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)
Outside, two cars are idling, headlights casting long shadows across the driveway. Seamus nods to a man who opens the passenger door for me, helps me in, and then slides into the driver’s seat.
“You remember the rules, Zoya,” Seamus says as we pull away, giving me a sharp side glance. “Stay quiet. I don’t want to hear a word. Do what I say. This is not the time to fucking push me. Understand? It’s for your own safety.”
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “Of course. I’m not going to disobey you.”
“Because you’re loyal. And brave,” he says. “And sometimes the loyal and brave do fearless things to protect people.”
My stomach drops. “Oh god. Seamus… are you in trouble?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m reclaiming what’s mine and bringing you with me.”
I wonder what his father told him. “Does your father know you’re going?”
“Aye.”
The warehouse we pull up to is nothing more than a nondescript rectangular box on the edge of town. No lights. No signs. If Seamus hadn’t stopped the car, I would’ve missed it completely.
I follow close behind him, every step echoing in my chest. I whisper a prayer, though I don’t know the words. I just need someone, anyone, to keep him safe. My husband.
Inside, the ceiling yawns high above us. Figures linger in shadows, flickering in and out of view under dim, buzzing bulbs.
They stop when we enter. No one speaks.
Seamus doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. He stands tall, still, a living monument to danger and dominance.
He looks around. “This is my wife. Zoya. Respect,” he says flatly.
One by one, they rise to their feet, except for one.
He stays seated. Defiant.
Seamus’s gaze locks on him, and the whole room tenses. The air stills. The moment stretches long and sharp before he draws his gun. Fires.
The man drops, crimson blooming on dark hair. No warning. No explanation. His head lolls forward.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, the scream silent behind my fingers. But I don’t move.
Seamus looks around. “Anybody else want to disrespect my wife?” he asks, lethal and calm.
“No, sir,” comes the chorus. A wave of reverence. Fear. Submission.
He turns to me. “This is Zoya McCarthy now. She’s mine.”
Then, like nothing just happened, he walks to the head of the table and pulls out a chair for me. I sit, every nerve still screaming, but steady.
He takes the seat beside me.
“Now,” he says, folding his hands. “Where were we?”
Chapter 23
SEAMUS
To Zoya’s credit, she doesn’t even flinch when I pull the trigger.
I knew it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, I’d have to deal with the rot. There’ve been whispers and rumors circling like vultures among my men, and I never believed for a second that I’d cleaned house entirely back at the bar in Russia.
And when I spoke to Da, he didn’t need to say much, just enough to confirm what I already knew in my gut. There were whispers I’d made a mistake. That marrying Zoya was a weakness. The only men who thought that? Branson’s loyalists. The old guard who’d rather see the past reign than step into the future. I suspected he assured their loyalty with empty promises or threats against their families.
Our feud, Branson’s and mine, isn’t something I’ve taken lightly. I haven’t shared the details with anyone. No one but Da. And up until now, even he’s leaned toward Branson’s side.
That’ll change. In a few days, once the truth surfaces, it will change.
So when I made every man in that room stand, when I watched their eyes slide over to Zoya, the woman I’ve crowned my queen, I knew. I knew exactly who’d betrayed me.
I didn’t hesitate. I pulled the trigger with the ease of someone who’s done it before. Who knows when justice must be swift.
Another woman might’ve screamed, might’ve run from the room in horror.
But not my lass.
No, not my beautiful, brave lass. She stayed standing beside me, spine straight as an arrow, eyes sharp and calculating. She’s kind, yes. Gentle, sometimes. But beneath that soft veneer is a core of steel.
It's what I love about her.
Back to the task at hand. Ah. Introductions.
I gesture to my left. “You’ve met Ashland, love,” I say. “My first cousin.”
Next to Ashland sits Lorcan, Nolan’s lad. He’s got the same dirty-blond hair and piercing blue eyes as his cousin. The same lean build and restless energy, always scanning, always calculating.
“And Cavin, my brother. Would’ve been at dinner tonight if he hadn’t had business to handle.” Thick with muscle, he has my father’s build and my mother’s eyes. He’s got that quiet power, the kind that doesn’t need to posture. “Cavin runs guns out of Belfast. Loyal as hell to our family.”
He might see Zoya as a threat to the Irish legacy. That’ll change too.
“Daire,” I say, nodding my head to the youngest at the table. Twenty-five. Reckless. Scarred knuckles. Bitter mouth. Eyes that have looked up to me since he could walk. He’d do anything I asked.