Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(14)

“Made quite an impression on you, did she, boyo?”

I scowl. “No.”

“Really? You’re sitting there spouting poetry about her dreamy eyes, and she didn’t make an impression?”

I drag a hand through my hair and shoot the rest of my whiskey. Then I admit reluctantly, “Aye. But only because of how much she hated me.”

“Hated you?”

I nod. “Wanted to douse me in petrol and light a match. And would’ve danced a jig as she watched me burn.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Excuse me, but I didn’t do a bloody thing!”

“So she’s just a bitch, then.”

“Aye, she’s a bitch!” I pause, thinking of our encounter. “Can’t really blame her, though. She seems awful fond of her niece. Protective of the lass, almost like a mother. Couldn’t have been easy for her to have some strange Irishman clomping about the place and grilling the lass like she was up for an important job interview.”

“Which, technically, she was.”

I exhale heavily, suddenly exhausted. “And she passed. Let’s talk about something else now.”

“Are you joking? I’m having far too grand a time watching you squirm. Tell me more about the Black Widow. What’s her real name?”

I look at the ceiling, biting my tongue and knowing there’s no way out of this but through. My voice comes out gruff. “Reyna.”

“Hmm. Suppose it fits, what with her reputation.”

“You lost me.”

“Reyna means queen.”

Queen. Why that should send such a jolt of lust through my veins, I have no idea.

I close my eyes and clench my teeth, trying to banish the thought of her.

My dick laughs at me and sends me a memory of her full, scarlet lips instead.

Suppressing a groan, I pour myself more scotch.

Watching me closely, Declan says, “You better not make that face outside this room, lad, or you’ll be begging your new wife not to cut your prick off.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“Your cock is.”

“Aye, well, he’s not the boss of me.”

“Let’s hope not. Stick him where he shouldn’t be, and you could start a war.”

I say through gritted teeth, “I’d never do anything to risk that. I know how important this deal is to you. To us. I won’t fuck it up over a piece of arse. Besides, like I said, she hates me.”

Declan lowers his voice. “Funny thing about women, though, Spider, is that it’s never as simple as it first seems.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” I mutter, then take another big swallow of scotch.

I have a feeling I’ll be finishing the bottle.





5





Rey





For six entire days, I don’t speak to my brother. I can barely look at him either.

Which is lucky for him, because if I look at him long enough, I’m liable to scratch out his eyes.

The heartless bastard.

In the meantime, he’s been floating around on cloud nine, bragging about the match to anyone and everyone who’ll listen. He’s already had a meeting with the heads of the other four families to announce the news. I’m surprised he hasn’t taken out a full-page ad in the New York Times.

And Lili, my poor darling Lili, has been locked in her room, crying.

I’m concerned about how hard she’s taking this.

Of course it’s horrible being no more to your own father than a pawn on a chessboard to be moved around to his advantage in Mafia war games, but it’s never been a secret that she’d be matched to a husband the way all the women in our family are.

Though I suppose cold, stark reality is always worse than the theoretical.

A man of flesh and bone is worse than the idea of one.

And an arrogant, swaggering Irishman is exponentially worse than them all.

I haven’t been able to wipe the memory of his smug smirk from my mind. The way he looked at me. The way he laughed at me.

The way he pulled me in with his eyes.

Those long-lashed, half-lidded eyes that burned and brutally mocked me.

If he’s anything less than an absolutely ideal partner to Lili, a Prince Charming she can eventually learn to tolerate if not love, I’m going to kill him.

Which basically means I’m going to have to kill him, because that insufferable toad of a man couldn’t be less of a Prince Charming if he tried.

“Reyna! Sei fuori! You’ve ruined it!”

Startled out of my thoughts by my mother’s sharp rebuke, I look down at the pot of boiling water in front of me. I’m standing at the stove in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in my hand and no idea how long I’ve been off in la-la land, brooding about Lili and the lout.

Long enough to overcook the pasta, evidently.

Leaning on her cane at the stove beside me, my mother crossly pokes me in the arm.

“Look at that soggy mess. Put it down the drain and start over.”

“Sorry, Mamma,” I say, sighing. “I’m preoccupied.”

Her gaze stays on me as I pull on a pair of oven mitts and take the heavy stockpot over to the sink. She watches me as I dump the pasta, refill the pot with hot water, and bring it back to the stove. She continues silently watching as I salt the water and turn up the heat.