He doesn’t raise his voice, not even a little.
And the effect is somehow far worse.
Even Pa goes silent and slumps back against his raised pillow.
“Come with me,” Tristan orders in that same frigid snarl, sweeping past me and heading for the door.
I glance towards my father, waiting for him to tell me to stay with him. But he barely meets my eye when he speaks.
“Go, Saoirse,” he says quietly. “Don’t make things worse than they already are.”
I push back the betrayed tears stinging my eyes and follow Tristan outside into the broad hospital corridor. There are a few nurses at the main station up ahead, but otherwise, the place is quiet.
Almost peaceful.
Tristan doesn’t even deign to look at me when he speaks. “You were a fool to think there wouldn’t be any consequences for shacking up with an O’Sullivan.”
“Why?” I demand. “I’m supposed to be loyal to the Kinahans just because you’re in their pocket?”
I know I shouldn’t say it.
I know it even as the words leave my mouth.
But I can feel the walls closing in on me. And like a trapped animal, I feel the need to lash out.
His eyes widen and his nostrils flare dangerously.
“Careful now,” he says. “Careful. I’m trying to help you.”
“Why would I need your help?” I scoff.
He cocks head to the side and gives me an amused smile that reeks of ill intention.
“Your little boyfriend’s rooftop stunt has already reached all the relevant ears,” Tristan informs me. “We know what he did to Brody Murtagh.”
“Murtagh was the one that attacked us!”
“Irrelevant,” Tristan says with a wave of his hand. “Fights between the mafia families are common. Murders are not. That is shit you don’t fucking mess with.”
“Where is he?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Brody Murtagh is in Saint Luke’s Hospital now. A team of doctors are working to see if they can save him. It doesn’t look good.”
“I’m not talking about Murtagh,” I snarl.
Tristan’s eyes narrow. “What does he mean to you, exactly?” he asks. “From what I hear, the boy’s own father thinks he’s little more than a shit-stain.”
I catch a glimpse of the jealousy in his eyes.
Jealousy alone doesn’t have the power to scare me.
But I can see possessiveness, too.
And that’s terrifying.
“He… he’s a friend,” I stammer.
He grabs my arm and twists it towards him. I flinch with pain but he refuses to relax his grip. “A friend you fuck?” he hisses.