So much more than my lies.
Truth is, I can’t stop thinking about her—her soft lips, her witchy eyes, her pale skin… I’ve been walking around with a hard-on for days, and no other woman will do. Even the thought of touching another drives my fist into a wall.
“Don’t do it, Frankie.” His expression turns serious. “Don’t go thinking about using her in some Romeo and Juliet star-crossed, start-all-the-wars baloney. That’s not how O’Sullivan operates. He doesn’t give a fuck about Ada, but he gives a fuck about keeping Kirill Semenov happy.”
Kirill Semenov.
Somewhere in my head, a black floodgate opens, and memories I’ve kept buried for years come spilling out—like the secret meetings between my father and the Bratva pakhan before everything went south. Kirill pledged his support for my father’s vision of the Red Compass, then switched allegiance to O’Sullivan. He was instrumental in bringing down my family’s organisation. As such, I plan to make him suffer my vengeance just as harshly as O’Sullivan will.
Guido starts walking back to the waiting taxi again.
“What’s she’s got to do with Kirill?” I say loudly, thinking of the purple bruises on her neck.
Did he give them to her, or did O’Sullivan?
“A band of gold and a lifetime of Russian devotion.” He slides into the backseat and then reappears in the light of the open doorway. “Ada O’Sullivan is marrying Semenov in a couple of weeks, Frankie.”
A wave of emotion colder than the Thames smashes into my soul.
She’s too fragile for that evil bastard.
He’ll crush her, and then he’ll kill her when she’s served her purpose.
“Does she have a say in it?”
He shrugs. “Kirill’s obsessed with her, and O’Sullivan controls her. Therefore, as long as she’s around, he controls the Red Compass. She’ll be going up that aisle, Frankie, one way or the other. There’s nothing in the world that can stop that wedding. O’Sullivan would rather burn London down then let anything fuck up that deal.”
Yes, there is…
Me.
CHAPTER 9
ADA
I haven’t danced in six days.
Haven’t wanted to, despite what I promised him. This numbness in my heart is poisoning my bones.
The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of Thursday—tomorrow—but even my faith in that is fading. Handsome strangers don’t offer salvation without strings attached. Only time will tell if my last hope is an unkind liar.
The next day, I’m waiting in the lobby for Seamus—sitting on the white wooden bench next to the coat stand. My hands in my lap. Feet together. Soul scraping the floor. There’s a tattered library copy of Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo resting on my knees. It used to be my favourite book, a story about justice and revenge, of wrongful imprisonment and redemption.
Now, it just makes me sad.
The lead character, Edmond Dantès, might have escaped from his prison, but there’s little chance of me escaping from mine.
Or my half-brother.
He’s still alive. I hear him screaming at night as they torture him, and it tears me apart. O’Sullivan’s new favourite game is to drip feed me the details over the dinner table. I’ve learned he’s called Danny. Danny Razor. He’s nineteen years old. Two years older than me. They’ve removed his bullet and stitched him up without pain medication, but he has two missing fingers now to add to all his other scars.
I want to save him. But how can I when I can’t even save myself?
The house is unusually quiet today. O’Sullivan’s gone to Hackney to establish his authority over The Firm’s former business interests now that the Razor Dynasty is over.
My dynasty.
My legacy.
Gone, before I even knew it existed.
“You ready?” Seamus appears in the doorway to the kitchen, chewing gum like it’s an insult.
I hate him, and the feeling is mutual. He’s always telling O’Sullivan lies about me—that I’m difficult, or that I’ve talked back to him somehow. Last week, I’d made up my mind not to visit the library after one final trip because it wasn’t worth the beatings. And then Frankie…
Frankie—
“You coming?” snaps Seamus, losing his patience.
Rising to my feet, I go to follow him out to the car. The moment I cross the threshold, a bitter breeze is whipping my loose hair around my face. I close my eyes for a beat and drink it in. People say that spring and autumn are the seasons of change, but they forgot about winter. Winter takes no prisoners. It strips you to the bone. It reveals raw truths about yourself that have the power to make everything different.
What truths will it reveal about me today?
As we enter the library, I peel off to the left—heading straight for the aisle where I saw him last—my stomach churning with a mix of fear and anticipation.
Will he be here?
Will he keep his promise?
“Ten minutes,” I hear Seamus say loudly, not giving a damn about library etiquette and low voices. “You’ve got all the time it takes for me to chain a couple of smokes.”
My heart is in my mouth as I turn into the aisle.
It’s empty.
I fly to the next aisle.
It’s empty, too…
No.
“Ada.”
I turn so fast, my black coat flaring. He’s standing in the aisle opposite, waiting for me, holding a finger to his lips.
He’s beautiful.
Oh God, he’s so beautiful.
All the parts that were hidden from me before are now on display. He’s taller than I thought—six feet, at least. He has a man’s shoulders, but the kind of low-slung, blue-jean waist that only a cool teenager can justify. His wavy black hair is tumbling into two brown eyes that shine like dark bruises. His leather jacket is zipped up to his chin.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
“Did you doubt it?”
Did you doubt me?
“I didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t need to.”
I don’t recall who makes the first move, but the next thing I know is I’m in his arms. He drags us down to our knees, as if the floor is our own private sanctuary.
“I’ve got you, Ada,” I hear him murmur, his body wrapped so tight around me that breathing becomes an afterthought. “I’ve got you, dove girl.”
I’m conscious of his rich cologne; of the thick web of muscles straining beneath his jacket; of the rightness of being inside this outsider’s embrace.
“Who are you?” I pull back to look at him, convinced he’s a literary mirage.
“A man who hates Cian O’Sullivan as much as you do.” He takes my face between his hands, and I feel a mercy in his touch that contradicts his words. “I was looking for a fucking war with the Irish, Ada, but you… you’re the one thing I never saw coming.”
My heart stutters.
Restarts.
Fires up.
“Tell me your full name?”
“Frankie… Frankie Lastra.”
Lastra
My mind spins off on a tangent, pulling at the loose threads of old conversations.