by Shen, L. J.
“Keep the money.” Sam stubbed the cigarette butt he threw on the floor with his boot on his way out.
“And don’t ever go near my future wife again.” It was my turn to address the room. The air was heavily perfumed with sweat, blood, and violence. I tugged my leather gloves as I looked around. “If I hear you so much as breathed in her direction, there will be hell to pay. In fact, I’ll be checking in to see you keep your distance from her. If I find you in her zip code…” I trailed off.
I didn’t need to finish the sentence.
They knew.
An hour later, we were at a local Irish pub down the road from Colin Byrne’s apartment.
“Red Right Hand” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds ricocheted through the paneling. Sam flirted with the two busty waitresses, helping one of them fill out a tax document.
Not for the first time, it occurred to me that Brennan was definitely on the spectrum of sociopathy. I’d been smart to keep him away from my sister. I, too, reserved a spot on that scale but somewhere in the middle.
But Persephone was not my sister. I had zero obligation to save her from myself.
At any rate, my plan was to avoid her at all costs as soon as she was with child. Sooner, if I could help it. She had no room in my day-to-day life.
Hurting the men who hurt her left me oddly satisfied. Peculiar, seeing as getting a hard-on from violence was more of Sam’s thing.
“What’s crawled up your ass?” Sam eyed me over the rim of his Guinness pint, poetic as always.
“Just thinking.” I sprawled back in the old wooden booth, scanning the mixed bag crowd of young professionals and blue-collar workers.
“My least favorite pastime.” Sam palmed a handful of salted wasabi peas, throwing them into his mouth. “What about?”
“Marriage.”
“More specifically?”
“The inconvenient necessity of it. What are you waiting for?”
Sam thumped his red Marlboro pack on the table. One cigarette slid up obediently. He raised the pack and caught the cigarette between his teeth.
“Nothing.” He lit up. Sam was notorious for breaking city council rules. Smoking inside restaurants was among the least offensive things he did. “I have no plans to get married. It’s a surprisingly easy decision to make when you have no duty to continue a lineage and your biological parents are a back-stabbing asshole who deserved to die and a whore who left you on her ex-boyfriend’s doorstep when you were old enough to know what it meant to be abandoned.”
“Who’ll inherit everything you own?” I asked. Sam Brennan was rolling in it. I didn’t know exactly how wealthy he was. He probably declared no more than fifteen percent of his income to the IRS, but I would guess he was in the double-digit millions club.
Sam shrugged. “Sailor. Her kids, maybe. Money means nothing to me.”
I believed him.
“But you grew up with Troy and Sparrow Brennan,” I pushed, knowing nothing was going to come out of this conversation. The man was cagier than a zoo. “Boston’s golden couple.”
“Han Solo and Leia Organa on steroids.” Sam took a swig of his Guinness, smirking bitterly. “But that means jack-shit. I have neither Sparrow’s DNA nor Troy’s. I’m an orphan. An elaborated mistake born from vengeance. I have no plans of reproducing. Besides, what good would it be to have a child, knowing I could get locked up for life any day?”
He had a point.
“Now”—he tilted his pint in my direction—“back to business. Byrne and his puppet are out of the picture for good. The next step is to find Veitch. See where he’s hiding. What he’s doing. Put him on a leash. Maybe bring him back and throw him into Byrne’s claws. Kill two birds with one stone.”
“Leave him.” I waved him off. “Byrne is paid. Kaminski will be in a wheelchair for life. Veitch is probably dead. It’s done.”
“Dead? I don’t think so. I bet you Veitch is alive, and that as soon as he hears his wife got hitched to a billionaire, he’ll be back, making demands.”
“Not possible,” I insisted. “The divorce certificate should arrive tomorrow morning. He wouldn’t be eligible for a penny. I don’t need to know where Veitch is or what he’s up to.”
“He can contact Persephone and play on her heartstrings. He’s her husband.”
“Was.”
“She chose him.”
“She chose wrong,” I retorted.
“If anyone’s prone to take mercy on the asshole who left her behind, it’s your future wife,” Sam warned.
I cracked my fingers under the table. “Precisely. Better knock her up before she runs off with her ex.”
I didn’t want a fugitive bride. I didn’t trust Persephone not to run in slow motion into her ex-husband’s arms and break our contract the minute I dragged him back from the hellhole where he’d been hiding. Besides, the more time that passed without him knowing about me, the more chance I had to knock Persephone up without his interruptions.
Sam examined me coolly.
“It’s an unfinished job,” he cautioned. “I don’t do those, Fitzpatrick.”
“You’ll do whatever I tell you to do for your salary, Brennan.” I grabbed my whiskey, tossing it back and slamming the glass on the table. “And I’m telling you to forget Paxton Veitch ever existed.”
“The media is all over this shit like a hooker on a senator.” Hunter took a sip of his coffee, blowing a chef’s kiss. He sat in front of me in my office.
“Can’t blame them. The bride looks like proper royalty. A modern Cinderella.” Devon skimmed through the press release he was reading on his iPad, perched next to my brother.
I snatched the iPad from his hand, taking a look. I didn’t know how this Diana chick from PR had gotten her hands on this picture of Persephone—clad in a powder blue dress, her golden hair cascading down to her narrow waist, her pink lips puckered with a faint smile—but she was in for one hell of a Christmas bonus.
Royal Pipelines did a good job announcing my nuptials to Boston’s sweetheart: a preschool teacher, a churchgoer, and a woman of good faith, pedigree, and morals.
“Persy’s hotter than a Carolina Reaper.” Hunter tapped his lips, monitoring my reaction to the divine creature I was about to marry. “You’ve done well.”
“She’s done better.” I handed Devon the iPad back. “Her beauty will fade. My Forbes status will not.”
Persephone had been texting me nonstop for the past two weeks since we broke the news to our friends and family. Apparently, it was not enough to dump a budget more fitting to feed a medium-sized state in her hands and ask her to plan the wedding. She wanted to talk about things.
What venue I favored.
Which flowers I liked.
If I had any recommendations for a reputable catering company.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t care if we married at the city hall, a church, or in a ditch. That, in fact, I didn’t have a heart at all. So I opted for ignoring all her messages. The strategy worked well. I fully intended to adopt it after our wedding.
“Still can’t believe she agreed to wed your ass. If I didn’t see her saying she accepted your offer with my own eyes, I’d think you shanghaied her.” Hunter rubbed his knuckles over his cheekbones. He and his wife handled the news as though we’d just told them one of us was dying. My parents, however, nearly pissed their pants. I wished it were a figure of speech.
Mother burst into tears, and Athair gifted me an entire drawer of vintage watches.
I was back to being mo òrga.
Golden, brazen, and cunning. Always six steps ahead of the game.
My father was specified, and my CEO position was saved. At least on that front. Hell knew what Arrowsmith had in store for me.
“I don’t give a toss what made her say yes. All I care is that she did. We needed that win. Especially with Andrew Arrowsmith back in town.” Devon tucked his iPad back into its leather case, glancing at me curiously.
I curved an e
yebrow.
I didn’t tell Devon Andrew was back. I did not want anyone making the mistake of thinking I cared. Plus, I paid people enough to keep track of what was happening around me.
“He’s the new CEO of Green Living,” Devon filled me in. When he realized I wasn’t surprised, he frowned. “Bollocks. But you already knew that. When were you going to tell me?”
“I wasn’t. It’s your job to keep yourself informed. I’m not your secretary.”
“Could have fooled me. You’d look ravishing in a pencil skirt.” Hunter snapped his jaw in a biting motion, contributing absolutely nothing to the conversation, as per usual.
“Andrew spent the morning hopping from one morning show to the other,” Devon pointed out. “He’s cooking something up.”
“No doubt,” I agreed.
“Is Sam on the case?” Hunter asked. My baby brother had no idea who Arrowsmith was or what history we shared. But like all Fitzpatricks, he could smell trouble from miles away and had the natural-born killer instinct to squash it.
“Not yet.” I glanced at my watch. “I want him to make the first move. See what he’s got before I destroy him.”
My PA knocked on the door. She entered gingerly, wearing a hot pink blazer over what looked like a bra, her platinum hair reaching her calves.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“Ms. Brandt. Is it Halloween?”
She sloped her head in confusion. “No.”
“Then don’t dress like it. What do you want?” I laced my fingers together.
She blushed, clearing her throat. I had to admit Persephone had a point. Casey looked like a corporate secretary like I looked like a One Direction dropout.
“Sorry to interrupt, it’s just that you haven’t answered my last six emails regarding the engagement and wedding rings.”
The rings.
I had to choose wedding and engagement rings. Naturally, I had more pressing issues to deal with, such as Andrew Arrowsmith and finding a new edgeless pool for my Palm Spring property.
I speared my brother with a glare.
“What kind of diamonds does she like?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Hunter laughed. “I hang out with the chick. I don’t choose pantyhose and earrings with her at Bloomingdale’s.”
“Ask your wife.”
“Ask your fiancée,” he countered, kicking my shin under the desk.
“That would require me to talk to her.” I pressed my foot over his, applying enough force to hear his toes crack. “I have no desire to do that.”
Hunter stared at me like I was clinically insane.
“How am I supposed to answer something like that?” He turned to Devon, waving a hand in my direction. “I can’t believe he’s marrying my wife’s best friend. What’s gonna happen if I have to murder him? Will representing me be a conflict of interest for you?”
“Yes,” Devon said simply, smoothing his tie. “Regardless, I don’t practice criminal law. Don’t like to get my hands dirty. May I make a suggestion?”
“No,” I said, at the same time Hunter crowed, “For the love of God, please do.”
“Go with the most expensive option,” Devon instructed. “The answer to every question concerning a woman’s taste in jewelry is to go with the expensive option. Works like a charm every Christmas.” He snapped his fingers.
“Not with Persephone.” Hunter shook his head. “She’s picky and particular. Both Penrose sisters have strong personalities. That’s why they get along with my wife.”
He said that like it was a good thing. Christ.
Casey was shifting her weight from one impossible stiletto heel to the other, glancing among the three of us, waiting for an answer.
Deciding we’d spent enough time pondering the matter, I sealed the deal.
“Get all of them.”
“Sorry, sir?”
“The rings the jeweler has sent. Get her all of them. She can choose, alternate, gift some to her annoying friends, donate to charity, wipe her ass with them. I don’t care.”
“You mean buy her all eight rings the jeweler has flown here from Mumbai overnight?” She blinked, staring at me as though I grew an extra head and attempted to cover it with a decorative fruit bowl. “They cost half a million apiece.”
“And…?” I screwed my fingers into my eye sockets. Peopling was by far more exhausting than running a marathon.
“And nothing. It will be done, sir.”
With Stripper Barbie out of the way, I turned back to my brother and lawyer, ready to continue our conversation about Arrowsmith. They both glared at me with a look not much different than the one I saw on Ms. Brandt’s face.
“What now?” I barked.
“You could’ve just gone with any ring,” Devon muttered. “Yet you chose all of them.”
All and nothing were the same things. Essentially, I still didn’t make a choice.
“What’s your point?” I demanded.
“His point”—Hunter grinned, snatching his coffee from my desk and standing—“is that you, my dear brother, are about to get punched right in the feels. Bubble-wrap that black heart of yours because shit’s about to get real, and I’m going to grab a front-row seat when you finally realize you are not the soulless bastard you think you are.”
“Save me a place next to you.” Devon fist-bumped my brother.
I kicked them both out.
Idiots.
After a month of being ignored by the groom every time I called and texted him, I showed up to my wedding tucked in a black limo with Belle and Sailor in tow.
It was a surprisingly sunny day. Especially considering winter bled into spring, and the persistent rain refused to relent in what the local weathermen described as Boston’s longest and gloomiest winter to date.
Since I was the one doing all the planning, I made sure the wedding was tailored to my personality and preferences alone.
Despite the fact Aisling had told me Cillian hated fruit in his dessert, the cake was a six-tier chiffon sponge cake frosted with white chocolate and decorated with pomegranate. The venue was St. Luke’s, the Protestant church I’d attended since birth even though I knew Cillian was raised Irish Catholic.
I wore a sheath, pearl-hued gown and had enough hairspray to put a dent in the ozone layer. I felt ridiculously flammable and gave myself a mental memo not to get close to smokers and candles.
With the clear intention to signal my future husband I was not to be tamed, I chose wildflowers for my bouquet.
I decided on having a church service only. No party. No big hurrah. My feelings toward Kill were as strong as ever, but I wasn’t going to do all the work for him. If he wanted a successful marriage—which I doubted he did—he was going to have to put in the effort, too.
A part of me doubted Cillian would even show up to the wedding. After all, he went back to ignoring my existence quickly after I accepted his offer. If it weren’t for Devon, or the realtors, bankers, jewelers, and personal shoppers he sent my way, fawning over me, I’d think he’d gotten cold feet.
Should’ve known better.
Cillian Fitzpatrick never got cold feet.
It was everything else about him that was made of ice.
I sat in the limo in front of the church. Mom and Dad came from the suburbs. They were disoriented by my shotgun wedding but happy, nonetheless. They knew how hurt I’d been over Paxton and figured I decided to marry my good friend Aisling’s older brother because we’d always had this amazing, nurturing connection.
That was the story I fed them, anyway, and that was the version they chose to eat up. Dad, who had just recovered from a knee surgery, couldn’t walk me down the aisle.
I’d found it to be an omen more than a coincidence. I’d asked Hunter to do the honor of giving me away (“Personally, I’d prefer to hand you over to Vlad the Impaler, but I’m too scared for my life to deny Kill anything”).
“Knock, knock.” Ash’s thin, church bells voice rang in the air. She fl
ung the door to the limo open and slid in, wearing a blood-red bridesmaid dress.
“Hey.” I mustered a smile, realizing I was clutching Belle’s hand in mine a bit too tightly. I let go before my sister’s hand needed amputated due to gangrene.
Ash handed me a crown of wildflowers.
“A good luck charm for the bride. A Fitzpatrick tradition.”
“Is this from Kill?” My eyebrows shot up. I thought about the poisonous flowers he’d plucked from my hair all those years ago. Ash shook her head, turning a shade of maroon that went well with her dress.
“My bad. I should’ve clarified. I made it for you. It’s an Irish custom that the bride braids the crown in her hair on her own. Brings good luck to the marriage.”
“My hair is harder than a rock right now,” I pointed out.
“Is this bitch for real?” Belle snatched the flowered tiara from Aisling’s hands. “Sis, you need all the luck you can get. You’re putting this thing on if it’s the last thing you do. And while you’re at it, here.” Belle dropped the tiara in my lap, rummaging in her clutch. She found an orange bottle of pills, took one, and shoved it into my mouth.
“What’s that?” I murmured around the tablet.
“A little pick-me-up.”
I swallowed, weaving wisps of my hair into the crown of flowers while Belle put a glass of champagne to my lips.
“The church is jam-packed. All the pews are filled to the brim.” Aisling crawled into the back seat as we waited for the event coordinator to call us out. “Sam locked the church doors on Kill, another Irish tradition to make sure the groom doesn’t run away, and Hunter slipped a sixpence into his shoes. Kill wasn’t happy.”
“When is he ever?” Sailor sassed, making the three of them burst into laughter.
I glanced out the window up at the sky. There was only one lonely cloud.
Auntie Tilda.
I grinned. My late aunt worked in mysterious ways, but she couldn’t pass up coming here today.