Page 112 of Broken Blood Ties

Summer’s nose crinkles, realizing, perhaps with disappointment, that I’ve withdrawn. She settles back, having leaned closer to me, and feigns amusement.

Drawing a hand from my pocket, I hold it out to her. “Let me show ya.”

Her teeth toy with her lower lip, and I hiss, hurtling myself at the exit.

Summer smirks, then leisurely rises, the leather whining at her absence.

We move side by side down the hallway. The murmurs of staff and my men breeze in, faded, muted, as the older wood floor creaks below us.

Silence.

Summer doesn’t say anything as we approach the door leading down into the basement—if you want to call it that. She tilts her head, inquisitive as I key in the code opening to the dark void.

“It’s so … bland,” Summer says, her fingertips floating over the bumpy mortar-filled walls down the steps ahead of me. The dim lights buried along the bottom baseboards illuminate each tread, but motion activates the vivid white lights strung in rows above.

“Whoa,” Summer gasps. “You’d never know this was under O’Brien’s.”

Her words have hot pride bubbling in my chest. “Exactly.”

She practically spins down the hallway, attempting to take it all in. I lead her to the training room, locker room, and offices—each time standing back, leaning against the threshold while she ventures in, milling about the rooms.

We backtrack to the prep area behind the arena, behind the ring. Without the crowds of people, an eerie hum throbs as I lead Summer through the arched entry. Then, like before, I let her go on while I linger back, stuffing my hands back in my slacks to study her.

The steel-frame ring in the center of the open arena room glimmers under the high lights. Summer pokes at the ropes boxing in the ring, the synthetic fibers buckling as she pulls a few down, then she climbs on top of the thick padding.

My blood chills, finding her standing in the center of the ring. Such a juxtaposition of sweet Summer and the brutality of the sport. In the same vein though, her standing there is almost like a manifestation come to fruition. Like the woman who haunts my mind and fans my desires during the fight in the ring—all of it makes sense when she’s here.

“Coming up?” Summer asks, grinning at me.

I opt to use the stairs, meeting her in the ring.

She studies me, a concerned glint in her eye while she opens her mouth then closes it. The warring on her face is comical as she repeats the action.

I smirk. “Say whatever it is ye want to.”

She worries her pursed mouth side to side. “Do you worry about not coming home from a fight? Coming home to Aoife?”

“Why? Worried about me?” I snicker, but then allow my smile to downturn when her complexion turns to a sickly pale green, made worse by the lighting.

“I’m serious, Kieran.”

She cares. I can see it in that moment, despite the murky underground. Her eyes, bright and waiting, are sharp. But she steels her expression, lifting her chin.

“I should more than I do. Cormac worries enough for the both of us. But I do. I guess it’s selfish, even more so in the past year with the—” I stop myself before I mention the visions. No doubt that would send her running. And now that Summer is here, in my life. Those visions are useless now. Nothing but a vague memory replaced by balmy air and sweetened peaches.

I move forward. “I worry about leaving Aoife alone. About someone using this sporting platform to assassinate me, or worse, hurt me men. I worry about Riku, and his ability to manipulate me so easily because of who I love. The fear I’m not doing enough to shove back at him is strangling. So, I throw myself into the mix, to blot out the fears, which in turn generate new ones, riddled with guilt. I’m a rat in a wheel.”

Tears gather above her lower lashes, glassy and almost … raging? She blinks and several tears trickle down her cheek.

Working my jaw, I grind my teeth. “Don’t,” I bite out. She shouldn’t feel sorry for me, waste her tears on me.

“Kieran, I didn’t pay much attention to the musings of my father or the Cosa Nostra growing up, but I did know my grandfather, my father, other leaders of organizations who would come around—powerful businessmen, politicians. All of them had children, yes, but none of them were doing it alone.Youare. With an almost five-year-old at that. Your leading of an organization that could rival the Bratva, Cosa Nostra, and Yakuza—it’s impressive. I was wrong to judge you so harshly.”

Her words wash over me, rustling something deep within me that mimics the swell of adoration and embarrassment.

“Do you think Riku is working toward something?” she asks with a genuine inquisitive interest for someone not wanting this world, this life.

“I don’t know what he wants. Right now, he’s puffing his chest, probing to gauge just how much he can get away with.” My thoughts are hurled back into the most recent conversation I had with him.