“Long engagements are for couples who are uncertain of their intent to wed.” Graham glares at me. “Are you telling me that you’re still unsure of my daughter, lad?”
Oh, I’m more than unsure. I don’t want to fucking marry her.But I can hardly say that out loud. “I was under the impression that long engagements were for planning out the wedding,” I tell him as casually as I can manage. “Surely a wedding can’t be planned in three months—”
“You keep saying that, lad, but that’s nothing but an excuse, I think.” Graham leans back in his seat, his eyes fixed narrowly on mine. “What’s there to plan, really? You’ll get married at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, and Father Dominic will oversee the ceremonies. As for the rest of the frippery—” he waves a hand. “The dress and flowers and the like, I’m sure Saoirse and her mother can settle all of that quickly enough.”
“And if I say that I need more time?” I can feel my jaw tightening rebelliously. “I’ll remind you, Graham, that I run the Kings. These decisions, ultimately, are mine.”
“And I’ll remind you that there’s those, myself included, who think they ought not to be.” Graham’s voice deepens, his own eyes narrowing. “It’s a fuckin’ shame that your brother isn’t the one in that seat, lad, and the one marrying my daughter. I don’t relish the idea of giving you her hand, especially since you seem so fuckin’ ungrateful as to not want it.”
“My brother is gone.” My voice hardens, and I sit up straighter, my hands flat on the table as I meet Graham’s eyes coldly. “He left his responsibilities behind. My father nearly managed to bring us all down by trying to raise up his bastard in Connor’s place. But I’m here, taking up responsibilities that ought never to have to been mine. So don’t fucking talk to me about my brother.”
“Be that as it may, lad,” Graham says, his voice lowering as we both hear the sounds of the other Kings beginning to filter into the building. “Late August, you’ll marry my daughter, if you want to keep your seat. Otherwise, myself, O’Leary, Flaherty, and others will begin to look elsewhere for who ought to sit where you’re seated now.”
The threat isn’t veiled. It’s absolutely crystal clear. And I know that if I break the betrothal, it’ll be so much more than a threat.
It’ll be a fucking war.
---
After the meeting, I go to the one place where I know I can take out my excess anger—the boxing ring with Niall. The two of us do our usual run on the treadmill to warm up and rounds at the weight machines before strapping on our gloves, ducking under the ropes to face off in the middle of the ring.
Niall is an expert boxer—he’d fought professionally on the side for a while, in addition to working as my father’s enforcer and now mine—and years of practicing with him has made me, while not nearly as good, able to hold my own. He doesn’t pull his punches with me anymore, and going several rounds with him in the ring is enough to leave me worn out and sweaty, my excess anger burnt out.
“You’re gettin’ better every time we train,” Niall says with a grin afterward. “Before long, you’ll be trying to get on the pro circuit.”
“I don’t even fight in amateur.” I shake my head, laughing. “It’s a good workout and good to know how to throw a punch if need be, but I’ll never be fightin’ for real the way you used to. No time,” I say wryly. “And I think the Kings would lose their minds if I tried to do such a thing. It’d be unseemly, the leader of the biggest crime organization in Boston fighting for money.”
“It’s a shame,” Niall says with a laugh of his own. “You’d do well.”
“High praise, coming from you.” I toss my gloves into my bag, pushing my sweaty hair out of my face. “Let’s go for a beer after I shower.”
“In no hurry to get home?” Niall raises an eyebrow. “With the pretty ballerina waiting for you?”
“Don’t start,” I warn him, striding towards the showers without a backward glance.
Truthfully, I’d have given my left arm to go home to Ana right now. But even after the grueling training session, I need some time to cool off. Graham O’Sullivan got well and truly under my skin today. I’d hoped I could deflect the approaching wedding date with concerns about planning, but it’s clear that didn’t have the desired effect. He’s dead-set on me marrying Saoirse in August or else, and I’m dead-set on never saying my vows to her at all.
Which leaves me not knowing what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
I want to be with Ana. I know that, down to the depths of my soul. I want to love her, marry her, protect her, defend her. I want to have children with her, raise a family, and live a life of love, passion, and happiness that I hadn’t imagined was possible. With her, it seems possible—and there’s only the roadblock of the past keeping it from happening, in particular, one named Alexandre.
But if Ana can’t get past him, if she can’t even look at me without remembering what she had in Paris and what I took her away from—rescuedher from—then what the fuck am I supposed to do? It’s not that I’m keeping Saoirse as a backup option, far from it. If I thought I could get away without marrying her and not cause a rift in the Kings, I’d have never signed the damned contract at all.
Without knowing if Ana can meet me where I need her to, though, I’m hesitant to take that last step to break things off with Saoirse. Not for the woman herself, but because of the consequences that will affect far more than just me and her.
If I can’t have Ana, there’s no other woman in the world who can make me happy, Saoirse or otherwise. So is it worth starting a war, if she’s just going to leave me in the end?
I should have taken her back to Manhattan, married Saoirse, and gotten on with it.My hand clenches into a fist at the thought, smacking against the wall as I lean forward under the hot spray of water, pressing my forehead against it. My jaw clenches, frustration welling up fierce and hot in me.
I can’t figure out a way to have her and have peace at the same time. But I also can’t fucking see how to live without her.
“Fuck you, Connor,” I growl under my breath, smacking my fist against the tile again angrily. “If you’d just fucking stayed, I wouldn’t fucking have to deal with this!” I snarl the words under my breath, my chest heaving as I grit my teeth. “I swear to God, if you’re not fucking dead, if you’re off somewhere fucking around while I deal with this…with this fuckingshite—”
“Talking to ghosts again, are ya?” I see Niall’s head over the side of the shower, striding towards his own stall. “Shouting at him from the locker room won’t do any good, and ya know it.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, tilting my head back under the water. “No one asked you.”
“Ah, don’t shoot the messenger, aye?” Niall turns on the shower in the next stall over. “Your brother’s gone, Liam. Dead or not, he won’t hear you shoutin’ at him, and it won’t get you out of this situation you’ve gone and roped yourself into.”