36
1041 Words
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” I snap. “Now f*****g tell me how you got Tru to f*****g fall in love with you.” “All right, calm down. If you must know, I kidnapped her.” It’s my turn to be stunned into silence.
Sounding defensive, he says, “It’s not ideal, I know.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“And it worked?”
“She’s sleeping beside me. Wearing my ring. Carrying my child. I’d say it worked.”
His voice has grown warm and soft, and I know that he’s looking at the sleeping form of his wife snuggled against him in bed. I feel a disturbing pang of what can only be described as envy.
No. It has to be hunger. I’ve never been envious of anyone in my entire life.
Then I realize there was one man I was envious of once. A man who had something that looked beautiful from the outside, the same way that what my brother has with Tru looks beautiful from the outside.
I’ll never have that. That beautiful thing will never be mine. I made a life for myself built on revenge and dead bodies, and beautiful things such as that are not meant for men such as me.
The anguish I feel is so crushing I have to force myself to breathe through it so I don’t smash the phone to pieces in my hand.
“Killian?”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t hate me for saying this, but whatever is meant to be will be. Fate will take care of it.”
I scoff. “Belief in fate is for children and fools. I’m neither.”
“You don’t have to believe in something for it to be true.
Just because you have an opinion doesn’t mean it’s right.” “Of course it does. I’m always right.”
I hear the smile in Liam’s voice when he speaks. “There he is. I was beginning to think you’d been possessed.” He stifles a chuckle. “By the ghost of Romeo Montague.”
“Speaking of which, you’ll enjoy this: her name is Juliet.”
He laughs. “Now that’s funny.”
“It’s not a joke. Guess what else?”
“She thinks the Republic of Ireland is in the UK.”
“Worse. She’s Antonio Moretti’s daughter.”
My brother doesn’t gasp. It’s simply not a thing he does. But from across the phone line comes the distinctive sound of a hard breath being dragged in from shock.
Then he starts coughing. Hacking, like a big piece of meat is lodged in his throat.
“Aye,” I say drily. “Now you know how I feel.”
“Antonio—Moretti’s—daughter?”
The words are garbled, choked out between strangled coughs. In the background, Tru’s voice is a worried murmur.
Shit. I’ve woken her up. “I’m sorry for calling so late. I’ll let you get back to your wife.”
“No! Hold on!” An elephantine trumpeting nearly deafens me. He’s clearing his throat. Then he comes back on the line and thunders, “What the hell do you mean she’s Antonio Moretti’s daughter?”
“I mean exactly that. Her name is Juliet Moretti. Daddy
Dearest is our good friend, Antonio. Welcome to my life.”
He wheezes. I imagine him, bug-eyed, sitting up in bed with the phone clenched so hard in his hand his knuckles are white, his pretty young wife hovering over him in handwringing worry as he tries not to topple over from the stroke he’s having.
The image is strangely satisfying.
“No more pithy platitudes about fate for me, brother? No sage advice about how not to fall hard for our mortal enemy’s only child?”
He barks, “Does she know who you are?”
“Aye.”
“No wonder she can’t stand you! They’re the Capulets and we’re the Montagues! It’s the family business to hate us!”
“She and her father are estranged. They haven’t had contact in years.”
“Oh.”
“She’s also a thief who steals from bad guys like her father and donates everything to charity. It’s how we met.”
“At a charity event?”
“No, when she broke into one of my warehouses and stole two thousand diapers from me.”
After a moment, Liam says, “That can’t be true.”
“Hand to god, brother.”
“Huh. No wonder you’re in such a state.”
I groan in frustration. “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
After a slight pause, he says, “When was the last time you were serious about a woman?”
“Thirty years ago.”
“I’m not f*****g around.”
“Neither am I. The last time I felt like this, I was ten years old. Her name was Katie Dunham. She lived down the street from us. Black hair. Green eyes. Big gap between her front teeth.”
He thinks for a moment. “The one who was always eating handfuls of dirt?”
“That was her sister, Lizzie.”
“So all these years—as an adult—you’ve never been in—”
“No,” I say curtly before he can continue. I couldn’t bear it if he said it out loud. “I came close once. But she belonged to someone else. This one…”
I drag a hand through my hair, struggling for the words to describe it. “This one is different. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. Like I’ve been set on fire. Like I’ve got cancer and only have a few weeks left to live. I’m terminal. I’m f*****g desperate. It’s the worst.”
“It sounds like the worst,” says Liam, chuckling.
“And I haven’t even kissed her yet.”
In a conversation made up of many different types of pauses and silences, this one is the longest. It’s long and loud and echoes with incredulity. Then Liam says, “Have you recently had a fall? Hit your head on a sharp object?”
- Writer
