Page 85 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"Fair enough." He tilts his head slightly. "I know this is difficult. Losing Seamus. Being married to an Italian. Trying to navigate two worlds that do not always play well together."
I do not respond, just stare at him, waiting for him to get to the point.
"That is actually what I wanted to talk to you about," Patrick continues, his voice taking on a different quality—harder, more businesslike. "Your position as an Italian wife."
"What about it?"
"It puts you in a unique position, Rosalina. You have access to the Salvatore family now. Their home, their business, their secrets." He pauses. "That could be very valuable."
My stomach drops. "Valuable how?"
"To us. To the Irish." He leans forward slightly. "Seamus may be gone, but the Irish mafia still needs to thrive. And right now, we have an opportunity—a chance to expand our territory, to take what should have been ours all along."
"I don't understand," I say slowly, even though I am starting to understand all too well.
"Brooklyn," Patrick says simply. "The Italians have had Brooklyn for decades. But with the right information, the right timing, we could take it. Push them out. Claim it for ourselves."
The words hang in the air between us, and I feel like I can’t breathe, can’t process what he is saying.
"You want me to spy on them," I say flatly.
"I want you to help your family." His voice sharpens. "The family that raised you, that gave you everything. Or have you forgotten where you came from already?"
"I have not forgotten anything," I snap, anger cutting through the numbness for the first time in days. "But what you are asking—Seamus would never?—"
"Seamus was in on this," Patrick interrupts, and the words are like a slap.
I stare at him. "What?"
"The plan to take Brooklyn. Seamus knew about it. He approved it." Patrick's expression softens into something that might be sympathy if I did not know better. "Why do you think he agreed to the marriage so easily? Why do you think he let you take Erin's place? You were always meant to be our inside connection to the Italians."
"No." I shake my head, denial rising swift and fierce. "No, that is not—Seamus would not?—"
"He loved you, Rosalina. But he loved this family more." Patrick moves closer, and I instinctively press back into the chair. "He knew what needed to be done."
"You are lying." My voice shakes. "You are lying about him because he is not here to defend himself?—"
"I am telling you the truth." Patrick crouches down in front of my chair, bringing himself to eye level, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture is too familiar. Too intimate. It makes my skin crawl.
"I know this is hard to hear," he says softly, his hand lingering near my face. "But you need to understand your position now. You are the bridge between two families. And you need to decide which side you are really on."
I lean away from his touch, my hands gripping the arms of the chair. "I need to leave."
"Not yet." His voice hardens. "We have not finished our conversation."
"Yes, we have." I start to stand. "I am going to tell Dante what you are planning, and he is going to?—"
Patrick's hand shoots out, catching my throat and pushing me back into the chair with enough force to make the back of my head crack against the leather.
I gasp, my hands flying up to claw at his wrist, but his grip is iron, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make breathing difficult without cutting it off completely.
"You are not telling anyone anything," he says, and all the false sympathy is gone from his voice now, replaced by something cold and dangerous. "Do you understand me, Rosalina?"
I try to speak, but his grip tightens fractionally, and all that comes out is a choked sound.
"I know where Erin is," he continues, his face inches from mine. "Texas. Little farm outside Austin. Very secluded. Very isolated. Would be a shame if something happened to her out there, would it not?"
