Page 22 of Carnal Wagers

Our car veered to the curb as the driver behind us honked in loud bursts.

“Want us to wait, boss?”

“No, I’ll find my own way.”

Liam eyed the shop and scratched his head. “You know, you’re not as young as you once were.”

“And you have enough cheek for another arse.”

He scoffed. “Just come back in one piece, alright?”

“Have so far, haven’t I?”

“Aye, you have. Just…don’t forget a helmet.”

The rest went unsaid, but we both knew what he meant. What happens when you don’t come back?

Chapter 6

Alizé – thirty / Cillian – thirty-five

Months later

Year Seven of Marriage

Warm yellow light glimmered through the arched windows and off the interior mirrors behind the bar of the gastropub across the street. Through the car window, I scanned the one-way street for hidden guards or personnel before focusing back on the bar. During previous visits to Boston, I often dined out in this area of the North End with investors, clients, or friends. The area was charming and inviting, just like the business my husband dearest established across the street, with its clean exterior, smooth angles, and the greenery of hanging plants offsetting the red brick accents and black edges around the windows.

Fire flickered invitingly in the fireplace against an exposed brick wall. I could imagine the smells to go with it: a smoky, woody aroma combined with the savory grill of burgers on freshly baked buns, a splash of vinaigrette to add a hint of tart, some buttery melted cheese, and the spicy tang of cloves overhanging the resinous whiffs of tap beer. Americans definitely knew how to do cozy and alluring.

Meanwhile, my sister-in-law, Erel, and I sat in a car, the air thick with the reek of synthetic pine air freshener. A slight drizzle sailed sideways across the car on whistling winds, and humidity crept around the corners of the windows, adding a slightly blurred glow to the streetlights.

“You sure he’s in there?” I asked Erel.

He lowered his binoculars.

“Oui.” He said yes with enough venom, I half expected the binoculars to crack in his punishing grip.

I rolled my eyes and tugged the sun visor down to make the last touches to my lipstick. I dabbed my lips and inspected my eyes for any blotches. None. Perfect.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he added in French.

Erel had made his position on this impromptu trip to Boston quite clear with his let-the-big-tough-men-handle-it bullshit, but I was done waiting and watching my life pass me by.

I’d served Cillian O’Leary enough divorce papers by courier to erect a mausoleum in memorial of our faux marriage. It was time to deliver them in person today, on our seventh anniversary. It was just a formality at this point. I certainly hadn’t ever felt married.

Up until now, I’d been too focused on my career and building my businesses to really put in the effort to deal with my sham marriage, so I left it to my brother to handle for the last two years, ever since we discussed my desire to end it. Yet I was still married. Still bound to someone who’d never be able to give me what I needed.

“I say it’s about time.” Tessa, my sister-in-law, gripped my headrest from the back seat. “So how do you want to play this?”

“Go in. Serve him the papers. Use my business acumen to convince him this is advantageous to us both.” I put on my black-rimmed reading glasses for a touch of foxy sophistication that said “I’m brilliant in and out of the bedroom.” “Deal out some pain with my fists and knife if I have to. Threaten war between his clan, the Chicago and Californian Cosa Nostra, and the French gangs if it comes to it. I’ll play this by ear.”

Tessa snorted. “As expected from you.”

Since my younger sister married the heir of the Chicago Cosa Nostra and Tessa’s brother headed the Californian Cosa Nostra, the De Villier family no longer needed the O’Leary clan’s clout. However, the contract stated the De Villiers owed the O’Learys ten years of monthly payments of one hundred fifty thousand euros during a mandated fifteen years of marriage. If, in those fifteen years, a show of force from the O’Leary clan was never requested by the De Villiers and delivered, the contract would be void, and the O’Learys had to repay every euro. With Cillian’s hardheadedness, it wouldn’t surprise me if they devised some plan to try to force our hand before the fifteen years were up.

If we divorced before the end of the fifteen years, the O’Learys were also liable to reimburse all of the De Villiers’ financial contributions. My late father’s business shrewdness was legendary but a headache for me. I tried to bribe husband dearest by offering to pay for the repayment. His lawyers refused on his behalf. I then proposed to not only take care of the refund but also to fund him the remaining monthly amounts in one lump sum. That got another rejection.

I wasn’t willing to put my life on hold for another eight years.