Chapter 26 RóISE

"Och, look at you now," Mamo croons to the fluffy kitten she holds up close to her face.

Miceli presented Fitz with his kitten as a gift from the De Luca family. Somehow, he guessed we were worried about Mick or Uncle Brogan refusing to let our nephew keep the kitten and did the one thing that guaranteed that wouldn't happen. Refusing Miceli's gift would be an insult.

Miceli is Fitz's new superhero and Kara thinks the underboss walks on water.

"You'll be keeping Fiona's cat a wee secret for now," Mamo instructs. "My son takes news like this best in small doses and three new pets at once in the mansion is enough to start with."

We all agree because if Uncle Brogan gets a peek at Rambo in his current condition, he'll never let Fiona keep the traumatized cat.

My feet dragging, I return downstairs, Pusheen on my heels.

Miceli said he wants to talk. He said he would wait. However long it took.

He's determined to make a seven-course meal out of my Portland adventure.

But the first course in his office was enough for me. I've already got two new bodyguards. What more can he want?

He's in the living room where I left him, standing by the windows with a view of the bay. But he's too busy doing something on his phone to appreciate it.

He puts the phone away and looks up, his gorgeous face impassive. "That cat thinks she's a dog."

"Pusheen is a superior feline, that's all."

"Pusheen?"

"It means kitten. "

Wonder of wonder. Getting the joke, his lips quirk to one side in a nearly there smile.

He offered me the gift of a rescue kitten. That is what Pusheen will forever be to me. My rescue kitten.

Nodding toward a chair, he says, "Sit."

"I'm not a dog." But I am the hostess here, a voice suspiciously like my grandmother's reminds me.

Which means I should have asked him to take a seat.

"Please." I indicate one of the long, pristinely white sofas facing each other across the twelve-foot square Turkish rug.

"After you," he insists.

Grumbling in my brain, I sit in an armchair several feet from either sofa. It makes up half of a seating group, with an occasional table between it and a matching armchair.

Pusheen saunters out of the room and heads up the stairs. Probably searching for her babies.

I feel abandoned though.

Ignoring my offer of a seat on one of the sofas, Miceli settles into the other chair.

My body responds instantly to his nearness. My ovaries have been singing songs by Nicki Minaj since he arrived and now there's a DJ doing a studio mix.

It's so unfair that he turns me on like this. He's the last man I should want. My mom's memory deserves better.

"You'd be more comfortable on the couch." The designer took all the large men in my family into consideration when placing it.

The armchairs are bone white French Provincial inspired wingback chairs made to accommodate shorter legs. Like mine.

His knees sticking up would be amusing on another man, but Miceli spreads his legs like he owns the place.

The bulge pressing against his suit pants makes my mouth water and I swallow.

"I assumed you wouldn't want this discussion overheard." He raises one sardonic brow.

I should have thought of that, but I was too busy trying to get physical distance between us, I ignored even more important issues of self-preservation. Namely, keeping my rebellion from my uncle's ears.

"You're right."

"You have to start thinking like an adult woman in our world and not a na?ve student," he criticizes.

Stung, I snap my lips together on a nasty retort. That would only support his offensive claim about my supposed immaturity.

He was so different that night in Portland. Never once did he highlight the age difference between us.

Sex, the great equalizer.

There's no point in repeating my desire not to live in our world either. No one but my grandmother and cousins care.

I make a "go on then" gesture with my hand. He's the one that wants to talk. I'd rather be pretty much anywhere else.

"You have nothing to say?" he asks in an even tone that sends chills through me.

Is that his interrogation tone?

Well, I'm not responding to it. "Not really, no."

His eyes narrow, their dark depths reflecting glacial displeasure. "What the fuck did you think you were doing drugging your security detail that night?"

That's easy. "Taking the only chance I would ever have to enjoy a night of freedom before my life got hijacked by the unholy bargain you and my uncle made."

"Sev made the agreement," he corrects. Like it matters.

Newsflash: it doesn't. "With your full cooperation."

"As your uncle supposedly had yours."

"You know why."

He nods and waves it away. Like it doesn't matter.

Wrong again. "Blackmail is a bad foundation for a relationship, especially marriage. I might not have reached the lofty age of 33, but even I know that."

"You're showing your naivete again."

"No, I'm talking sense."

"Coercion is the basis for several alliances of long standing."

Could he sound any more superior? I don't think so.

"The alliance is one thing. Our marriage is another."

He shakes his head, like I'm oh, so annoying.

"There's nothing unholy about our bargain. Our marriage will be blessed by nothing less than an auxiliary bishop."

Nothing less than? The only position higher in the New York church hierarchy is the Cardinal-slash-Archbishop. And that's so not the point.

"It doesn't matter who blesses the union. It's based on an alliance between two criminal syndicates. That's pretty much the definition of unholy."

Miceli's eyes narrow. "Don't think you're going to sidetrack me with an argument. "

"I wasn't trying to argue." But if discussing the sanctity of our upcoming marriage takes precedence over rehashing our recent past, I'm all for it.

And also, I don't like how quickly and easily Miceli sees through my attempts. Uncle Brogan has yet to realize how often the women in our family use his temper and willingness to argue as a diversion.

"Does your uncle fall for that look of innocence?"

What? Is he reading my mind now?

"Are you always such a drama king?" I ask, wide-eyed, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

"You're accusing me of being dramatic? You? The woman who just referred to her upcoming wedding as an unholy bargain , and not for the first time."

He remembers me saying that in Severu's office?

"It's not dramatic to speak the truth."

"Here's some truth for you, if you had gotten into trouble that night, you couldn't have called on your bodyguards because you drugged them ."

"I researched the dose of Rohypnol to give each of them based on their size. They were never in any danger."

"You think I fucking care if your bodyguards died from their roofies?"

"Yes." Miceli can be merciless and a real jerk, but he's also a good leader who will put his life on the line for his men.

Kara felt the need to share those stories.

I don't like the way they make me feel toward him, but no way does he dismiss the lives of my uncle's men as unimportant. If we were at war? Yes.

But now we're in an alliance.

"The only thing I'm thinking about right now is what could have happened to you. You left yourself unprotected with no hope of backup."

I sigh. "You're right. I thought I was safe, but it was a risky thing to do."

"I'm right?" His eyes narrow. "Are you saying that to get me to shut up?"

"Do people do that a lot to you?" I ask with exaggerated wide eyes.

"No one does it twice." The look he gives me makes me shiver.

And it's not in fright.

"I know I took a risk doing what I did in Portland and I should never have drugged my guards. They trusted me and I took advantage of that."

"If a leader's men can't trust him, then he can't trust them to have his back."

"I'm not a mafia leader."

"You're the niece of the mob boss and you will be an underboss's wife soon enough. Our men, at least, will listen to you and look to you for certain things when I'm not around."

"What things?" I ask, intrigued despite myself .

"It depends on what role you choose to play in my life, but I need to know that you are safe and that means you don't circumvent security measures meant to protect you."

"I never did before and I won't again." I might have a little of my family's ruthlessness but the guilt afterward is all mine. "Your men are safe with me."

"Give me your word, or I have to warn them all not to take food or drink from you."

"I promise I will never drug one, or more of your people unless my life is threatened by them or something they are doing."

He stares at me. "You could have stopped at the not drugging part."

"But I can't vow not to protect myself."

"It's my job to protect you and my men will give their lives for you if they have to."

"Then there's nothing to worry about."

"You'll come to me if you're worried. You won't take matters into your own hands."

"But will you listen? It's easy to say my safety is your responsibility, but if I tell you something one of your people is doing and they say they are not, who are you going to believe?"

"Where is this coming from?"

I'm not telling him about my cousin's marriage. "It's a valid concern. You know I despise the Cosa Nostra and I'm sure there are plenty of them that despise the Irish. I know people died on both sides."

"So, you assume I won't trust you?" Miceli asks, his brows furrowed sexily.

The urge to reach out and smooth the lines between them is hard to resist. "Why would you?"

"Because I believe your behavior in Portland was aberrant."

"But why?" Why am I pushing him? Why does it matter?

"If you wanted to lose your virginity so bad, why not fuck one of the boys from school?"

"They're men, not boys. I'm in college not high school."

"Answer the question."

"Because I knew that if I had sex with someone locally, he would probably end up dead. Either at my uncle's hands, or yours."

"That is why I trust you. You're too smart not to have realized the risk you were taking, but you took it to protect the man you planned to have sex with."

"I thought it was worth it."

"Wasn't it? "

"You know it wasn't. I ended up having sex for the first time with the one man I was trying to avoid."

"It was still your choice. It will always be your choice, Róise."

His words hit me like a rogue counterweight slamming down from the stage grid. "What about the baby we're supposed to make?"

"That's not for a couple of years and I don't see you holding out that long."

Holding out because he won't force it.

Even if I have about as much chance of staying away from him as I do chocolate during my period, knowing he won't force it?

Snips away another vine of the poison ivy protecting my heart.

If I'm not careful, I'm going to fall for my enemy.