The Killer's New Wife by Hamel, B. (uplifting novels .TXT) 📗

“Then what did you mean?” she asked, though she didn’t sound angry. She accepted the wine and sipped it.

“I thought you might’ve run away,” I said, shrugging a little. “I wanted to make sure you were still there.”

She eyed me and held her wine between her hands, then turned and walked to the balcony. Her fingers combed through her still-damp hair as she frowned at me.

“I don’t plan on going anywhere,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about what you showed me.”

I nodded slightly and leaned against the counter. “About your father.”

“Tell me everything you know about him.” She sucked in a deep breath and turned to face me. “I want it all.”

I studied her, not sure what to say. Instead of answering right away, I grabbed a glass and poured a whiskey. I figured I’d need the hard stuff if I was going to get through this alive.

“I told you most of it already,” I said, not meeting her eye, but I knew I wouldn’t get out of this that easy.

“Tell me again.” She came closer, and drank down half her glass. “Please, Ewan. You seem like you gave a shit about those girls. Try to give a shit about me.”

I looked up and felt a stab of surprise and anger. “If I didn’t give a shit about you, I would’ve fed you to the wolves already. There are people in this family that would easily sell you to the highest bidder and be done with it all.”

“But that’s not you,” she said softly.

I clenched my jaw.

It could’ve been me, if things shaped up differently, if I’d been born to a different mother, or if I’d had a different father, then maybe trafficking girls and selling them for sex wouldn’t bother me so much. Killing never seemed to affect me the way it got to other men, and sometimes I thought there was something broken deep inside my soul—like I was filled with rot where there should’ve been light.

“Your father was independent,” I said, and let it rush out, all the gory, ugly details. I told her about the cargo ships, about the long trips, about the girls that didn’t survive, their bodies tossed overboard into the water, about the drugs and the addictions, about the cat houses filled with the poor and the forgotten, and her father at the center of it all, working from the shadows.

She stood back and listened, and as I finished, she sank down onto the couch. Her wine remained cradled in her hands, then she tipped her head back and drank it down in several deep gulps.

“I never noticed,” she said, looking at the coffee table. “How can I call myself a good person if I lived with a monster like that and never noticed?”

“Monsters don’t walk around with a sign around their neck,” I said softly, and thought of my own father, and his dead eyes, and my mother, sobbing on the bed. That was one of the few memories I had of her.

“Still, I should’ve seen it. I mean, an accountant? God, I’m so stupid.”

I walked over and sat down next to her on the couch. She stared at her empty wine glass, and I held out my whiskey. She frowned a little but took it and threw it back, and groaned as it hit her stomach. I put the empty glasses down on the coffee table, and she leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

I sat back next to her. I didn’t touch her, but our legs were close, and I was so aware of that proximity. I thought of her smooth skin, that memory of her beautiful naked body still fresh in my mind, and I wanted her to want this as much as I did, but I knew I wouldn’t push her into it.

She’d come to me all on her own soon enough. And once she did, I’d taste her, I’d feast on her, every inch of her gorgeous lips down to the thick black hair between her legs.

“What am I going to do?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “He’s dead.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “That doesn’t make me feel better, you know?”

“I know,” I said, and felt genuinely sad about it. “I know what happened wasn’t your fault, none of this was your fault. You got sucked into this hell because your father was a bastard, and he paid the price for it. He deserved what he got, but that doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

“No,” she said, “it really doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry, you know. Not that he’s dead, but that your life was turned inside out because of it.”

She looked at me with a deep frown and tears glistened in her green eyes. I reached out hesitantly, and she didn’t stop me when I touched her cheek. My fingertips buzzed electric along her skin as I wiped away the tears and kept my palm there. She nuzzled against my hands and for a moment, I thought about pulling her to me, pulling her into my lap, but she looked away and stood up before I could have her.

I watched her pace across the room, arms over her chest. “How long is this going to last?” she asked. “How long are you going to keep me in here?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I spoke with Dean earlier.”

“He’s the Don’s son, right?” she asked.

“That’s right,” I said. “You’re a test. I have a complicated past, and the Don isn’t sure he can trust me now when the fight with the Healy family is getting hot.”

“Complicated past?” She laughed like it was the most absurd thing in the world. “You’re a killer. You’re a damn hit man. Who cares if you have a complicated past?”

I looked away, out toward the balcony, then leaned forward, elbows on my knees. I closed my eyes and let out a breath. “My mother was Irish,” I said. “She was distantly related to the Healy family.” Tara let out