“Sir,” Niccolo tries again and I snap to him, my eyes narrow.
“Leave mealone,” I mutter darkly. “Go polish the car or some shit. I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.” We’ve been here before, he and I. Before Sienna made me her underboss, this was a regular occurrence. Wasting my life away in clubs and bars, trying to fill the emptiness in my heart with as much alcohol as I could get my hands on. There’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher through the drunken haze. Sympathy? Pity? I can’t decide, but it pisses me off regardless, and I push my hand against his chest as I turn back to the bar.
“Leave.”
The music thrums louder and people yell and laugh around me. The crowd is impressive for this time of day, and I expect another attempt from Niccolo. But there’s none. I glance over my shoulder to check on him, but he’s gone.
I’m alone again.
The bartender returns with a glass in hand, and his apology for the wait once again falls on deaf ears.
“Bring me the bottle,” I demand and his eyes go wide as he sets the glass down.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t—”
“I said bring me the bottle!” I yell. “I fucking own this place and if I ask for a bottle, I better get a fucking bottle!” The bartender stumbles back until he hits the rack of alcohol behind him, then slips away, nodding rapidly.
Is this even my club? I can’t remember where I asked Niccolo to take me. I scan my surroundings, peering through the crowd to the neon lights above and the large pink pillars stretching floor to ceiling as the floor pulses with multicolored squares. Itcouldbe one of my clubs. If it’s not, it should be, considering the size of the crowd it’s drawn at this time of day.
My phone dings, and I glance down to see Cara’s name light up once more. My stomach curls tightly, acid crawling up my throat as my heart stutters brokenly in my chest.
Fuck Cara. Fuck the Irish. Fuck all of them!
It all makes sense now. Cara lied, covering for her father so I wouldn’t kill him for planning a war against my family. I would have. If she’d told me the truth from the beginning, we could have solved the Irish problem much sooner, and we’d have learned why the Russians were gunning for us before more of our people were killed. Instead, she covered for herfuckingpiece of shit father. I know I would have still taken her as my wife. I’d have accepted her full confession as easily as I accepted her half confession, and she would’ve still been safe.
But no, she chose to lie to me.
As I tap the screen to ignore the call, the time flashes up on the screen.Shit, it’s much later than I expected.How long have I been here?Cara’s probably stuck at home, worrying about me.
Good.
And yet, the moment I think about her too long, a yearning swells in my gut. A desire to see her, feel her touch as if it’s the only thing that can ease the pain of my chest shattering.
No. She’s the fucking reason for it, not the cure.
I need a stronger drink.
On cue, the bartender appears and sets a bottle of Scotch down in front of me, bowing away quickly before he can be victim to another tirade. I scoff. If this is my club, we need stronger staff. Can’t blame him if I’ve been here all day. I grumble lightly to myself and unscrew the cap. Sharpness stings my nose and I wrinkle my face, wrapping my uninjured palm around the bottle and tipping the honey liquid down my throat. It soothes like ice, chasing away the burning pain in my heart and the runaway thoughts in my head.
As I set the bottle down, a well-manicured claw lands on my forearm, and a twisted voice fills my ear.
“Killian, I thought you were past this?”
Blair’s purring voice makes my skin crawl, and I recoil immediately, lifting my gaze from the bottle to take her in as she snakes her way into the seat next to me.
Of fucking course, she’s here. Is that all I attract? Wicked women, who worm their way into my heart with hot bodies and wily words only to stomp all over me? Seems like it.
“Blair,” I mutter, “what an unpleasant surprise.”
“Hey now, is that any way to treat a lady?” She crosses one long leg over the other, which causes her little black dress to ride high up her thigh. Her hand lingers where my arm once was, and she leans back against the black bar, her crimson hair cascading around her shoulders like the blood staining my wrist.
“You’re not a fucking lady,” I snort. “You’d never holdthatkind of worth.”
“Someone’s sour,” she snaps back, then she wets her lips slowly and leans close enough that her sweet breath teases over my cheek. “We have to talk, Killian. You can’t avoid me forever.”
“Can’t I?”
“No,” she says with finality, lingering close as if she belongs in my space. “This is important. I need to talk to you. You can’t put this off any longer.”