Kian
I walk back to my room, the water already evaporating off my body. My fists are clenched and my jaw is tight with fury.
The girl is more trouble than I anticipated. I’m starting to think that keeping her alive is more of a liability than a bargaining chip. Especially since there’s nothing to bargain for.
I don’t want to make a deal with Drago Lombardi.
I want the fucker dead.
I pace around the perimeter of my bedroom. The carpet beneath my feet absorbs the last few drops of water dripping from me. It’s cold, but I welcome the frigidity. It’s helped calm me down—in more ways than one.
My erection was hard enough to be painful there for a second. That also pisses me off. It feels like a fucking betrayal. My own body turning on me.
And she’d definitely noticed it, too. I caught her staring at my cock. Not shocked. Not disgusted. Just… curious. Maybe even a little turned on herself.
My fists tighten further as I move into the walk-in closet and pull out pants and a fresh shirt. Even after I’ve gotten dressed, the adrenaline still pumps through my veins. I’m so fucking aware that she’s in the very next room, trapped inside a wooden box, alone and wet.
Fuck. It’s hard to keep the image of her soaked tits out of my head.
“Stop it,” I growl out loud.
This is just distracting me from the task at hand: killing Drago Lombardi and ridding myself of a nuisance that’s been plaguing me since I got to this fucking city.
I leave my room, walk across the living room and into my office. It’s turned out eerily similar to the office space that Da used to have way back when he was still running things in Dublin. I’ve tried over the years to change things around, to make it more my own. But everything I did just made the resemblance more and more uncanny.
According to Cillian, I’m the one who’s most like Da. When he said that to me, I called him a fucking twat and walked away.
But only because he was right.
Once I’m seated behind my desk overlooking the New York City skyline, I click number one on speed dial and wait for the twat himself to answer.
“Oi, little brother.”
I pop my legs up on the desk and lean into my wing backed leather chair. “Hey, Cil.”
“Damn. Rough night?”
“All I say was ‘hey.’”
“It’s all in the tone.”
“I thought it was all in the eyes?” I tease.
“I can’t see your fucking eyes now, can I?” he says impatiently. “And if I could, I’d tell you that they’re not as alluring as mine are.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you to mature for the last fifteen years.”
“And I told you to give up waiting fourteen years ago.”
I smirk. It’s good to talk to Cillian. Sometimes, I think it’s a shame that we can’t do this together, in the same damn city. But he was right to send me here. It just took me a couple of years to realize that.
“How’s Saoirse?” I ask.
“That’s not why you called,” he retorts in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the only time you call so early is if you have something in particular to discuss with me. Not to shoot the shit.”