Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(42)

Until Diego hisses viciously, “You.”

Bristling at the disrespect in Diego’s tone, one of the armed heavies behind Liam steps forward. When Liam lifts a hand, he reluctantly falls back into place.

Liam says, “We haven’t been introduced.”

His tone is calm and his posture is relaxed, but those eyes. My god. If I were Diego, I would’ve already passed out from terror.

His voice shaking, Diego says, “I know who you are.”

“And I know who you are. But we still haven’t been introduced.”

From behind Diego’s shoulder, I say, “This is my friend. His name is Diego. Don’t hurt him.”

Liam’s eyes cut to me. A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

Diego snaps, “I don’t need you to ask him for protection, Tru.”

Liam glances back at Diego. His smile fades. He says, “Don’t you?”

When Diego drops my hand and steps forward, every man behind Liam steps forward, too. They form a formidable line behind him, staring us down with flat, emotionless eyes.

Shit.

I step around Diego, stand in front of him, and match my posture to Liam’s, folding my arms across my chest. With my chin lifted, I look him in the eye and carefully enunciate my words. “I said, this is my friend.”

For a while, Liam and I simply stare at each other. The silence crackles with tension. A few of the bodyguards or hit men or whatever they are glance at each other, eyebrows cocked.

Then Liam says gently, “I know. I won’t hurt him.”

“Your goons, either. Promise me.”

Now his bodyguards are outright astonished. One of them huffs out a breath. Another’s jaw drops. The rest of them wear expressions ranging from confusion to disbelief.

But Liam only smiles and keeps that same tender, indulgent tone when he speaks again.

“You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His burning gaze rakes over me, head to toe then back again. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Honestly? It was awful.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll have to speak to the head chef.”

“Is ‘speak to’ code for fire?”

“No.”

“Beat up?”

“No.”

“Threaten with dismemberment?”

Liam’s lips twitch. “No, lass.”

“Good. I don’t want to be responsible for any mayhem toward your staff. The food wasn’t good—neither was the atmosphere, if you care to know—but it’s not their fault. I think you’d have to speak to management about that.”

The goon to Liam’s right blinks. Once. Slowly. In any other circumstance, it would be comical.

Apparently, my sass toward his boss is unprecedented.

Behind me, Diego is agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He mutters, “I told you he was bad news, chica. Even before I knew his name, I knew this vato was …”

He says something sharp in Spanish. It sounds like a curse.

Calmly, Liam answers right back.

In Spanish.

They go back and forth for a brief, intense burst, until Diego switches back to English.

“You don’t deserve her!”

He says it loudly, with force and emotion. Every man behind Liam stiffens. But Liam retains his calm demeanor when he replies.

“Careful.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then you’re uncommonly stupid.” Over his shoulder, he says, “Kieran, get him out of my sight.”

The biggest brute steps forward. He grabs Diego out from behind me and drags him toward the door.

When Liam sees my expression, he adds, “And if there’s so much as a bruise on the boy, I’ll hold you responsible.”

“Aye, boss,” grunts Kieran. He releases Diego grudgingly, but gives him a small push toward the door for good measure.

“Tru!” shouts Diego. “Listen to me! Get away from him! He’s dangerous! He’s in the mob!”

Kieran shoves Diego out the door Liam came in. It closes behind them with a hard, chilling thunk that sounds eerily like the lid sliding shut on a coffin.

“He’s in the mob.”

So there it is.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts.

Liam gazes at me with that posture of unruffled calm. He appears totally undisturbed or surprised by Diego’s accusation. He looks as cool as in control as ever.

Except for those incendiary eyes. God, how they burn.

After a moment, he says, “Just for clarity’s sake, I’m not in the mafia.” His voice drops an octave. “I am the mafia.”

He stares at me. His goons stare at me. A small, semihysterical laugh escapes my lips.

I feel unstable, like the ground beneath my feet is shifting, and I’m starting to sink. I knew he was dangerous, of course. I knew he had dark secrets and led an unusual life, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of this moment.

It all comes together like fingers interlacing. Like a key sliding into a lock.

I think of all the months he sat in my section at Buddy’s, staring at me in ferocious silence, his stillness and focus that of an animal—of a predator.

I think of all the times I called him a wolf, my wolf, and how efficiently he killed three men for me, and how I flirted with him, and smiled at him, and begged him to stay while I slept.