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My eyes well, and one stupid fat tear falls before I can blink it back. He leans across the table, swipes his thumb over it, then brings it to his mouth. My stomach flips. ‘I don’t pretend what I do is clean, sweetheart. It’s not. But it’s controlled. And in this world, controlled is the closest you get to mercy. We prevent chaos,’ he continues quietly. ‘There are lines. And I make sure no one crosses them.’
‘Who is supplying the heroin on the streets then?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ he says with steely determination.
A begrudging respect unfurls deep inside my chest. For the first time since I ran into Dominic Kincaid, I see the real man behind the myth. And he is unequivocally not what I expected.
He’s so much more.
He’s still every bit as dangerous, but the real danger is in the way that my heart hammers in my chest every time he’s near.
And the way I’m catching feelings for someone who is everything I swore I wanted to escape from.
19
DOMINIC
Rory is still scouring the streets for his runaway bride.
No one, bar my brothers and staff, knows where Aoife O’Shea is, or why.
Everyone knows I have a woman. It’s the talk of The Syndicate. But no one can know about the wedding. Not yet. Because Mama K will insist we run it by Frankie. I’ve been dodging her calls all week because even though Aoife is softening around me, she’s still nowhere near ready for that interrogation.
Since the kitchen incident, I’ve tried not to flirt with her. Not to terrify her. To remind myself that her being in my house is for her protection. Not my sexual perversions.
But there’s no denying that with every passing day I’m becoming increasingly infatuated with my fiancée. I find myself making excuses to leave work, to watch her make dinner, to steal an extra hour or minute with her any damn time I can.
Tonight, when I finally get home, Aoife is in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She spends hours poring over recipes andmeal planning. Tonight, the scent of garlic and thyme wafts through the air as I stride towards her. Her glossy blonde hair is pinned up on top of her head, and she’s wearing a pale yellow dress that showcases her tanned shoulders. Her back is to me as she works, humming along enthusiastically to a song playing on the radio. I recognise the music. It’s an Irish band called Amber. And if the uninhibited shimmying of her ass is anything to go by, Aoife is a huge fan.
I love how comfortable she is in my kitchen. It’s like she’s lived here for years instead of weeks. I love coming home to her. To this domestic bliss.
But there’s an end date on this.
And already, a house without Aoife in it seems bereft.
I shrug off my suit jacket. ‘Evening.’
‘Hi.’ She spins to face me.
I dump my jacket on the back of one of the stools at the island and make my way to the fridge, fill two glasses, and peer over her shoulder. The scent of her perfume steals into my senses. It takes every bit of willpower I possess not to sink my lips against her neck.
‘Steaks?’ I eye the food in the pan.
‘Yes, I hope you like them.’ She bites her lip with a perfect blend of vulnerability and determination.
‘I’m sure they’ll be gorgeous.’ Everything she makes is. ‘You don’t have to cook for me every night.’ I pass her the wine. Our fingers touch, and that familiar energy crackles between us.
‘I like cooking for you,’ she admits. ‘Besides, it’s not like I’ve got much else to do.’ She shrugs and offers me a small smile.
‘That’s about to change.’
Her eyes snap to mine. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your job at Fernbank. You start at the end of August.’
‘I do?’ She squeals, throws her arms around and squeezes me.
I stiffen—everywhere—then smooth my palm over the length of her spine. She startles, jumping back, clutching her chest. ‘Sorry.’
