“She’ll be a virgin, ya lucky wanker,” Boner said. “Fancy that tight, virgin cunt?” I cuffed him good, but the rest of the men guffawed.
“And she’s a pretty lass, to boot,” Nolan said.
“She’ll be my pretty virgin, lads,” I told them. “I’ll thank you to keep your manky eyes off her.”
“The feckin’ Martins, though,” Tully groaned. “Christ but I hate them.”
We sobered at that. I’m not happy the damned Martins will be my in-laws. They’re the lowliest of Irish mob life, the bottom dwellers. There isn’t a crime they won’t commit for money.
Keenan came to my side of the table. “You’re doing the right thing,” he said. “Though I don’t envy you. I want you to know I appreciate it, brother. What you’re doing for the good of the Clan. I won’t forget it, Cormac.”
“Aye, brother,” I told him. “It’s the right choice.”
And it is. Peace between the Clans matters. It fucking matters.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Aye.” As ready as I can be.
“It’ll right in the end.”
“It will.”
Our father was the old-fashioned sort, and he raised his sons to be the heads of house. We lead an army of criminals, the strongest, most well-respected crime ring in all of Ireland. We don’t quail in the face of duty. We do what we must and rule with conviction.
But we take care of our women. Our duty above all is to family, and the women of The Clan never want for anything.
I will learn who my wife is. I will teach her who I am. I will take care of her and do my duty by her. No matter what it takes.
Our caravan of sleek, black cars waits in the drive for us. When we arrive home after the ceremony, Keenan arranged for us to occupy the west wing, on the opposite side of the house to him and Caitlin. All week, our staff has been moving my belongings and preparing for my bride.
I bought flowers, and a few other things. Some jewelry. New throw pillows for my furniture. Seemed girly I suppose.
Lube and a riding crop, gifted by my Clan brothers. I shoved them to the back of my dresser.
The Martin estate’s a good twenty minute drive from our house overlooking the craggy cliffs of Ballyhock.
“Nervous, lad?” Nolan asks good-naturedly.
“Nah.” It’s the truth. I’ve nothing to be nervous about. “Why be nervous? I’ve a duty to fill, no more, no less.”
“You’ve got a sweet virgin cunt to fill,” he says with a wag of his eyebrows.
I can’t help but snicker. “That, too. Now skive off. You say another word about my wife’s cunt, and I’ll beat the crap out of you,” I promise good-naturedly. I mean it, though, and he knows it.
“Aye,” Nolan says with a sober nod. “Fair, brother.”
But when we pull up to the Martin estate, I can tell something’s off. By Nolan’s frown, he can, too.
“You boys see what I do?” Keenan says, sitting up straighter.
I stifle a growl. “Aye.”
Though there’s a white tent set up on the front lawn, there are no decorations, no entertainment prepared to celebrate. No food, or flowers, or people. “For fuck’s sake, something’s rotten in the state of Denmark, isn’t it?” Nolan says.
I clench my fists but don’t reply. Of the three of us, I’m the one that’s slowest to anger, but I feel it now, coiled in my gut like a snake ready to strike. A part of me hopes her brother had something to do with whatever’s fucked up. I’d love an excuse to knock his fucking teeth out.
Our car comes to a stop, and I get out first, followed by Nolan and Keenan.
No one comes to greet us.
This is crap. This isn’t how things should go. They expected us. Today was the day we were to solidify our connections and move from temporary truce to peace between the Clans.
Did the Martins fool us?
Keenan gives me a tight-lipped smile as he walks beside me on my left, and Nolan on my right. We step in sync, soldiers come to claim and conquer.
“Mack Martin had one fucking chance to keep this truce,” I say. If he doesn’t hand me my bride today, our Clans will war.
Men will die.
Keenan growls but doesn’t respond. He was the one who allowed this truce, and I wonder if he regrets that now. What have they done in the interim? Have they set us up? He turns to face the guard and Boner, signaling they wait with his hand in the air. He snaps his fingers and gives Tully a nod. He wants them ready if the Martins ambush. Tully lifts his chin to the men opposite him, and the air ripens with men ready to war.
When I walk up the stone steps, the front door opens.
“Welcome, gentleman.” Mack Martin stands at the top of the stairs. The rest of our Clan follows behind us. My father may have been older, but he was a man suitable for leading his men into battle: fit, sharp, and astute. Mack Martin’s doughy face and heavy jowls speak more to indulgence and laziness than leadership. I don’t bother to hide my disdain when I reach the top step. I scowl at him and don’t respond to his greeting.