Page 4 of Forced Mafia Bride
Sean, I could deal with. We’d been at loggerheads with him for as long I could remember, and the clashes weren’t ever the smoothest.
Ronan, however….
Ronan was a fucking lunatic.
I smiled at Anatoly, suddenly pleased at the news. I leaned backward, reflecting on the endless possible futures this news delivered. Expansion, more influence,more conquest.We’d have them subdued.
“This is it, isn’t it? The golden opportunity we’ve been waiting for? If we get rid of the last Gallagher, the Irish will fall. They’ll no longer be a problem for—”
“Last son,” Anatoly interrupted, reaching for the1947Cheval Blancon the desk. He studied the contents scribbled on the three-hundred thousand dollar red wine with drawn brows, and I studied him.
“Don’t fucking drop it. It was a rare bottle at Edington’s auction. And what do you mean, last son?”
He returned the bottle and knotted his fingers over his stomach with an annoying smugness. “So, it’s what, furniture? You’re not going to pop that bottle?”
“It is unlikely for you to ever hear me say this again, but some things are too good to be tampered with, and the contents in that bottle are one of them. So, yes, it’s fucking furniture.”
“Clearly understood.”
“You were saying something about Ronan?”
“Ah, yes.” He clicked his tongue as if he suddenly forgot our conversation and brushed his tattooed fingers through his buzz cut. “I was saying that, with Sean out of the way now, we have Ronan to deal with because he’s the last son and heir apparent. That doesn’t mean he’s the last Gallagher.”
A confused brow rose on my forehead, and he caught on to my silent questions and further explained.
“There’s a twenty-one-year-old daughter: Rosalyn Gallagher. Ronan and Sean’s half-sister. Cedric had an affair with one Ivana during his marriage to the boys’ mother, Agata.”
That explained a lot about Ronan not being the last Gallagher, but the revelation of the girl held no significance.
“Doesn’t mean anything. She’s a woman, not a threat. Our plans will not be thwarted.”
He wagged a slender finger, differing with another opinion. “But she could be a threat. There’s hushed news about the Irish forming alliance with the Mexican tycoon Tristan Gomez, and it’s not that fucking hard to figure out the only reason the fifty-nine-year-old will agree to that arrangement. He has eyes on the girl and wants to make her his. Despite the rumors about him murdering his first wife, her brother doesn’t seem to give a fuck if she suffers the same fate.”
That wasn’t news to anyone. The Irish were greedy sons of bitches who cared more about power and money than brotherhood. They’d twist and turn and bend for the peanuts. The girl could suffer terrible fates in the hands of that animal, and they wouldn’t bat an eyelash.
Anatoly made a sound in his throat. “Do you know what a wedding like that would do for them?”
Tristan Gomez was known for many things: the insane amount of money and resources he controlled, his brutality in the business sector and in everything else, and his obsession with Tequila and strip clubs. He was as profane as he waspowerful and as smart as he was vicious. In summary, Tristan Gomez was a dangerous man—but not as dangerous as me.
So, I knew what a wedding like that could do for them: a boost in their rank, reinforcement of more men added to their workforce, and a longer stretch of authority.
But, as I said….
I inclined forward, holding Anatoly’s gaze with an indifference that conveyed my message. “Fuck them. We’re on top of our game here. Whatever they think they have against us is feeble and nothing compared to what we’ll do to them.”
We were going to crush them, just as we’d already begun doing from the inside. Their family affairs were none of my business. What concerned me was the Mexican coming into the picture. But I’d been on this mission for a long time already, and I’d be damned before I allowed anything to mess up my plans.
Chapter 3 – Rosalyn
One Week Later
I was a light sleeper. I blamed it on the trauma Ronan and Sean had forced me to endure when we were younger, when Father was away on business.I’d lie in wait, soaked in tears, clutching my pillow to my chest with one eye open because they could pounce out at any time to toss a toy insect on my bed or a real one, like Ronan did once.
The slightest ruffle of the pillowy sheets, flash of light, sound of movement, or flutter of the silken drapes stirred me awake. The same happened when a chime on the nightstand vibrated with a hum. I snatched up my phone, groaning as I slid through the multiple notifications on the screen to fish out the message.
I groaned, rolled my eyes, kicked my legs off the bed, and went to take a shower. The message was from Hannah: my best friendandbodyguard. She was waiting in the living room downstairs, and I wondered why.
I’d known Hannah O’Conner for five years. She’d been nineteen while I was sixteen. She was younger and more vibrant, and I’d mastered her many moods and traits. There was kind Hannah, bossy Hannah, respectful Hannah, and prompt Hannah. We had clicked almost right away and had the best bond ever since, but prompt Hannah always had an uncomfortable itch with tardiness.