Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
The kitchen is stunning but hot, with warm-toned wood, black marble counters, and hanging copper pots.
I take a piece of shortbread. It’s good, not as good as the honey-drenched ones Rodion and I used to make back home or Anya’s flaky masterpieces.
“Do you cook?” she asks, her head tilted. The diamond on her ring catches the light. I look down at my hand with only a slim gold band. I’m not used to the feel of it yet.
“I do,” I say, softer. “And baking too. My brother’s favorite is honey cake. It sort of became my thing at home.”
“Did it?” Her eyes light up, full of practiced interest. “Goodness, I’d love some honey cake. Can’t say I’ve had it, but I’d love to try. We’ll have to get you in the kitchen.” She leans back a little, and her voice drops. “We had a cook. But she left. Her husband got another offer too far from here. It was time for them to go.” A pause. “She was with us for thirty years.”
Thirty years, longer than I’ve been alive. My chest tightens.
“She must’ve known Seamus almost his whole life. When will I see him?” I ask, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.
Caitlin’s eyes flicker. She stirs her nearly empty cup, like buying herself time. “Soon, sweetheart. We’ve been through quite a lot.”
“I understand,” I say with a nod, even though it punches the breath from my lungs. “But how long can one conversation be?”
She exhales slowly. “Oh, you’d be surprised. But there’s been an uproar since you married my son.”
She meets my eyes. And in that moment, I see her, really see her. The power behind the softness. The storm she's holding back.
“Let things settle, Zoya,” she says gently. “We’ll get to know you.” She leans forward. “I promise you’re safe here with me, but stay close to my son, alright, love?”
But I can’t help but wonder: Am I safe with anyone else?
Chapter 21
SEAMUS
I stand in the courtyard. The afternoon sun slants down between ancient stones, golden light slicing through the silence. He didn’t bring me to his office. He brought me outside, like I’m some sort of offering.
And my fists clench because this feels too much like another time. Another version of me, years ago, standing in front of my father after doing something stupid.
So fucking stupid.
I stole his race car. Took it for a joyride like a cocky little bastard. I might’ve gotten away with it if I hadn’t forgotten to wash the mud from the tires.
And then, worse: When I was furious with a rival gang, riding the high of recklessness, I stole one of their cars too. One mistake stacked on top of another.
But this? What I’ve done now? This wasn’t some teenage impulse.
No.
This was cold. Deliberate. This was war.
I took Zoya Kopolova and murdered her betrothed.
I dragged chaos through our front gate and planted it in the garden.
My father’s voice slices the quiet.
“You disobeyed the fucking code, Seamus. What the fuck were you thinking?”
He’s shaking from fury and grief and the weight of betrayal.
“You took her. You touched her. You chose her.”
A pause. A breath.
“A Kopolov.”
I keep my face still, unreadable, even as my chest cracks wide open.
“She’s not the enemy.”
His eyes flash. “Oh no? Then you are.”
The words hit like a gavel. Final.
“This syndicate is splintering because of you. Because of this. You’re sleeping, literally sleeping, with the enemy.”
He throws a hand in the air, pacing the way he always does when he’s balancing on the edge of losing control. His voice grows louder.
“This family is teetering. I could be exiled for this. Killed.”
“I need you to trust me,” I say. The words don’t tremble. They vibrate with threat. With conviction and truth.
The study flashes behind my eyes, dusty books, cracked leather, the smell of stale cigars. I remember what it felt like to be called reckless. To be punished.
But I’m not that boy anymore.
“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. Your friend, your golden boy Branson? He’s a fucking traitor.” My words are a loaded gun.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes lock on mine.
“You’ve said that,” he spits. “You don’t know how loyal he is. You don’t know what he’s done for this family.”
“Why don’t I, then?” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “Why was I, the one meant to inherit this throne, kept in the dark?”
He scoffs. “Jealousy,” he says, pointing a finger at me like it’s a curse. “That’s what this is.”
But it’s not.
I shake my head slowly. “No. The Irish aren’t splintering because I married a Kopolov. They’re splintering because of him.”
But he won’t see it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because Branson showed up when I was too young. Too impulsive. And my father never looked back.
My father has a hard time letting go of control. Always has. He allowed just this one friend in, just one, because that man proved himself. In my father’s eyes, loyalty is everything.