Page 9
Even after several hours, the priceless image was still clear in my head: the fear in her gaze, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. The revelation of my last name had sent shockwaves across her body, leaving her numb and speechless.
She did a great job at masking her anxiety, but I could see right through her. The way her breath caught in her throat, the way her lips parted by a whisper without making any sound, all betrayed her composure. She wore a polished exterior, whereas she was shaking on the inside, like a leaf.
The name rang a bell in her head, a really loud one. Ayla knew who I was. Her father must have spat my name around the house in sheer and utter disdain more than a few times. Ronan O’Hara considered me his enemy, and as such, I was an enemy to the entire family, including Ayla.
She knew this. She understood the depth of our rivalry.
Ayla just didn’t learn my identity on time, lest she wouldn’t have even spoken with me at the art gallery.
That’s why her reaction when I revealed my full name was priceless.
I didn’t miss even the slightest shift in her expression—in her countenance. It was satisfying to watch.
Her face was shrouded in a cloud of confusion, shock, and a glint of something that looked like fear.
It wasn’t fear, though. It looked like it.
But it wasn’t. Why? Why wasn’t she scared of me?
Why didn’t she tremble? Or was she good at masking it, too?
I saw her anxiety, I saw the shock in her gaze, but I didn’t see fear.
Impressive. Strange but impressive.
I could tell that a million thoughts were overlapping in her mind at the time. In that moment of silence, she must have imagined all the possible ways this situation with me was going to end. She must have done the math, run the necessary analysis, but had yet to come up with a logical conclusion.
I’d expected her to at least make an attempt to run or excuse herself. She didn’t. She just laughed and denied it when I suggested that she seemed nervous. Even in that state of confusion and shock, Ayla still glowed in ways that melted my heart.
Her black gown hugged her in all the right places, the silk fabric accentuating her curves. Her skin, soft and smooth, seemed to simmer in the moon’s ethereal glow, and her hazel-brown eyes sparkled with something I’d yet to name.
While she was busy trying to make sense of what I’d just revealed, my gaze swept across her amazing body. I studied her, drinking in the sight of her curvature, the sweet and endearing scent of her feminine perfume invading my senses.
The gentle breeze brushed against her face, flicking the loose strands that fell against her cheeks. Her light makeup blended seamlessly with her natural complexion, as her chestnut-red hair fell in effortless waves over her shoulders.
My gaze dropped to her slightly parted mouth, tracing the gentle curve of her cherry lips.
She blinked a few times and swallowed discreetly in an attempt to calm her racing heart.
She stood like a doe caught in a snare, confused by the predator who hadn’t struck yet. It was an amusing sight to behold.
I poured myself some vodka, a twisted smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. At this moment, Ayla already knew exactly the type of man she was dealing with. It wouldn’t matter whether she decided to avoid me from now on or not. One thing was certain.
I must have her for myself one way or another.
Ayla O’Hara must belong to me.
Later that night, I joined the Bratva inner circle, a very small unit of only trusted individuals within the organization. The location was a Bratva safehouse in Bridgeport.
The air was thick with the scent of cigars and whiskey as threads of smoke swirled around men in black suits, their faces grim. We sat at a long, mahogany table that dominated the center of the room, the chandelier’s soft glow dancing across our features.
Yulian leaned forward, his face scrunched up in a frown.
“They’re making moves.” He dropped a folder on the table.
“Those Irish bastards are negotiating with the Italian syndicate.” His eyes flickered to me, then to the others in the room, his voice sharp.
“Small shipments have been diverted from our docks. Quiet moves, but I can tell you: These scumbags are up to something.”
I picked up the folder, flipping through the pages, calm and composed.
My eyes scanned the document, my expression blank and unreadable as I studied the details: shipment records, intercepted calls, and coded messages.
From what I gathered, the situation was heavier than I thought—it wasn’t just tension anymore; it was provocation.
Ronan O’Hara was behind these covert operations, directly or indirectly.
He had a hand in it—everything in this document pointed in his direction.
He was the brain behind all of these coordinated attacks.
For a long time, both factions had been at each other’s throats, fighting over territorial disputes, missing shipments, and so on.
But this was different. It was coordinated. Intentional.
Kuzma chipped in, his deep voice slicing through my thoughts like a knife. “Yulian is right. They are up to something.” He turned in my direction for a fleeting moment as if to remind me that he did speak to me about this. “If they build enough alliances, we’ll be pushed out of three major zones.”
“That’s bad for business,” Yakov, another inner circle member, added, his voice low and even.
“It’s not just about that, Yakov,” Yulian said, eyes flickering in his direction. “They’re planning something bigger.”
“A fuckin’ takeover,” Kuzma declared.
Voices fell silent, glances exchanged before all heads turned to me. The men anticipated my reaction, my response on how to plan a counterattack. I could see the worry in their gaze, the willingness to rush into battle and put an end to this. Permanently.
But they failed to see the bigger picture; if they did, they’d be as calm as I was.
My expression didn’t shift because I knew all the Irish would do was run around like headless chickens. This was a game, and while my men were thinking about plotting and moving pieces around like pawns, I’d already found the queen.
Ayla.
She was now at the center of all of this. She just didn’t know that yet.