Page 9 of Enemy of Ours #1

IRIS

Two and a half years ago

A shadow descends from above, momentarily obstructing the sunlight and causing my hand to stumble over my painting, a streak of white blending into the vibrant shades of blue.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath in frustration, scowling up at the bird that flies in circles above my head, no doubt looking for a rat to feast on somewhere nearby.

This is New York, after all—rats are everywhere.

The thought alone makes me shudder, and I wish I were painting in the rolling hills of Scotland instead.

I miss living there, but Da said it was time for me to come home.

Apparently, spending most of my childhood in Edinburgh, Scotland, has spoiled me.

I mean, my Da isn’t wrong. I was free to roam there, of course, with my nanny at my heels because I was always getting into mischief.

It was so different from the Big Apple. It’s crammed packed here, the city flooded with the worst smells if you just happen to walk past an alleyway.

You can’t even see the night sky, and the only greenery is in Central Park.

I partially live in the park now, but I miss the green hills covered in grass and flowers of Scotland.

I miss the peaceful moments just outside of town, when I could paint without any noise for miles.

However, those days are no longer here. It’s like sardines packed as tightly as possible in a tin can.

I also used to visit New York while growing up over the summers or breaks from school, but I always ended up taking a flight back home because Da said it was safer for me there.

I never understood that as a child, but the older I got, the more curious I became, and one day I found out why I was always shipped back to Scotland.

Danny O’Connor isn’t just a businessman who runs a fish factory.

He’s the head of the Irish Mob, a trader of illegal weapons, among other stuff that had me fuming mad when I found out.

But it made so much sense, given the danger our little family was put in, that he had to ship me off to a whole other continent to keep me safe.

Something always wiggles in the back of my head at that, like a memory I can’t grasp, and I wonder if something happened to me to make him fear for my safety.

An image always appears when I think long and hard about it: worried dark eyes and a pain on my palm right over the bright pink jagged scar I have.

But it always disappears right when I feel a hint of fear enter my mind, as if my body is fighting it off to keep me safe.

It’s something I’ll always wonder about and probably won’t stop trying to figure out until it comes to me.

“My Rose, where are you?” I hear my Da call from inside the house, his gruff voice carrying through the open windows into the back courtyard, where I’m currently set up in the corner under the pink blossom tree with my easel and painting supplies.

“Out back,” I shout over my shoulder and turn back to my messed-up painting, tilting my head to figure out a way to fix it without throwing the whole thing away.

I am so focused on blending the colors, dabbing my brush into the blue and swirling it with a small amount of white, that I don’t hear anyone walking up behind me. I’m streaking the thin brush over the canvas, across the clouds, and almost jump out of my skin when a throat clears behind me.

“Bloody hell!” I scream, the brush dropping from my mouth to land on the brick pavers by my feet as I swirl around with my hand over my chest as I try to catch my breath from fright.

“Language, my rose!” Da thunders under his breath at me, looking appalled as his eyes shift over to the left of my shoulder.

I spin on my heels, feeling a blush coming over my cheeks because I didn’t know I had an audience, and my mouth likes to run away from me before I can think.

It doesn’t matter that I’m eighteen; it’s ingrained in me to act like a lady and not cuss like a sailor, even though I do anyway.

Inga is going to be cross with me, scolding me if she catches wind of the words leaving my mouth, which will probably happen because I swear she can hear even a mouse let out a fart.

Her hearing is extraordinary, really; I hated it growing up when I wanted to get into trouble and explore.

“S-sorry,” I stutter out, my cheeks turning warm as my eyes connect with ones so dark I can’t tell where his pupils begin or end.

The obsidian-colored eyes, framed by thick black lashes that blink slowly at me, evoke a surge of envy within my body.

Firstly, his thick and long eyelashes make his eyes stand out even more.

Secondly, he is probably the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.

He has smooth, tan skin that suggests he either spends all his time in the sun or is naturally that golden brown, with equally dark black hair to match his eyes, a long nose, and thick lips that stretch into a slow smile the longer I stare.

“Iris.” My Da’s voice sounds exasperated and more gruff with me, and it pulls my attention away from the beautiful man.

“Yes, Papa?” I turn to him and widen my eyes because my Da always melts at this look, and I use it well when I want something.

Queen of innocence over here. That’s me. I am not a daredevil at all.

Nope.

He lives in denial and still pictures me as his little girl who used to bring him wilted field flowers and make him play tea parties.

I’m under contract that I’m not allowed to mention that to anyone, but the thought of him wearing a big hat to block out the sun and pretending to sip tea in the garden with me will always bring a smile to my face.

When you see Danny O’Connor, you immediately start begging on your knees, wishing you hadn’t done whatever it is that might have upset him, even if you don’t know what that is.

He is tall and stocky, with prominent muscles and a noticeable scowl between his thick red eyebrows.

He always has a voice that matches the thunder, loud and booming.

I’ve literally seen grown-ass men shake in their boots at the sight of him, but to me, he’s just my Da.

“Lord, have mercy on my soul,” my Da mutters to the heavens, pinching his big nose before letting his hand drop with a big gust of breath leaving his mouth, making his thick orange beard move as if in the wind, and he starts gesturing to the two men at his side, who are staring in amusement at his predicament.

“Lass, I’d like you to meet my two new business partners.

Emilio Messina and his son, Romeo Messina.

You’ll be starting to see their faces around here more often. ”

I try not to look at Emilio’s son while I shake his father’s hand.

It’s obvious to me that he’s the older version of Romeo.

He has the same tan skin, nose, and hair as Romeo, but he has streaks of grey at his temples and more wrinkles around his eyes, which are a lighter shade of brown.

He’s quite handsome too, but not as magnetic as his son.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Messina.” I smile softly, but can’t help gripping his hand hard in a firm shake. I know what kind of company my Da keeps around, and they aren’t good men.

I’ve memorized every dangerous family in New York; it’s a long list, but the Messinas are definitely at the top.

James, my brother, insisted I learn who’s who in the big game of the mafia so I know who to avoid and whose ass to kiss, but these lips will do no such thing.

I’ll leave that to James if he wants to make a business deal and make our father proud.

I shall live in my imaginary world where I can pretend life is grand and all I have to think about is why the sky is blue.

Like my current painting, which is giving me a pain in my right butt cheek because the blue sky colors aren’t blending perfectly.

I’m in dreamland and realize that I am still shaking Emilio’s hand firmly before quickly pulling away to clasp my hands behind my back.

I learned to display strength while maintaining a ladylike demeanor since childhood.

I credit my Da for toughening me up, as he essentially raised me on his own, while Inga taught me all the manners necessary to behave like a lady.

It works sometimes, but I still like to show I’m not someone you can mess with just because I’m a small woman.

Like, for instance, right now. Emilio Messina smiles slightly, his brown eyes twinkling as if he knows what I’m thinking, and he coughs into his other fist in amusement.

“Your old man has raised you well, I see. The pleasure is all mine,” Emilio responds, winking as he clasps his son on the shoulder and pushes him slightly closer to me.

My eyes widen when I see a spot of blue on Romeo's black suit jacket on the shoulder, and I glance quickly towards Emilio’s hands while watching him wipe his fingers on a handkerchief he received from his breast pocket.

Oh God.

I quickly place my hands behind my back, rubbing the fabric of my green sundress between my fingertips to try to get some of the paint off them without them noticing.

I probably look like I’m panicking as Romeo holds his large hand out for me to shake, and I’m just standing here swaying back and forth on my bare feet as I swipe away paint on my clothes.

“O’Connor, let’s go talk in private before Romeo joins us; let us smoke cigars to enjoy, imported right from Cuba,” Emilio encourages my Da with a thump on the back and steers him back towards our three-story brownstone home as his son continues to stare at me with his midnight eyes.

I’m pretty sure he’s not blinking at this point as his gaze shifts across my face, making me suddenly self-conscious of the freckles scattered along the bridge of my nose and cheeks.