Sparrow(6)

This still doesn’t explain why you thrust yourself into my life with the finesse of an army tank.

I glared at him under my newly fake eyelashes, trying to figure out whether he was even good-looking or not. Troy Brennan was never on my radar, but he was on everybody else’s. He was like the IKEA canvas pictures of London and New York in bachelor apartments, like fast food, like Starbucks, like a freaking Macbook Air for a preppy student—mainstream and well liked. At least among women. Buying into his bad boy, influential, rich mobster’s appeal was the polar opposite of who I was.

And still, even under the unforgiving bathroom light, I could see he might be a monster inside, but on the outside, he was anything but.

His thick black mane—so dark it had an almost bluish hue—was trimmed into an expensive haircut with smooth and soft edges. He had the palest, frostiest blue eyes, and a slight tan that made them pop even more. From afar, he was old-fashionedly good-looking. Tall as a skyscraper, wide as a Rugby player and with prominent cheekbones you could cut diamonds with. As he neared you, though, the dead expression behind those baby-blues made you want to run the other way. His eyes were always lazily hooded, vacant of any trace of emotion. Almost like if you looked deep enough, you’d see all the horrific things he’d done to his enemies running in slow motion.

Then there was also the sneer. The challenging smirk plastered on his face 24/7, reminding us all just how unworthy we were in comparison.

I feared and loathed Troy Brennan. He was practically untouchable in Boston. Loved among the cops and respected by the local gangs, he was able to get away with murder.

Literally.

Three years ago, Troy had been the prime suspect in the murder of Billy “Baby Face” Crupti. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charge stick, but word on the street was the murder was payback. Supposedly Crupti was the one who’d killed Cillian Brennan. No one knew who had sent the simpleton gangster to off Troy’s father or why. The timing was odd. Cillian’s illegal activities were pretty irrelevant to gangland Boston by then. Then there was also the Father McGregor tale, about how Troy killed him too, for ratting about his father’s whereabouts to Crupti.

Yeah, Troy Brennan wasn’t one to take any prisoners.

I still remembered how, growing up, I used to wait for my turn to ride Daisy’s bike (she was the only girl in the neighborhood to have one, and with training wheels, too), and watch in awe when he ran into the cops. I swear the police patted down the boy down the street more than a newborn puppy. They were waiting impatiently for teenage Brennan to follow in his father’s footsteps. He got slammed into the hood of every patrol car that rolled by, and every cop on our beat knew the curve of his ass by heart.

Now cops were too scared to even look at him.

As I stood in the hotel suite’s bathroom, staring at his expressionless face, I realized that I had no cards to play. And even if I had cards, he owned the freaking table.

I was completely trapped, a caged bird with clipped wings.

“Can I still work?” I asked through a strangled voice. Mob wives were not allowed to, but Troy was not a mobster. Technically. He took a step closer, his breath falling on my face.

“You can do whatever the f*ck you want. You have a long leash.”

I felt his lips traveling inches from the crook of my neck, and I stilled. Thankfully, he didn’t touch me.

“But let’s get one thing straight—when it comes to men, I’m the only f*cking one for you. Do not test me on this subject, because the consequences will be grave for you…and for him.”

He was being deliberately obnoxious, but his words still stung. I tried to focus on the small victory I was granted. I could still work. Still get out of the house and avoid him. Now it was just a matter of finding a job to keep me busy.

“If my leash is so long, why is Connor following me around?” I lifted my chin, challenging him.

“Because I always protect what’s mine.”

“I’m not your property, Brennan.” I seethed, narrowing my eyes. Yes, I was scared, but more than anything, I was royally pissed off.

“The fact that you’re in a wedding dress and have my ring on your finger begs to f*cking differ,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “But even if you weren’t, with the amount of enemies I’ve collected in this city, anyone affiliated with me needs protection. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and headed out the door.

It was only after he left my personal space that I released the breath that was trapped in my lungs for what felt like a decade. Why was he so hell-bent on reminding me how dangerous he was?

“You’re not going to get away with doing this to me, you know,” I called out after him, watching his broad back.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Red. I get away with everything. Always.” He didn’t even bother to turn around to face me.

Did he just call me Red?

“Oh, so now I have a nickname? This marriage isn’t real, Brennan. No matter what will happen in church this afternoon.”

That finally made him react. He turned his head in my direction. Our eyes locked. His frosty blues pierced through my greens, burning an imaginary hole all the way to the back of my skull.

Stupid girl. I felt my pulse—wild and manic—behind my eyes, at my throat, in my toes, pumping, pounding, my heart trying to break free out of my skin and run for its life. Why provoke the guy if you can't even handle a stare-down?