Page 23 of Beautiful Sinners

Once Tristan says his name, it all comes back. I met Nikolai and the twins once at a Society gala in New York a few months before Papa sequestered me away in Ireland. Aleksander asked me to dance. I never got the opportunity because he and Tristan got into a fight.

“He died five years ago, Red. Aleksander took over as the head of the family. Whatever happened today is all on that stupid fuck.”

“So, how does Cillian McCarthy fit into all this?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Constantine gravely answers.

CHAPTER 8

Cillian and Evan stand from their chairs at the end of the table as soon as we enter the formal dining room. There are no guards, just them—or if there are, they’ve hidden themselves well. Six place settings are spaced out along one end of the long table that could easily sit twelve people. Covered platters of food line up like ants down the center, and a delicious smell of whatever is hidden underneath the silver cloches perfumes the air.

With the lights turned low, shadows created by the cracking fire in the stone hearth playfully dance across the walls. The room is so cavernous, the fire doesn’t offer much warmth—which is good because it’s the end of summer—and does little more than provide ambient light, but its effects are calming. Tranquil. Something I’m sure Cillian planned on. I doubt much gets past his attention.

“Welcome, lass,” Cillian says and pulls out the chair at the head of the table for me to sit. A seat usually reserved for the head of the family, and one that symbolizes importance, honor, and respect. I’ll add clever to Cillian’s list of characteristics that already include astute, Irish, mobster, and gigantic Jolly Green Giant.

“We’re good here,” Tristan says.

He and Constantine choose seats at the opposite end of the table, as far away from Cillian as they can get. Hendrix drops down in a chair next to them and pulls me into his lap, using his muscled arm like a seat belt to keep me there. I decide to pick my battles and let it go because I don’t want to argue in front of Cillian and Evan. It would be a whole other story if they weren’t here.

I casually inspect the red stag on the crest inlaid into the wood. The design is delicate yet beautiful. A family crest, perhaps.

“Forti et fideli nihil difficilewhich loosely translates into ‘Nothing is difficult for the strong and faithful.’ The McCarthy family motto. The McCarthys are one of the oldest families in Ireland. The name derives fromcarthachwhich means loving.”

“You can skip the history lesson.” Eyes hard, Tristan leans forward with his elbows on the table. “Do you know where my sister is?”

With an exasperated huff, Cillian sits back down, this time in the head chair that he had pulled out for me.

“You lot are a prickly bunch. I’m glad ye were never like that,” he says to Evan, who, once again, is staring at me. I’m beginning to feel like a zoo exhibit.

“If you don’t stop fucking staring at her, I’m going to take that knife and cut your eyes out.” To emphasize the threat he made, Hendrix reaches an arm across the table as far as it can go with me sitting in his lap and grabs a carving knife resting beside one of the covered platters.

Cillian’s jovial Irish brogue disappears, and he says in a perfect, deadly American accent, “You even try that, boy, and Cian behind you will put a bullet in your head.”

Like a family of meerkats, we simultaneously turn our heads to look behind us and see no one there, but I don’t doubt what Cillian said. I’m sure we’ve got several eyes on us.

Not finished, Cillian continues his tirade. “You are still drawing breath because I fuckingallowit. I have no obligation to you. Only to her,” Cillian says, pointing at me, and I tense up for being singled out. “So watch what you fucking say to me and show some fucking respect while you’re in my fucking house. You get one pass with me, and your broody friend next to you already used that good grace up when he killed one of my men.” Cillian whips the cloth napkin out angrily and stuffs it into his lap while mumbling, “Bloody stupid English and your goddamn superiority complexes.”

I lean forward until I can see Constantine. “You killed someone?”

Suddenly, Constantine pushes up from his seat only to be shoved back down by Tristan.

“Your man shot at me, and Aoife was the casualty. Con had every right to retaliate,” Tristan says, sliding into the leadership role he’s used to playing. “With that being said, we mean no disrespect. A lot has happened in the last twenty-four hours, so I’m sure you understand why we don’t trust you. Or him,” he finishes with a scathing glance at Evan.

I dig my fingernails into Hendrix’s thigh in warning when he shifts under me. Just to make sure he doesn’t try to leap up and lunge across the table at Evan, I lean back and press as much weight as I can into him, knowing full well he could just toss me off him like a pillow if he wanted to.

Needing to stop things from escalating beyond the hot testosterone-filled tempers that are already boiling over, I ask Cillian, “You said you would answer any of my questions.”

Cillian drags a basket of rolls toward him and rips one in half, then dips it in what looks like a gravy bowl and takes a bite.

“Aye,” he replies with his mouth full.

“You’re Papa’s cousin, which means you’re mine as well.”

He nods.

I ask Evan, “What is your role in all this?”

Cillian quickly steps in before Evan can open his mouth. “He’s mine, lass. Memac.”

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