“Bad luck, cuz,” he quips.
“Fuck off, Lucky.” I glare at him until he looks away. Fuck this shit. “It was always coming.” I shrug, turning to Ronan. “Find out everything about her. I want her fucking bank receipts. Can the woman even fucking cook? Does she have a bad shopping habit? I’m not fucking bankrolling that shite.”
“Will do,” Ronan drawls. Do I actually give enough of a fuck about this woman to know her life story? Probably not. I grimace, biting back a curse.
“I don’t need to know about it unless it’s important. And I don’t want to see a picture.”
Ronan studies me for a beat, nodding. I’m sure if any skeletons fall out of her closet, we can take care of that shit. She’d have to be a modern-day Hitler for Pa to call this off. I’m getting married in three weeks. Nothing is going to change that fact.
As for the picture, I will be staring at her down the length of a church. Who gives a shit what she looks like? Knowing what she looks like isn’t going to make a difference in three weeks. It isn’t going to change that I’m going to be married. It isn’t going to change who is standing on the other side of that lacy veil.
I’d rather not fucking know. This is what I have to do to prove my loyalty. If this is what I have to do to prove I am a worthy successor to my father, then this is what I’ll fucking do.
It’s no skin off my nose. Whether I fuck around with a bare fourth finger on my left hand or not doesn’t make a difference to me. Nor does the existence of a woman who will soon be occupying space in my house.
That’s all she’ll be doing. She will wear my ring, carry my name, and eventually bear my children. And she’ll mean absolutely fucking nothing to me.
TIGGY
Sorting out my affairs mostly consists of convincing men that I actually want to do what I’m saying I’m doing. First, there’s my boss at Child Services, Matt Rossi, who can’t for the life of him work out why I would be up and resigning out of the blue.
“I realize my timing isn’t great, but I’m giving my two-week notice,” I tell him as he glares across the desk. “That’s more than enough time to reassign my cases and for me to do the file handovers.”
“Talk to me, Tiggy,” he sighs at last, rubbing his eyes. “You love your job. Are you leaving Boston?”
I toy with the material of my pencil skirt, finally lifting my eyes to meet his.
“I’m staying here in Boston, but I’m getting married.”
He blinks at me in surprise, his eyes skating over my bare left hand, which I reflexively curl into a fist.
“Congratulations,” he beams. “Ant is a lucky guy. I can’t wait to see the ring once it’s fitted. But you don’t have to quit your job because you’re getting married. This isn’t the 1950s.”
My heart clenches along with my jaw.
“It’s not Ant I’m marrying,” I say quietly.
The silence that settles in the room is almost claustrophobic. I sit and stare at the desk, my hands clenched, while Matt stares at me, his hands steepled in front of his chin.
“I see,” he says after an extended, awkward silence, his tone flat. “Tiggy.” He pauses, sighs, shakes his head, and continues. “I have friends in the DA’s office.”
I touch my golden bracelet. One. I rub my fingers over the hard wooden arm of the chair I’m sitting in, one I have sat in many times over the last three years. Two. I breathe deeply, smelling my perfume. Three. I look out the window over Matt’s shoulder at the familiar landscape of Boston. Four. My eyes dance over the nameplate on Matt’s desk. Five.
“As I said,” I cut him off, my gaze snapping up to meet his as I paste a bland, professional smile on my face. “I just wanted to thank you for all the opportunities you’ve afforded me over the last three years and notify you of my resignation in two weeks.”
Matt is frustrated. It is written all over his face. He opens his mouth to argue, but the shutters on my face make him close it again. He blows out a breath, scrubs his face, and his shoulders slump as he nods.
“You’ll always have friends here, Tiggy. If you ever need anything, you know where we are.”
I hear everything he doesn’t say, loud and clear. If I ever need an out from the life as an underworld wife, call him. That’s not going to happen. There is no out from that life except death, but I nod anyway.
Word gets around the office pretty quickly that I’m leaving. I have plenty of well-wishers, and plenty of nosy Nelly’s trying to figure out why I’m going. I keep my mouth shut.
I told Matt because he is my boss and needed an explanation. No one else needs to know. Too many loose ends don’t bode well for any of us. It is a frankly exhausting day, and the last thing I want to be doing is seeing Ant. I’d rather go home, curl up on my sofa, and cry.
Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, and it’s time for me to put on my big girl panties, suck it up, and break up with my boyfriend of eight months so I can marry a strange mobster. You know, normal relationship stuff.
Ant appears at the door, leaning his forearm against the doorjamb near his jaw, grinning cockily down at me.