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I feel my chance fading. This was my best idea, and if I can’t make enough money to pay rent and buy some food soon, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.
Worthless. Useless. Stupid Valentina.
I get up from the bar and he doesn’t stop me this time. “You’re bleeding,” I tell him and start to walk away.
He follows me, the rag pressed against his nose. “Listen, if you need something?—”
“I’m not taking charity.” Except I should. I really,reallyshould. Only I can see my father rolling over in his grave. A Santoro, begging for scraps from the Irish? It’s impossible. It’s unheard of. Maybe he feels bad for making me kneel down and still rejecting my offer, but screw him. “Someone else will do the job. Maybe Julien.” The head of the French organization isn’t my biggest fan, but he’s got the muscle to make this work. Maybe I can convince him.
“Maybe Julien,” Ronan echoes, but the look on his face suggests he doubts it. “Are you sure you’re good? I know it’s got to be hard after Marco and all?—”
I pin him with a glare. “I’mfine, okay? I was just bringing you an opportunity, that’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s all.” His smile returns. It’s soft and knowing, and I hate him for it. “Come back anytime, darling. You look great, by the way.”
“You look like shit. You’re dripping again.”
He grunts and looks down at himself, and I shove my way through the door, back out into the Chicago evening.
Stupid. So stupid. I should’ve known Ronan would turn me down. And I should’ve told him the truth: I’m struggling, running out of options, and willing to do almost anything to keep myself afloat.
Maybe when I get back to my apartment, my pride can feed me and pay my electric bill and make my landlord happy again.
Or maybe I’m just screwed.
Unless I can answer all of Ronan’s questions.
Chapter 2
Ronan
Sunday lunch at the Hayes household. My mother’s running around the place like a madwoman, talking to all my aunts, uncles, and cousins, half of whom aren’t actually related to me, making sure they’ve all got enough to eat and are happy with what’s on TV, the spoiled fucking pricks.
I’ve got ten dozen responsibilities, mainly listening to the bastards complain about everything. An uncle with a nosy neighbor that won’t keep her beak to herself; another uncle with too many parking tickets and maybe I can help with those (I tell him to fuck off and pay your damn tickets, you stupid prick); a cousin with a grudge against another cousin for some gambling-related mishap that I don’t fully understand or care about. I listen, smile, make jokes, make everyone feel like they’re heard and cared about, and send half of them away with vague promises. The other half I’ll help, because that’s what I do.
Sometimes, I miss my father. He’s been gone for five years. His heart gave out on Christmas Day on account of all the drinking and whoring he did for most of his life, and I stepped up to take control of the operation once he was buried. I’m better at thisthan my father ever was, but since he was such a stubborn shit and nasty on top of it all, nobody ever bothered asking him for anything.
That’s not how I run my family. I have an open-door policy, which I regret, immensely. Especially when Cousin Niall saunters into my office, but at least he comes bearing alcohol. We clink glasses of whiskey and he shuts the door, thank God, blocking out the sound of cousins and uncles arguing over whatever sport is on TV at the moment.
“You want to talk about her?” Niall says, sitting on my couch and kicking his feet out.
I give him an amused look. “Who are we talking about here? My mother? Your sister? I’ll talk about your sister, if you like. Fine-looking woman?—”
“Don’t,” he warns. “God, you’re a sick bastard. You grew up with me and Laney.”
“You’re not my real cousin so it’s an acceptable joke. Now, who are we talking about?”
“The Santoro girl.” He’s looking smug again and drinks some whiskey. “You were in a mood for hours after she left.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stare at the clock, willing this day to be over.
“Sure, pretend like it was just the beating Seamus gave you. Come on, you’ve been very careful not to mention her since she stopped in a couple nights ago, and now I’m finally breaking down and asking you about it.”
“You heard the job. You think I should’ve taken her up on it?”
He shrugs and studies his drink. “We’ve done harder for less and on worse intel.”
“The Bianco?—”
