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“Marco’s little alliance is dead and gone.”
“But you still joined, even though you knew it was dangerous. Come on, tell me I’m wrong. You’re not satisfied playing second fiddle to the Quinns, right? You want to be the biggest Irish crime family in the whole damn region, don’t you?”
His smile disappears at the mention of the Quinns. They’re another Irish crime syndicate, and much better positioned than Ronan’s own. The head of the Quinns is married to one of the Bianco daughters. They have deep resources and a lot of connections, especially in the Chicago Police Department. Ronan’s group is strong, but they’re half of what the Quinns are, and he knows it.
“I joined up with Marco because I liked him and I thought he was right. Let’s be straight about that. The Quinn fucks have nothing to do with it.”
“But you’re tempted. Come on, be honest.”
He licks his lips for a second time, and he holds my gaze for a second too long. “Yeah, baby, I’m tempted all right.”
Suddenly, I’m very aware of how close we’re standing together. Inches separate us, and if he wanted to reach out and touch me, he could. What would I do if he brushed his fingers across my cheek and leaned in with that handsome mouth of his? I should slap him across the face, but what if I didn’t move away? What if I wanted him to kiss me?
I turn my back on him and put space between us. Okay, now I know I must be starving to death or something, because there’s no way in hell my rational brain would ever wantRonan Hayesto kiss me. That’s just… repulsive.
“I’m offering to plan more jobs, that’s all.” Once the kitchen’s between us, I feel a little bit better. He seems amused now and finishes his champagne.
“I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, enjoy your spending money.” He grabs the duffel bag from next to the door and drops it onto the counter. A few hundred-dollar bills spill out. I stare at the cash, not sure why he’s suddenly being so generous, but I’m not dumb enough to say anything. Gift horses, mouths, and all that good stuff. Besides, my freaking stomach rumbles at the thought of all the groceries I can suddenly afford. “Expect further payments every month from here on out. Keep an eye on your mailbox, love.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He moves past me but pauses halfway to the door. “I know what you think about me. Ronan Hayes, what a fucking joke, yeah? You really know me, don’t you? But I’m a man of my word, and when I say something will happen, it always happens.”
Guilt rustles down my spine. I’ve been giving him a hard time, but really, he’s done nothing but try to help me. “Thank you,” I say, and my voice sounds very small.
His face changes. The smirk comes back, and I instantly regret opening my mouth. “You’re welcome, love. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Ah, come on, give me that meek and submissive look again. I absolutely loved it.”
“Fuck off now, Ronan.”
“I’ll be seeing you around, love. You know where to find me if you need anything.” He leaves my apartment. The door shuts behind him, and I walk over to lock it. Once I’m alone, I rifle through the bag and count all my money.
It’s eight thousand dollars, enough to pay my rent, my bills, fill my refrigerator, and then some. My life just changed, all thanks to Ronan Hayes.
He didn’t have to help, but he did anyway.
Maybe I’ve been giving him too hard of a time.
I sit on my couch with my legs tucked under me, flipping through my cash windfall, and stare at the quiet, empty apartment and the dead walls, too aware of the quiet pressing back.
Chapter 8
Valentina
Bloody Strike is very different on a Friday night.
I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I lurk on the sidewalk outside, debating whether I’ll go in or not. The rest of the champagne Ronan left at my place yesterday morning bubbles in my stomach, and I’m pretty sure this is a terrible idea.
But I don’t want to go home.
The apartment is too sad. It’s better now that I have some money—I spent all day yesterday paying off bills and stocking up on much-needed house supplies—but today the quiet settled in again. I can put on music, I can put on the TV, but the quiet’s still there.
I hate that quiet. When I was younger, back when my father was still alive, my life wasneverquiet. There were always people around: friends from school, young members of the Famiglia, Dad and his associates, people coming and going, some sticking around the house and others stopping by with gifts and food and jokes. There was laughter, constant laughter, and important conversation.
There was my father smoking a cigar in the back yard and asking me to make him and the boys a drink and their jokes as I came back with all the wrong orders.
There were the hours spent sitting alongside him and learning the business and his constant stream of conversation.
There was never any silence, and I was rarely alone.
