Page 12 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

The last thing I want to do tonight is put on a fancy dress and a smile and pretend to enjoy the company of my betrothed. And yet, that’s exactly what is expected of me.

The staff are preparing a meal for Patrick’s “visitors,” and I have ninety minutes to make myself presentable, amenable, and get my arse downstairs.

Apparently, when Patrick entertains, so do I, unless otherwise informed. It seems my life now is to wait around to see if Patrick needs me as some kind of window dressing. Presumptive prick.

There aren’t enough expletives in the dictionary to describe how much I loathe this man, and there sure as hell isn’t a word strong enough to convey how much I want to watch him take his last breath.

The best I can hope for is to look pretty, keep my mouth shut, and not get my brother and myself killed. Not really the life I dreamed of or got straight As in school for, but Cathal is alive, and that’s loosened the noose from around my neck.

As long as he’s still breathing, I’ ll keep fighting to get to him, to rescue him, and to move us someplace the Mahoneys can’t hurt us.

For that to happen, I need to play the long game, figure out a way to gain Patrick’s trust, and bide my time. It’s not about jumping out of a moving car anymore. Cathal’s care requires careful, precise planning and a boat load of patience I’m not sure I have the capacity for.

But God knows I’ll try my damndest.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and when I open it, three women stand facing me. One is carrying a garment bag, presumably the dress Patrick told me he’d arranged for this evening.

Why I need to wear a fucking gown when we’re staying right here in his mansion is anyone’s guess, but when he says jump, I say how high.

Apparently.

A second women is holding a shiny silver case—if I was a gambler, I’d say she’s a makeup artist—and the third woman of the trio is a hairdresser.

I’m not sure who Patrick is hoping to impress with this flex.

Is he showing me that he can give me whatever I might need at the drop of a hat?

Or is he working overtime to convince his soon-to-arrive guests that his fiancée isn’t an irrational waif he picked up off the street?

To be honest, from the way the women recoil when they lay eyes on me, it could go either way.

I’m not sure that three professionals, all their equipment, and nine hours would make me presentable to whatever criminal underlords Patrick has invited for dinner.

But from the firm set of their lips and the determination in their eyes, these women are about to give it their best shot.

I’m ushered into a scalding hot shower and encouraged to wash my hair with expensive-looking products they’ve brought with them.

Everything about these women screams opulence.

Well-manicured nails, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and I think one of them may have had fillers in her lips and jaw, but whoever does it for her is so good, I’m not sure.

Under normal circumstances, I’d ask for her contact and get some done myself.

I’ve always thought my lips were a little too asymmetrical for my tastes.

But these aren’t normal circumstances, and I can’t let Patrick Mahoney win me over with some cosmetic goddesses who swoop in and make bedraggled Cinderella ready for dinner in an hour and a half.

When I’m showered and dried, they step in to turn me into the belle of the ball.

I’m lotioned from head to toe, with the exception of my still-aching gut wound.

Though, when they get even close to my gunshot wound, I still wince.

The hairdresser dries my hair while the makeup artist somehow manages to make the black eye that has developed disappear.

Although, even she can’t do anything about the staples in my forehead.

By the time they’re done with my glow-up, I almost look normal. My makeup is subtle, natural, and runway ready. My hair falls in loose waves over my bare shoulders, and the emerald green dress with a sweep train and sweetheart neckline clings to me like I was poured into it.

He might be an absolute arsehole, but he’s definitely got an eye for fashion. I swallow a snort. There’s literally no way Patrick Mahoney handpicked this silk dress for me, but whoever he has on staff to deal with such matters has impeccable taste.

The silver pointed-toe slingbacks sparkle as I slip my feet into them.

“Will I do?” I ask the three women standing in front of me looking terribly proud of their group project. If they say no, I might vomit.

Hell, I might vomit anyway.

What happens if I don’t pass this dinner test? What if I can’t convince his business partners, or whoever shows up at the table that I can be an obedient little mafia wife?

A flutter of panic threatens to take hold in my chest, but my hairdresser squeezes my hand, pulling me back from the brink. “You look stunning, Sorcha.”

The other two nod. “Aye, Mr. Mahoney will swallow his tongue when he sees you.”

“His eyes will bulge out of his skull.”

“His heart will stop beating for sure.”

If only wishing made it fucking so.

After ushering me downstairs, the women leave. Part of me wants to scream at them to take me with them, but with Cathal’s care, his very life at stake, I need to stay in line and not make waves.

At least not yet. But when I do, I’ll make waves so big I’ll drown that arrogant fucker.

Patrick stands at the door to the formal dining room, tapping his foot and looking at his watch. There’s a tension holding his shoulders forward, and his jaw is clenched. Whoever he’s bringing to dinner must not be on the Christmas card list.

The sound of my heels on the marble floors draws his head up from his impatient timekeeping, and other than a flare of his nostrils, he doesn’t react at all. My heart sinks, stomach dropping to my pretty shoes as his gaze barely lingers on my pushed-up cleavage, or my nipped-in waist.

I haven’t felt this beautiful in a long time, and while I hate this evil piece of shit for virtually wiping out my entire bloodline, I guess I wanted him to react like a red-blooded man.

There isn’t even a tent in his dress trousers.

Not even a small one like you’d get from one of those cheap online shops where things that look full size turn out to be miniature versions of the real thing.

Embarrassment claws at my bare skin. I’d bet a hundred euros that Patrick Mahoney is a renowned player, one who’d stick his dick in any warm pussy he can find, and yet when he looked at me… nothing.

How am I supposed to marry a man, and stay married, when he looks at me like he’s sucked on a lemon?

He doesn’t wait another moment before he places his palm on my lower back and guides me inside.

Titan, the devil dog, has plunked herself in the corner of the room, and Patrick’s brothers are in attendance.

But they’re not the only ones here. Six well-dressed men sit in silence around the table.

I recognize at least two of them. One is a friend of our Tiernan’s, and the other I saw at Da’s sixtieth birthday party with a group of men I was warned to stay the fuck away from.

My gaze locks on Patrick’s brothers, who look mildly bored by the entire event.

When they see us, the six men stand, but Patrick grunts at them. “Sit.”

I guess I shouldn’t take it personally that he’s a shit to me. It seems his mother never taught him any manners because he’s being rude to these men as well. No handshakes, no smiles… In fact, everyone who isn’t a Mahoney looks pale and shifty, and there’s an air of anxiety in the room.

Strike that, terror. The dinner guests are fucking petrified of Patrick Mahoney.

This isn’t good.

The waitstaff brings in the first course without a single word or so much as a flick of Patrick’s wrist. Is he telepathic? Are they all under some weird mind control?

Bowls of soup are placed in front of some confused looking crooks. Patrick flashes them the same malevolent smile he gave me right before he told me where we were going earlier today, and any trace of an appetite leaves my body.

He squeezes my hand, but it feels like a warning. “Eat, mo mhuirnín. Maeve makes the best lentil soup in all of Ireland.”

I’m not sure I want to eat the fucking soup. The men are all eyeing each other warily, like they’re afraid the food is poisoned. If the atmosphere wasn’t so fucking tense and stifling in here, I’d laugh my arse off.

But as it stands, everyone apart from his brothers waits for Patrick to take the first sip, and right as he pauses to reload his spoon, and I have a mouthful of soup, he drops his bombshell.

“Your bosses are all dead.”

He takes another casual mouthful of soup like he’s just said it’s raining outside. Somehow, the men pale further, looking at each other like they’re afraid they might be next.

“You will report to my captains now.”

As the delicious soup slithers its way down my throat, another piece of the puzzle slots into place.

Da killed the O’Sullivans, then the Mahoneys killed the McCarthys, which means the Mahoneys reign supreme on the island of Ireland. Patrick Mahoney is now the head of all remaining mafia in the country. And these men, a selection of my father’s captains, have been summoned to kiss the ring.

And from the deadly sneer on Patrick’s face, if they don’t bend the knee, they won’t leave this room alive.