Slowly, I set my glass on the table, not trusting myself to move any faster lest I lose all control. I want to wipe that smug look off her face, but the Arco brothers wouldn’t be too happy if I started hitting women in their club. “What did you tell her?”
Blair ignores the warning in my voice, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Everything. I told her everything, Killian.” The way she says my name sounds like poison. “She deserves to know the truth, don’t you think? Especially if she’s about to marry a man like you.” She sniffs, a look of disgust on her face.
“I’m sure you told her a twisted version of the truth,” I say, deadly calm. “But not the whole truth, right?” Blair’s lip curls.
My eyes scan the room automatically, even though Blair says Cara had already left. I catch sight of her two friends from the shop on the dance floor. How the hell had I missed them? The taller, blonde one was wearing bright fucking pink. Blair steps in front of me, behind the table, blocking my view.
Her arms cross over her chest, eyes piercing into my soul. “Let’s see if you’ll still have afiancéeafter tonight.” She looks pretty damn pleased with herself.
Snarling, I launch myself over the table. My fingers slide around her throat, gripping it just hard enough to get my point across. Blair’s eyes go wide, never leaving mine, but she doesn’t fight back. She swallows thickly, and I feel the movement against my palm.
“If you ever fuck with me or anyone else in my life again,” I hiss, “you’ll regret it.”
I let her go, and she stumbles back. Her fingers go to her throat, rubbing the skin lightly. “Fuck you,” she hisses. “I really missed you, but now I remember who you really are. Nothing but a low-life drunk who thinks he’s hot shit.”
I turn away from her. I won’t even dignify that with a response. Blair made me her villain a long time ago, and nothing would ever change that. It doesn’t matter that she’d been the one to stab me in the back. It doesn’t matter that she had been the one to toss away the six years we’d spent together. As always, everything was my fault, and she was the perfect angel.
Leaving the alcohol behind, I start for the exit. If Blair had been telling the truth, then I’d just missed Cara. She couldn’t have gone far. Unless she’d gotten a cab.
I shrug off the thought, storming outside.
I grab the nearest security guard. “Have you seen a woman leave recently? Black hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin.”
The guy glances over at his partner. They know who I am; I can see it in their eyes. “Sure. She went that way.”
“Was she in a taxi?” I ask quickly, letting him go. “Or with a driver?”
“I don’t think so.” The guy smooths down his black shirt, readjusting it.
I glance down the sidewalk where he said she’d gone. It would take too long for me to call for a car. Making a quick decision, I start jogging down the sidewalk. I’m not sure what Blair really told Cara, but I didn’t have to think too hard to guess. Whatever she’d said could ruin any chance of this truce working, and that’s not something I can afford to have happen.
Cursing myself, I pick up the pace. This is the last thing I needed tonight.
17
CARA
Istep out of the club, letting the door swing shut behind me. Kimmy and Sadie wanted me to stay longer, but it was already past one in the morning. And, as much as I hate to admit it, Blair’s story had really gotten to me. I’d pretty much assumed most of Killian’s past by piecing together what I’d read online and what I’d heard, but now I knew I’d guessed correctly.
In this world, it’s not surprising for the men of the mafia to have a little fun on the side. Men could do that. Women could not. I’d always known this. But it didn’t make the harsh reality of it any less uncomfortable.
Could I really blame Blair, though? She hadn’t been in an arranged marriage of convenience. She’d been free to choose whether or not she wanted to stay. How could I—or even Killian—fault her for running off with someone else who would treat her better? What if I had the chance to do the same? Would I take that risk and run? Or would I stay and do what’s expected of me?
I’ve been so focused on my studies and proving that I could help run the family business to give marriage much of a thought. But now that it’s nearly knocking on my door, I’m forced to really think about it. What would my life look like being married to someone like Killian Scarano? To a man who took everything as one big joke. A man who didn’t give one shit about women and only used them until he was bored? When I picture my future, I can’t see myself beside Killian playing the housewife. I can’t see myself with him at all.
I know I should call for my driver, but I really need some space to get my thoughts in order. Stopping just out of sight of The Salamander’s front door, I double-check my purse. The security at the club always checks for weapons, but they don’t always check everything. Like this plastic comb that uncaps into a small dagger. Or the lipstick that twists up into a shank. I’m not stupid enough to walk around New York at night without some protection.
Heading down the street, I mentally plan to just walk a few minutes, clear my head, then call the driver from the corner. I just really need to get him out of my thoughts and to calm down a bit before heading home, or I know I’d be up all night. My heels click against the pavement as I turn over what Blair had told me in my mind. She’d felt like Killian hadn’t respected her enough, that he hadn’t been as into the relationship as she had. I know how she feels. Killian definitely doesn’t seem to respect my need for personal space, and he definitely seems to hate the idea of being married to me as much as I do. The only thing that’s keeping him in line is his loyalty to his family.
I’m so focused on my thoughts that I don’t hear the footsteps behind me until it's too late. A hand brushes against my arm just as I whip around, my hands uncapping the comb from my purse. I jolt backward, bringing the knife up before I realize who’s standing before me.
Speak of the devil…
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snap. I don’t lower the knife as I glare back at him.
“I could ask you the same question,” he growls, stalking closer. I eye him warily.
“Back off.” I raise the knife just a tad bit higher, though I’m sure it won’t fend him off for long. He glances down at the blade, one brow rising in amusement. “What are you talking about?”