liomsa tú.”You are mine.And then, like none of this has happened, like none of it matters, he says, “Let’s get you home.”
We enter the silent garage. Six blue-painted spaces front the row of luxury cars, access for people with disabilities. Only one of the slots is occupied—by a blood red sports car, nestled low to the ground. A golden bull snorts in a plaque centered on its blunt nose.
“Motherfucker…” Braiden breathes. He hustles me over to his Jeep.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” Braiden says, yanking open my door. “Get in. Buckle up.” Instead of climbing in on the driver’s side, Braiden reaches under the seat.
“What are you—” I start to ask.
He pulls out a baseball bat. It’s made of metal, shiny and green, like some exotic reptile was baked into the surface. Braiden hefts it in one hand, testing its weight as he strides back to the illegally parked car.
He plants his feet wide. He closes both fists around the knob of the bat. He takes a short practice swing, and then he connects with the narrow red eye of the car’s tail light. Plastic shatters and the metal frame crumples.
He knocks out the other tail light, then moves to the front of the vehicle. He batters the headlights, sending metal and glass and plastic spinning across the floor of the garage.
It takes more work to shatter the windshield. The driver-side window spiders into a million pieces but holds its place for the first four blows. The passenger side gives up faster, as if there’s no reason left to fight.
The roof crumples before the hood does. The doors take deep dents. The charging bull logo bends and flares before it springs free from the nose.
Braiden wrestles with a side mirror, yanking it free. Some connecting piece must be sharp, because he stalks to each of the tires in turn, stabbing deep into the rubber and twisting hard. As he prowls back to the Jeep, he tosses the mirror over his shoulder, an afterthought that rolls on the garage floor like a severed head.
He shoves the bat under his seat as if he’s putting away a toy. When he keys his own ignition his fingers are steady. Glancing in the rear-view mirror as he heads toward the exit, he says casually, “I told Madden I wanted Russo’s Lambo. The Huracán was supposed to be mine.”
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m silent the whole ride home, thinking, thinking, thinking. If I don’t give Don Antonio what he wants, my life is over. And if I do, Braiden Kelly will send me packing.
Either way, I’ll be wrecked as thoroughly as the mangled red car left behind in the Convention Center garage.
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