Chapter Two

Brynna

I close my eyes and inhale deeply as my fingers dance over cracked leather spines. The smell of old ink and musty, yellowed paper hovers in the air around me, bringing an instant smile to my face.

I could live in here and not regret a single second of it.

"Brynna, are you even listening to me?" My older brother, Niall, clearly isn't on the same page as me. His disgruntled question rips me right out of my happy bubble, plunking me down in cold, hard reality.

I prefer the happy bubble.

"Nope," I say cheerfully, just to rile him up. "Didn't hear a word."

In actuality, I heard everything he said. I was just trying to pretend the nonsense he's spouting about a charity gala is someone else's reality instead of my own. I'd much prefer to stay right here all day, thank you very much.

"Dammit," he growls. "Can you please be serious? This is important."

"So is this. Bookstore. Literature presentation. Half of my grade…ringing any bells?" I ask, only partially teasing. If he had his way, I wouldn't be in college right now. I'd be at home with him and our father, safely tucked away behind our mountainous walls, and whichever of their men drew the babysitting-Brynna-for-the-day straw.

Never mind the fact that I'm twenty-one years old and more than capable of babysitting myself. In their world—our world—I'm to be protected at all costs. It's more than mildly infuriating. It's also precisely why I started college two years later than everyone else.

It took me that freaking long to convince them to let me go. Campus is my sanctuary, the one place in the world where I'm actually free of the pressures of being…well, me. I'm not Brynna Sullivan, daughter of Nolan Sullivan, Irish mobster, when I'm at school. I'm just Brynna, boring college student.

At least, I would be if they'd leave me alone for longer than five minutes at a time. As soon as class ends for the day, my phone is ringing. It's exhausting, honestly.

Who does a girl have to kill to get a little peace and quiet?

Everyone, apparently.

"Shit," my brother mutters. "Forgot about that. How long are you going to be?"

"Depends on how long you intend to keep me on the phone." I pluck a copy of War and Peace from the shelf, rifling through it. It's ancient, the pages so well worn the ink has faded in places. "If you'd leave me alone, I could pick a book already."

"Fine, fine," he says. "But hurry, will you? 'Da says you still need to do a final fitting for your dress."

"Crap. The dress."

"Forgot, didn't you?"

"I didn't forget. I momentarily misremembered."

Niall laughs. "You are so full of shit."

"I get it honest."

"Yeah, you do." Another deep chuckle rolls down the line. "Just hurry it up, will you? And enjoy your dusty, boring bullshit."

"Only people who don't read call books dusty, boring bullshit, Niall." I roll my eyes, beyond being offended. He puts up a good front, but we both know his mind is a fascinating place. If he weren't tethered to the family business, the man could be anything. But Niall is…complicated.

I think he actually enjoys being Second-in-Command to our father. He enjoys breaking the law. He enjoys hiding it. He enjoys getting away with it. The man just enjoys doing all the wrong things. He gets it honest. Our father is the same way.

Dad could be a legitimate businessman. He simply chooses not to do it. He likes being the head of a criminal enterprise. Power is enthralling to him. The cold viciousness of their lifestyle feeds something in his soul. It's the same way for Niall. They thrive on chaos.

It scares me to think that there may be some part of me that's the same way. I don't want to be attracted to the life they lead. I don't want any part of my soul to identify with it. Yet sometimes, I think it might.

Why else do I accept that they are who they are? Why else is it so easy for me to pretend this world isn't as fucked up as it is? I'm complicit in their crimes, and I say nothing. Do nothing. I just…accept it.

I hide from the truth in books because the truth scares me. Books are safer. They're kinder. They understand the parts of my soul that ache for something different. For the freedom to admit who and what I really am.

In books, I can be all the messed-up parts of myself, and they don't judge me for it.

I appreciate that because I judge myself enough.

"See you soon," Niall says before hanging up on me.

"See you soon," I sigh, shoving my phone into my pocket. For a minute, I just stand there, staring into space. I'd much rather skip the damn charity gala altogether than spend yet another night pretending the money my father gives to charity makes up for all the terrible things he and my brother do to make said money. If there's a drug epidemic in this city, they had their hands in creating it. Spilling money into the coffers of the groups trying to clean it up is so damn sadly ironic it's painful. It shouldn't be that way.

But if wishes were wings…well, Niall wouldn't be blowing up my phone constantly, that's for sure. I'd actually have a little real independence instead of the illusion of it I've carved out for myself. My family would be at peace instead of constantly at war with some new enemy, and I wouldn't constantly have to look over my shoulder, wondering when the next attack is going to come.

And in this world, there's always a next attack.

I flick my gaze down at the book in my hand.

"War and Peace," I murmur, tucking the book under my arm. I'm doing my presentation on it. Why not? For a book as old as this one, Tolstoy's themes are a little too relevant to my life.

I spend a few more minutes browsing, picking up several more books to add to my collection, before I turn and head for the front counter. That ridiculous dress isn't going to fit itself. Unfortunately.

I turn the corner, worried about the dress for tomorrow's gala, when I collide with what feels like a solid wall.

"Shit," a man growls, grasping for me.

My books fall from my hands, scattering across the floor as I stumble back, nearly losing my balance.

"I'm so sorry!" Cheeks burning, I drop to my knees to gather the mess of books now scattered across the dusty floor at my feet.

The man kneels to help in his expensive suit. My gaze travels up his muscular arms to broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw. His face is a study in sharp angles and smooth planes, his cheekbones high and defined. Intense amber eyes pin me in place as they lock with mine.

Recognition slams into me like a freight train, turning my blood to ice.

Nazario Leyva . My father's nemesis. He's also one of the most dangerous men in this city.

Why is he here?

Do I even need to ask? I've had a target painted on my back since the day I was born. This wouldn't be the first time one of my father's enemies tried to get to him through me. It happens so fucking often it's honestly exhausting. But this one stings. Campus is supposed to be my safe haven, the one place in this city where my father's world doesn't intrude.

If Nazario is here, his world hasn't just intruded. It's packed up and moved in.

Lovely.

"Let me help you with that, cari?o ," Nazario murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. He moves with a fascinating predatory grace as he quickly collects my books, scooping them into his large hands. His eyes never deviate from my face.

My mouth goes dry as I stare at him. He's even more devastatingly handsome up close than he is in photos. Dark brows slash above his arresting eyes, giving him a severe, almost regal look. But little spots of gold in the amber soften the steely, unyielding intensity of his eyes, humanizing him.

There's something magnetic about him. I feel the pull deep in my core.

It's a dangerous feeling. He's destroyed more lives than I can count and fought more battles than I can even process.

Our fingers brush as he hands me the stack of books, and electricity arcs between us. It surges through my veins in a liquid rush, sending my heart rate galloping.

I fumble the books, nearly dropping them again, as I rise to my feet.

Jesus. Get it together, Brynna!

"Thank you," I manage, slightly breathless. I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand, trying to pull myself together. I've dealt with men like him before. This one is no different.

It feels like a lie, even as I think it.

His full lips quirk in a half-smile. "The pleasure is all mine, cari?o . It's not every day I literally run into such a beautiful woman."

He flirts as if he was born with charm dripping from his tongue… and I don't know what to do with that. Most men don't even try. They wouldn't dare cross my father to attempt it. But this one? Well, I think crossing my father is precisely what he intends.

And yet, despite the warning bells clanging in my head, I feel heat rising to my cheeks as he stands in front of me, cool and confident. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs.

I need to get out of here.

I force a polite smile. "I appreciate your help, but I should be going…"

"What's the rush, dulzura ?" He cocks his head, studying me intently. "I don't even know your name yet."

Right. As if he doesn't know exactly who I am.

The air crackles with tension as I stare at him, trying to decide how to respond.

"I suppose you found your way into a used bookstore right off campus completely by accident, then, Nazario?" I ask, arching a brow. "Because last I checked, UCLA didn't offer courses on becoming a Colombian drug lord."

Amusement flares in his gaze. "Ah, I see." That half-smile grows to a full-fledged grin. "And do they offer courses on being an Irish mob princess, cari?o ? Or are you the only one allowed to play by your rules here?"

"So you do know who I am," I mutter, refusing to take his bait. If there are any rules here, he's the one who knows them. I'm flailing in the dark. "Did you follow me here?"

"Follow you? No." His gaze flickers across my face. "Call it a happy coincidence. I was in need of new reading material."

"Right." I lick my suddenly dry lips. The man probably hasn't picked up a book in a decade. "Well, I have somewhere to be." Not technically a lie, though I'm in no rush to get there. "Thanks again."

I clutch my books to my chest like a shield and turn away. His deep chuckle follows me, setting tiny fires in my veins.

Halfway to the counter, his voice halts me. "Hey, Irish."

I glance over my shoulder to find him staring at me, his gaze smoldering.

"You're more suited to peace," he murmurs.

"What?"

" War and Peace ." He nods at the stack of books in my hands. "Choose peace. It suits you better."

I blink wide eyes at him. "Have you ever thought about taking your own advice, Nazario?"

"Only every fucking day." He smirks at me, those amber eyes still locked on my face. "See you around, Irish."

I practically stumble over my own two feet as I make my way to the counter to check out, his gaze on me the entire time. I don't hear a word the cashier says to me as she bags up my books and then swipes my card before handing everything back to me. But I still feel the imprint of Nazario's scorching gaze between my shoulder blades as I hurry out of the store, my heart racing.

The man is a monster. My father would lose his mind if he knew that he'd been here.

And yet, when I glance back before stepping out onto the street and see him still standing there, watching me, the shiver that rips through me isn't entirely unpleasant. In fact, I like the way it feels almost as much as I like the savage hunger in his eyes. And I know I won't say a word.

Shit.