Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Fuck. One thing at a time.
No matter what, this baby is my priority. If I learned anything from Dad, it’s that family is the most important thing in the world, even when it’s a pain in the fucking ass.
I will take care of Dara, even if it means fucking over everyone else, because that child is my priority.
But if that happens, how are we going to survive?
I can’t withstand the full might of the Crowley organization, and Dad’s a vindictive little bastard.
Thousands of worries assault me as we get into the car. She’s quiet, nervous, fidgeting with her jeans and the hem of her shirt. I keep glancing at her, feeling that rush of desire run down my spine.
Just as fucking beautiful as the first time I met her.
But I can tell I’m already messing things up between us. I roll the privacy screen up before turning toward her as the car drives to my house. “You need to understand something,” I say, voice as gentle as I can make it. She stiffens, glancing at me, face frozen. “In my family, babies and marriage are taken very seriously. It’s almost… sacrosanct. Family is the most important thing in the world to my father. Family, and honoring your word. I made a promise to marry Robin—”
“I don’t expect you to break things off with her,” she says quickly. And adds: “Robin’s a pretty name.”
“Robin is meaningless,” I say, though I shouldn’t. It might give her hope. I push on anyway. “I promised I’d marry her, but now that you’re here and carrying my baby, that makes things very complicated. I just need you to know that I’m not angry with you for coming here and telling me the truth. I’m happy you did.”
“Really?” She smiles slightly. That’s the smile I’ve been dying to see for weeks. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
“You made my life a thousand times harder than it already was, love,” I say, the little term of endearment rolling off my tongue. Dara squirms slightly as if she doesn’t like hearing it. “But I’m a man of my word, and I take care of my family. You are family now.”
“I guess I’m not sure how I feel about that. I still don’t know what you do for a living.”
I smile slightly, turning to look out at the city.
How do I explain my family to her?
There are a thousand ways: we’re gangsters, we’re thugs, we buy politicians and unions, we own half the city of Boston, and a quarter of Philadelphia, and big chunks of New York. We’re a force on the East Coast, and we rival any crime organization in the world.
She’ll find all that out in time.
For now, I gesture at the window. “Most of the buildings out there? We own them in some capacity. Boston is our city.”
Her eyes widen. She tries to speak, but can’t find words.
Not that I blame her.
Dara has no clue how hard her life just became.
Chapter 13
Dara
I stand outside of a beautiful Victorian brick-front house across from Boston Commons. The car drives away as Finn walks up the stoop and begins unlocking the front door.
“You live here?” I gape around me, genuinely in shock. “These houses must be worth—”
“Millions,” he says, sounding distracted. “Come inside.”
“Shouldn’t you live in some condo or something? Why the heck do you live in a multi-million-dollar house all alone?”
“Condos are for frat boys and men with bad taste. Come inside already, and I’ll give you the damn tour.”
I follow him in, closing the door behind me. An automatic lock thunks shut, making me jump. What sort of guy has security like that? And does this mean I can’t get out, even if I wanted to?
No time to think too much. He’s already walking inside, gesturing vaguely.
It’s almost exactly what I pictured. Polished, gleaming, dark hard wood, walls painted in neutral tones, oil paintings on the walls, and original details like a banister that must be at least a hundred years old.
Everything else is completely modern. All new kitchen, all new living room, the place expanded and improved. I stare at everything like a newborn kitten seeing the world for the first time as he lazily points out details.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
He considers for a moment. “About six years now. I bought it a few years after my first successful club opened. Since then, I’ve opened six more, plus a string of bars and restaurants.”
“Who the hell are you?” I stare at him, not sure what to think. This man is insanely wealthy—anyone that lives in a house like this has to be—but the idea that he’d own multiple successful properties is absurd, especially in a town like Boston, and I’ve never even heard his name before.
“Finn Crowley,” he says, looking away. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”