7. Valentina

Chapter 7

Valentina

I don’t sleep that night. I keep waiting for Ronan’s message letting me know that everything went well, but my phone’s frustratingly silent. Midnight comes and goes, and I know they must’ve made their move, but I get nothing, and I know better than to reach out to him. Not when we agreed he’d text.

The sun starts to rise. I take a shower, just to give myself something to do, and I’m drying my hair when I hear someone banging around in the kitchen. I reach under my sink and find the knife I keep there before stepping out into the hallway, but this time I’m not surprised when I find Ronan.

He’s got coffee and bagels again. And also champagne.

“It’s a celebration, baby,” he says, popping the cork.

I stare at him, gripping the knife. “You said you’d text.”

“Texting is for bored housewives. I’m here in the flesh instead.” He pours two glasses. “Let’s toast.”

I glare at the alcohol. The last thing I want to do is drink, but I really, really want to hear how the job went down, so I suck it up, put the knife down, and raise the glass.

“To asking questions first and stabbing later,” I say.

He glances at the knife and beams. “Here’s to that.”

We clink and drink. The bubbles feel nice on my throat, and when he offers more, I reluctantly say yes.

As I have breakfast, he tells me about what happened. Everything went exactly how I thought it would—right up until the part where he shot Sal in the head and took over the business.

I don’t even know what to say. For once in my life, I’m speechless. He seems so fucking proud of himself, but this is absolute madness. “Those guys worked for Sal for years ,” I tell him finally, trying to make him understand. “They’re old school, Ronan. There’s no way they’ll be loyal to you.”

He doesn’t seem bothered. “You’d be surprised how cheap loyalty can be these days. Let me worry about the shop, all right? Your plan went off perfectly, and I couldn’t be happier.”

I grind my jaw. He was supposed to rob the place, but if he took over the business?—

An idea occurs. I try not to fidget as I think through the implications. “You know, you owe me ten percent of what you took,” I say very casually, like it’s no big deal.

But he’s grinning huge, and the bastard must know where I’m going with this. “I’m true to my word,” he says and points to a duffel bag near the door. “Cash as a little down payment. And from here on out, ten percent of any profits that enter my pockets will be passed along to you. Now, tell me you think I’m lovely, kind, and wonderful.”

“You are none of those things.” I cross my arms, trying not to smile. And failing.

“Ah, come on, baby. I got you an income tonight instead of a single score.”

I hate him. I really do. But he’s right. A big cash infusion is nice and all, but a steady stream of constant payments is much, much better, and if he can actually hold on to the place, I can make some serious money over the long-term.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” I mutter.

He laughs and drinks more champagne. “Cheer up. I’m taking care of you.”

That catches my attention. I look at him carefully, but he’s already moving on and talking about the guys that work there—a foreman named Rich, some lower-level grunts named Eduardo and Ignacio—but I’m stuck on what he said about taking care of me.

Why would he think that? But even an idiot would come in here and see my rock bottom. He knows how bad my life has gotten without Marco, and instead of taking advantage of me, he dropped a big, fat present in my lap.

And I’m supposed to trust this?

Everyone has reasons. Sometimes, they don’t even know what they are until they look back in retrospect, but I have a feeling Ronan’s a little more focused than that. Why would he need a new revenue stream? And why would he willingly hand over ten percent to me?

Pity’s one thing. That would drive me crazy.

But what if there’s more happening here?

“I don’t need your charity, you know.” I cross my arms and give him a hard stare. Hopefully, he hasn’t looked too closely at my apartment, because otherwise, he’d know I’m full of shit. I definitely need his charity, or at least I’m very close to needing it.

Except I’m my father’s daughter, and I can’t live with myself if I start accepting handouts.

“I’d say you earned what you’re being given,” he says carefully, still with that knowing, mocking smile.

“What if I offered you more?” I step closer to him. His eyes flit to my lips, down to my throat, down to my chest, and back up again. Brazen and not even trying to hide it. His smile tightens like he’s struggling against something. Did he like what he saw? Does he think I’m attractive?

That doesn’t matter. Focus on the bigger picture.

“More of what?”

“Jobs. Opportunities. My father left a very big network when he died, and now it’s scattered all over the city and fractured into little pieces. That chop shop is just one Capo, but there are more.”

He makes a curious noise in the back of his throat. “And you’re offering this to me?”

“I’m offering to work with you.”

He leans in and licks his lips. “What if I said I don’t need you, baby girl? I have plenty of opportunities of my own.”

I bristle at the baby girl but push it away. This isn’t the time to let my pride completely control my decisions. “I know you think bigger, Ronan. There’s a reason you joined up with Marco.”

“Marco’s little alliance is dead and gone.”

“But you still joined, even though you knew it was dangerous. Come on, tell me I’m wrong. You’re not satisfied playing second fiddle to the Quinns, right? You want to be the biggest Irish crime family in the whole damn region, don’t you?”

His smile disappears at the mention of the Quinns. They’re another Irish crime syndicate, and much better positioned than Ronan’s own. The head of the Quinns is married to one of the Bianco daughters. They have deep resources and a lot of connections, especially in the Chicago Police Department. Ronan’s group is strong, but they’re half of what the Quinns are, and he knows it.

“I joined up with Marco because I liked him and I thought he was right. Let’s be straight about that. The Quinn fucks have nothing to do with it.”

“But you’re tempted. Come on, be honest.”

He licks his lips for a second time, and he holds my gaze for a second too long. “Yeah, baby, I’m tempted all right.”

Suddenly, I’m very aware of how close we’re standing together. Inches separate us, and if he wanted to reach out and touch me, he could. What would I do if he brushed his fingers across my cheek and leaned in with that handsome mouth of his? I should slap him across the face, but what if I didn’t move away? What if I wanted him to kiss me?

I turn my back on him and put space between us. Okay, now I know I must be starving to death or something, because there’s no way in hell my rational brain would ever want Ronan Hayes to kiss me. That’s just… repulsive.

“I’m offering to plan more jobs, that’s all.” Once the kitchen’s between us, I feel a little bit better. He seems amused now and finishes his champagne.

“I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, enjoy your spending money.” He grabs the duffel bag from next to the door and drops it onto the counter. A few hundred-dollar bills spill out. I stare at the cash, not sure why he’s suddenly being so generous, but I’m not dumb enough to say anything. Gift horses, mouths, and all that good stuff. Besides, my freaking stomach rumbles at the thought of all the groceries I can suddenly afford. “Expect further payments every month from here on out. Keep an eye on your mailbox, love.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He moves past me but pauses halfway to the door. “I know what you think about me. Ronan Hayes, what a fucking joke, yeah? You really know me, don’t you? But I’m a man of my word, and when I say something will happen, it always happens.”

Guilt rustles down my spine. I’ve been giving him a hard time, but really, he’s done nothing but try to help me. “Thank you,” I say, and my voice sounds very small.

His face changes. The smirk comes back, and I instantly regret opening my mouth. “You’re welcome, love. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Ah, come on, give me that meek and submissive look again. I absolutely loved it.”

“Fuck off now, Ronan.”

“I’ll be seeing you around, love. You know where to find me if you need anything.” He leaves my apartment. The door shuts behind him, and I walk over to lock it. Once I’m alone, I rifle through the bag and count all my money.

It’s eight thousand dollars, enough to pay my rent, my bills, fill my refrigerator, and then some. My life just changed, all thanks to Ronan Hayes.

He didn’t have to help, but he did anyway.

Maybe I’ve been giving him too hard of a time.

I sit on my couch with my legs tucked under me, flipping through my cash windfall, and stare at the quiet, empty apartment and the dead walls, too aware of the quiet pressing back.