King of the Cage: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Devil’s Own)
King of the Cage: Chapter 36

I made it just over a week in my apartment before I had to get out of there. Since I didn’t want my brother’s posse following me around, telling me what I could and couldn’t do, I lost them only a block away from home.

Seriously, they were dreaming if they thought they could keep eyes on me. I knew the De Sanctis playbook inside and out. Slipping Elio’s security was easy.

After, I wandered aimlessly around shops, peering in, imagining going in and buying something, but nothing held my interest.

Honestly, most days, I felt normal, except for a nagging feeling like I’d left something important at home. Like that persistent itch in your brain that you’ve forgotten your passport when you’re on your way to the airport, or you’ve left the oven on or something.

I wandered Midtown, heading west. I wasn’t familiar with this part of the city but kept burrowing deeper into its streets, led by an invisible string. The afternoon was drawing in, and I was getting cold. I should have worn something thicker than my leather jacket. I needed something to warm me up.

The lights of a pub sitting on the corner tugged my attention. It was a riot of color on the dull street. There. I want to go there. The instinct was too strong to ignore. I pushed through the door before I could stop myself.

Warm air hit my face, enveloping me immediately. Comforting smells of home-cooked food and the soft strains of live music filled the air. I ventured deeper into the pub and approached the bar.

There was a man behind it, big and broad, with red hair.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Can I help you, lass?”

“Can I get something warm? It’s so cold out.”

“A hot toddy coming up. You go sit in your booth; I’ll bring it over.”

I moved away. Your booth? It was an odd thing to say, but then he was clearly Irish, and maybe it was lost in translation. A weird coincidence, considering who my so-called husband was. I headed to a nice-looking booth, far back from the loudest area, and slid into the cozy recess.

The bartender appeared a moment later and placed the drink down.

“How much do I owe you?”

He shushed me and waved a hand nonchalantly. “Later. Drink up.”

I cupped my hands around the hot glass and let the warmth sink into my bones. There was a little swinging door leading to the kitchen, and plates of food kept passing me by, trailing amazing smells as they went.

Should I eat something? I’d barely formed the thought when a woman appeared at the door and leaned an ample hip against it.

“Fergus said you were here. Hungry?”

“Um, yes, do you have a menu?”

The woman tutted and turned back to the kitchen. “I’ll bring you something you like.”

She walked away without a second glance. I guessed that was that.

I listened to the music and watched the hustle and bustle of the pub. A little while later, the door swung open again, and the cook placed a hot bowl of food in front of me.

Mashed potatoes and fragrantly herby sausages, with a thick dark gravy poured over it all. My stomach grumbled loudly, and the cook laughed.

“You eat up, pet. You look like you’ve been starving yourself.”

“Do I? We don’t know each other, right?”

The woman stared at me for a beat and then nodded. “Well, I’m Aoife. Now we do. You eat and enjoy.”

She sat next to me, eyeing the musicians, her hand tapping on her lap. I started to eat. Wasn’t she going to leave? It should have felt awkward, sitting there eating while a complete stranger watched on.

But it didn’t.

It felt nice. More than nice. That tightness in my chest eased as I stuffed my empty belly with creamy potatoes and gravy.

“How have you been holding up?” Aoife asked.

I raised an eyebrow at her. “With?”

“Life? None of us make it out alive, you know?” Aoife chuckled.

I nodded. “I suppose we don’t. Though, I also suppose that we’ve met before… but I don’t remember, right?”

Aoife let out a long sigh. “Thank fuck I don’t have to pretend not to know you. I’m terrible at it. You look like death, my love. You need to come home.”

“I am home, I mean, I’m out of the hospital. I’m staying at home.”

“You won’t be home until you’re back here, in Hell’s, where you belong, with the person you belong with.”

“Don’t tell me. You know the O’Connors?” I teased, already guessing as much.

“Bran is the O’Connors’ youngest. The dreamer, the troublemaker, the one who never cut his heart off quite so thoroughly as his brothers. It’s that beating heart you fell in love with.”

I stared at her. Love? That word again.

“I’m not sure how it came to be that we got married, but I’m certain, hand on heart, that we didn’t love each other. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

“You are. I’ve seen it. You’ll remember. Sooner or later, you’ll remember.”

“I wish I shared your confidence,” I muttered, a chill running down my spine as a cold draft blew in the door when someone opened it.

Aoife shrugged. “If you never recover that place in your heart where he lived, then just fall all over again. Bran’s there. He’s waiting for you.”

“I don’t know him.” The words felt like a lie, but they weren’t to me right now, were they? The toddy had made my head feel soft, and the food had made me sleepy. I leaned my head back against the wall.

“Maybe we can remedy that.” Bran’s voice slid over me like a warm wave.

I stared up to replace him lounging against the bar, watching me. I had no idea how long he’d been there. He was more handsome than he’d been that day at the hospital. Indecently so. In dark jeans, a plaid shirt with a leather biker jacket on top, and his long hair pulled back, he was a far cry from the polished suits and shiny shoes of De Sanctis made men. He was a different breed altogether.

He gave me a lopsided grin, and my heart flipped over.

“Welcome home, wee one.”

“You’re terrible at this,” I teased Bran as he nearly knocked down the entire Jenga tower for the fifth time.

“You try playing this game with these fingers,” he protested mildly.

I glanced at his long, thick fingers. His knuckles were scarred, evidence of many bare-knuckle fights, and the backs of his hands were tattooed. My cheeks felt hot, and I pressed my cool palms against them.

“I see you have a disadvantage, so I take no pleasure in beating you so easily,” I said, moving my hands away from my face before confidently sliding a wooden piece out of the tower.

“That’s fine. Next time, we can play something of my choosing,” Bran said quietly.

His gentle brogue stroked over the words, infusing them with something I couldn’t read but only made my blood burn hotter.

“Do you have any questions for me, Giada?” Bran asked. He watched me, not the game.

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“Don’t you want to know how we ended up married?”

I knew now that we were actually married, because Elio had confirmed it. It still felt surreal.

“I know why.”

Bran raised an eyebrow at me. “And why is that?”

“Because your father told you to. The O’Connors and De Sanctis families weren’t getting along, so your inventive Da, patriarch of the clan, decided to solve things the old-fashioned way. Elio told me.”

“You brother doesn’t know shit.” Bran snorted softly.

“Oh, really.” I sat back and folded my arms across my chest. “Why then? Because we were mixed up in this secret society bullshit?”

Bran shook his head slowly.

“So, you told me to ask questions, but now you won’t answer them?”

He picked up his pint and took a long swallow, staring at me over the lip of his glass. “I married you, Giada, because I had to. I had no choice. I was compelled to. Since the moment I saw you, across the room at Renato’s wedding, something inside me just knew. That’s my wife. You see, I don’t believe in coincidences. I only believe in fate. And from the moment we met, we were fated. I believe that down to my bones. That’s why I married you.”

I forgot to breathe while I was listening to him. His words were spellbinding. I sucked in a breath as a different musician took the small, makeshift stage and tuned up his instrument.

“But I’m not her. The woman from the wedding.”

“Yes, you are, you’re just her a few weeks younger.”

I laughed. “Still. If you change the past, who knows if two people would still come together. The experiences we shared are gone…”

“That only matters if you think love is a circumstantial accident… a serendipitous occasion, which I don’t.”

I managed to pull myself together enough to meet his unwavering gaze. My eyes urged him to go on.

“Which is all a long-winded way of saying that no matter how we met, where, or when… I’d fall in love with you every time, in every eventuality, selkie. There’s no version of my life where I don’t love you. That’s what fate means. I was fated to love you, and I will be here, unwaveringly doing that, until you come back to me.”

My mouth dropped open. What could I say to something like that? It was sweeping and breathtaking and stated so fucking calmly, without arrogance or pride, my heart clenched. A beautiful pain.

The musician onstage started to play. It was a haunting, melancholy melody. I latched onto the chance to change the subject. Bran’s raw emotion was making me feel all kinds of things.

Words appeared in my head, and I tried to sing them softly under my breath, but they were just out of reach.

“You know this one?” Bran asked, sitting back in the booth and studying me.

I nodded. “I think it was my favorite, but I can’t remember the damn name… so nothing new, right?” I gave him a small, tight smile.

His breath hitched in his chest, and his hand curled into a fist on the table. His wedding ring caught the light above the table, a golden flash.

“Well, I can help you out with this one. It’s called ‘The Selkie and The Spring Tide.’”