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CHAPTER ONE
MERRICK
I’d always lived alone until Clara came along.
The morning after Edwin passed, his estate manager met me in my office in downtown Providence to go over his last wishes. He’d died unexpectedly, but his will was already made up. It was very clear.
His eighteen-year-old daughter was now my financial ward.
In the Welsh mafia organization, every woman had a male guardian for the purposes of financial support and protection. We’d carried that tradition on for hundreds of years.
Edwin had been my closest friend and my right hand for fifteen years. But it still took me by surprise that I was now responsible for his only child.
Me—I was in charge of a person.
I’d run the Welsh organization, an underground mafia along the eastern coast for twenty-six years. I could threaten, coerce, negotiate, charm, and manipulate my way in and out of everything. I’d trained and commanded hundreds of skilled men over the last year alone.
But I’d never taken care of a woman before. That was a bigger challenge than anything I’d faced.
She didn’t have any money of her own, many of our women didn’t by choice. But I still thought it was a shitty move on Edwin’s part to leave her without an inheritance. Everything he owned was left to the organization.
His only child was completely dependent on my generosity.
My organization’s men took a lot of pride in this type of guardianship. How well our women were treated was a mark of honor.
I was the king and I felt the weight of this new responsibility. I felt the eyes of my men on me.
It was my duty to set the standard.
I fixed up the only bedroom on the first floor that night. I wasn’t sure what to put in it, so I looked it up online, which only got me more confused. Finally, I settled on some simple, but feminine, pieces of furniture. Then I put in an order for groceries that I thought she would like. It didn’t occur to me that stocking the fridge with coffee, chocolate, and ice cream was…well, maybe it was stereotyping a bit.
I facilitated Edwin’s funeral, it was my duty as Brenin—the Welsh King. Clara sat at the end of the row, nearest to the coffin. The sky roiled overhead as we lowered Edwin into the ground.
Inside, I was raw. Edwin was my closest friend. We’d spent every day for the last fifteen years together. We’d conquered the coast below Boston, we’d mobilized our soldiers into a real standing army, we’d made this organization into the most powerful in the United States.
But here I was, unable to show a shred of emotion while I read out his eulogy. It wasn’t my place. Later on, I could get a little drunk in my therapist’s office and she’d listen while I poured everything out.
Everyone tossed a handful of dirt and a myrtle leaf onto the coffin.
Clara didn’t.
She just stood there in her black wool coat with her hands shoved deep in the pockets. Her sheet of dark hair hung over her face. I hadn’t actually gotten a chance to see her yet—Edwin never talked about his private life or allowed anyone into it.
Today, at his funeral, was my first time meeting Clara.
People began dispersing, some stopping to speak with her although she barely responded. Others just walked away, unsure how to deal with the stiff, little figure standing at the graveside.
I tucked my eulogy notes into the inner pocket of my jacket and crossed the damp grass. She didn’t move until I gently put my hand on her back. Then she lifted her head in a quick, wary movement. Like she didn’t trust me, which made sense. We didn’t know each other.
She was lovely, but unusually pale. Like she never went outside. Her eyes were a mottled blue-gray, like the ocean in a storm, lined with thick lashes. Her nose was small, her face round, and her mouth full, painted a deep berry pink. Her brows and her hair were almost black and stark against her complexion.
She didn’t look very much like Edwin, but she did look Welsh.
“Clara,” I said, extending my hand.
She stared at my palm before shaking it and releasing me quickly.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
