Page 35 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

It’s embarrassing how excited I am right now.

Like a kid on Christmas morning, bounding into their parents’ bedroom to tell them Santa has come, I hurry downstairs to meet my company for the day.

Burly, surly bodyguard number three stands by the front door with a scowl on his face, clearly thrilled he’s drawn the short straw in taking me out on the town.

He should be grateful. Instead of being around Captain Grumpy Hole, he’s going to get the easy gig of waiting for me to get a rubdown and eat cake.

What more could he want from his job? A quiet day and some cake.

Sounds like bliss to me. Beats blowing someone’s brains out or cleaning up blood from the floor.

He must’ve missed the memo that I’m a delight to be with, especially in comparison to his boss.

Next to my chaperone for the day stands a small dark-haired woman scrolling on her phone. She looks up when I reach the bottom of the stairs, and Patrick appears out of nowhere as her face morphs into a warm smile .

“Sorcha, this is Rosanna. Rosanna, this is my wife, Sorcha.”

The woman steps forward without hesitation or fear and offers me her hand. “So nice to meet you, Sorcha. Are you ready to have some fun?”

How that phrase lands differently now to when Eabha and the girls would say it only a few short weeks ago. Her idea of fun was getting off-our-tits drunk on shots and dancing on tables while Da’s cantankerous bodyguard stood nearby ready to rip the arm off anyone who got too close.

Am I even capable of having fun anymore? Life has shifted so drastically on its axis that keeping my head above water and not getting myself or Cathal killed has been my priority.

A warm hand finds the hollow of my lower back, and Patrick’s head brushes mine. “Go. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you when you get back.” He kisses my temple.

Wait, what? I don’t understand this guy at all. His mood swings are giving me whiplash.

To her credit, Rosanna doesn’t swoon at the morsel of affection he’s showing me. Instead, she takes my hand and leads me away from Patrick. I only get a few steps before it hits me that I have absolutely no money to my name.

I spin to face him, not sure how to say what I need to in front of one of his underling’s wives, but he steps forward and pats my upper arm.

“It’s okay. You’ll be safe. Jack’s got you covered.

Whatever you need.” He slides his hand down my arm, and my feeling-starved-for-affection, traitorous body heats under his touch.

He presses a plastic card in my palm before kissing my forehead. “Enjoy yourself, you deserve it.”

Oh, I get it now. He’s playing the dutiful husband for his audience of one, Rosanna. At least I won’t have to ask my scowling heavy to lend me money to pay for lunch .

I manage a “thank you,” but inside, my gut stirs with bitterness and anger. I shouldn’t have to ask him for money or use his money. We were wealthy enough off our own bat before Patrick stole it all.

Ignoring the flames growing in the pit of my stomach, I say goodbye and head out to the car.

As soon as we’re seated, Rosanna puts up the privacy screen, and when I give her a questioning look, she purses her lips.

“Force of habit. We don’t need to spend all day worrying about what might get overheard by the paid tattletale.

” She winks at me as we pull away from the front of the house and down the driveway.

“So,” she says, sending a concerned stare my way. “As someone who is the product of an arranged marriage myself, I need to ask, how are you doing?” Her face is full of what seems like true concern, but as with everything related to Patrick Mahoney, this could be another test.

I give her a tight smile. “I’m okay, really.”

Her smile softens, and pity fills her eyes. “It’ll take time for you to trust me, but you can trust me, Sorcha.”

I hope she’s right. It’s lonely being the stolen bride of the leader of the mafia, and I miss having people I can talk to.

“Garrett has worked with Patrick for years, and while I’m loyal to him, that doesn’t mean I can’t be a real friend to you. I know how isolating it can be, and frustrating, too. Add in how you came to be here.” She sighs. “I can only imagine how you must be feeling.”

My jaw trembles, the dam keeping all my emotions at bay threatening to spring a leak, but I can’t crumble. This could be a trap resulting in punishment when we get back. Or, worse still, if she tests my loyalty and I fail, I could be driven straight back to the Mahoney house .

No amount of frantic blinking or telling my tear ducts to catch a grip stops them from sending a torrent of tears down my cheeks.

“Oh, honey.” She reaches for me, restricted by the seat belt, and pulls me to her until we’re awkwardly positioned with my head on her shoulder. She runs her hand up and down my arm. “It’s okay. Let it all out.”

“I really am fine with Patrick. He’s not mistreating me. I just… I miss my family so much.” Weeks of bone-deep, heavy, and brutally unrelenting grief crash into me like a tidal wave as I melt down on this stranger’s shoulder.

Credit where it’s due, she holds on to me and doesn’t hurry me through the swells. I’m not sure how long she lets me cry for, but my face probably looks like I’ve been sobbing for a month.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t usually cry on people I just met.” As the tears finally stop, I sit back, and she offers me a tissue from her handbag and squeezes my hand.

“I’ve only ever lost my granda, and that was hard enough.

Don’t you ever say sorry for mourning your losses.

I’m sure it’s difficult to do it in that house surrounded by the people who…

” She shudders, visibly recoiling at her own words.

“If it was me, I’d be dead already. I’d have tried to kill him.

If it didn’t work, I’d try again and again until he lost his shit and offed me. ”

Her bluntness is refreshing.

“Really though, arranged marriages, or I suppose forced in your case, aren’t always the horror story you might think. I’ve been with my husband for over ten years now. Three kids later, and I still haven’t buried his body under the flower bed in the garden.”

“And they say romance is dead.” I smile. This woman has spunk and spine, just like my old best friend, and I hope we’re going to be good friends. Maybe I can model the kind of mafia wife I’d like to be on her.

She narrows her eyes. “You tried, didn’t you? To kill Patrick?” When I don’t answer, she points her finger at me. “I bet you tried. You don’t strike me as the kind of person to take shit lying down.”

Except he has my brother as collateral, so I can’t even attempt to kill him until I’ve made sure Cathal is out of his clutches.

Except… when Patrick shows me a slightly softer side, it confuses me.

Do I still want to escape, or is there a faint possibility I could make a life for myself here?

God knows I don’t have anything else waiting out there for me other than Cathal.

Thanks to Patrick.

This constant vacillation of my emotions is giving me a headache.

The rest of the car journey to Grafton Street is uneventful. I learn Rosanna lives about ten minutes away from Patrick’s mansion, and she likes tennis, watching reruns of Friends, and hates pasta.

Who the fuck hates pasta?

Rosanna, apparently. She also offers to take me to more Serpents games if I want.

After over an hour of wandering through the shops, we break for brunch at a place called Brother Hubbard.

Reading about their seasonal French toast on the menu makes my mouth water.

Brioche French toast topped with a coconut mascarpone, raspberries, coconut and almond flakes, and served with a mango and lime puree.

I throw in a portion of bacon for good measure.

Because what meal isn’t made exponentially better by the addition of some fried pork ?

Rosanna chooses the pulled pork Benedict: two soft poached eggs, hollandaise, pulled

pork, kale, pickled cabbage, mojo sauce, and topped with crispy onion. Her eggs are perfectly runny, and my French toast is pillowy soft with the right amount of crisp on the outside.

I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Maybe this is what brings me back from wanting to die or become a murderer. Sinking back into the delicious food the world has to offer and enjoying every bite like it might be my last. Because let’s face it, some days it feels like it could be.

“You should have bought that dress.” Rosanna spears a piece of pork and waves it in my direction. “It made your tits look fantastic.”

I shake my head. “I have no cause to buy a dress like that. Where would I wear it? To the library at Mahoney Manor?”

“You’d be the belle of the library ball.” She shrugs. “There’s still time to go back.”

In another life, I’d have done just that. Eabha is smart with her money, but Jules doesn’t give a fuck; she shops like it’s her job and encourages everyone else around her to do the same.

With Da’s bank account being as healthy as it was, I wouldn’t have thought twice about grabbing the cream, form-hugging, floor-length dress with a V-neck and a slit up to the hip.

But if I’d picked it up today, it would be just another reminder that my life is very different now to what it was only a short time ago.

There’s enough salt in that wound already.

After an amazing—if painful—ninety-minute sports massage, a facial, and a touch up to my manicure, we begin the funeral procession back to the house. When the driver opens the door for me, I hesitate.

I don’t want to break this bubble of normality, but when the front door to the house opens and Patrick comes into view, there’s no point in delaying.

I say my thanks and goodbyes to Rosanna, who gives me her number and tells me to call any time, day or night, and trudge my way toward the door to my prison.