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Mattie’s actions are a sharp reminder of the doubts that linger because of our father’s death. “I know what this is, and I understand the importance of responding with the appropriate strength. So, let’s hear some ideas.”
Bryan nods. “We need a measured response. Escalation could lead to all-out war, but we have to at least push back for the dealer and for Jimmy’s.”
“We can start with the two we’ve got locked down,” Grady says.
“Are you thinking torture, killing, or a combination?” Brendan asks.
“We just dumped their drug dealer on their doorstep,” Aiden says. “That’s going to set the stage.”
As my brothers and my two clan captains toss around ideas of how to best fuck up the McGuires, my mind wanders the halls back to the guest room upstairs.
The soft leather of my chair creaks as I lean back and close my eyes. Aiden’s observations are still stirring in my mind. He’s right. I don’t let my cock lead me into decisions.
So why is she sleeping upstairs in my bed?
The idea of that sends a jolt to my cock and my body responds immediately. Not my bed, exactly, but a bed in what is now my home.
Still, the damage is done and now all I can do is imagine her in my bed…still wearing my t-shirt…only wearing my t-shirt.
Laine seemed more angry than afraid about me not being honest about being a restauranteur. She also handled the violence tonight remarkably well. She speaks like a well-educated lady and yet I’ve glimpsed a roughness within her.
She has an iron core.
Laine O’Neill is a puzzle I want to solve and I can’t wait to get my hands on a few more of her pieces.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Laine
Ijolt awake, my mouth open, my scream still tearing at my throat. Clasping my hands over my mouth, I bring my knees up and collapse forward, praying with everything in me that no one heard.
The air is cold against the sweat clinging to my skin. The terror of the memory clutches at my chest, churning as guilt swamps me as I sob. “It’s fine. It was only a nightmare.”
Closing my eyes, I repeat the words and work to slow my pulse, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. It’s a cruel echo of the nightmare that followed me across the ocean.
Flopping back against the pillow, I stare up at the ceiling of the elegant and yet unfamiliar room. It’s not so different from the sprawling Moneta home back in Chicago.
It’s funny how when you see mansions from the street, people think the people inside must be living glamorous, charmed lives. I definitely used to.
Until I learned differently.
I press a hand against my chest and listen to the sounds of the house. If I woke anyone with my screaming, I’m sure they’d be racing through my door by now. Wouldn’t they?
More likely, this mansion is soundproofed to mask the screams of bloody torture and mafia killing.
I sigh and roll my eyes in the darkness. I’m not usually this dramatic, but recent events have tainted my world view.
There’s no use shutting it out because I know experiences like that bubble back up to the surface—usually at the worst possible moment.
Calmer now, I close my eyes and let the memory of the home invasion seep in.
It was definitely the Tessiano Outfit.
Milton, my father-in-law, had accepted some very lucrative clients over the past two years, all with ties to the Tessianos.
From what I knew—which wasn’t much—their legitimate operations were garbage disposal and construction and their illegal operations centered around gaming and import/export.
At first, Milton kept Marco out of everything, but about six months ago, the old man called him into the study for a long, late-night meeting. That’s when the dynamics of everything shifted.
