She had a cleavage so deep you could almost see her belly button. She looked like a showgirl from one of the joints Pops used to work at, not exactly the kind of person I’d take fashion and makeup tips from. Then again, I had no say in anything about this wedding.
“As long as you didn’t hurt yourself,” said Joe, the stylist, wiggling his index finger at me. He pried the broken stem from between my fingers with his free hand. “Don’t want you bleeding all over the dress. It’s a vintage Valentino, mind you.”
I didn’t even pretend to look like I knew what a vintage Valentino was. Why would a girl from my tough South Boston neighborhood know anything about couture? Ask me about coupons and how to sneak into the subway for free, and I’d tell you all about it. High fashion, though? Yeah, not for me.
I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom to wash my hands. If I had nicked my finger, I wouldn’t want to infuriate Brennan by staining the costly rental dress. The counter was littered with hair products and makeup, as well as creams, spa essentials and my cell phone. I jumped when the phone bleeped with a text.
Eying the group in the other room, I eased the door mostly shut.
Lucy: Still not gonna make it to class today? Boris is teaching us how to make stock. x
Me: Sorry. Caught a bug or something. Been throwing up all night. Text me the recipe when class is over.
Lucy: You got it, babe. Hope you feel better.
Me: Have a feeling the worst is yet to come. x
I put the phone down and prayed, for the millionth time that day that Lucy would be too busy to read the society page tomorrow. Troy Brennan was the kind of guy to show up in the local news for all the wrong reasons. He was trouble—hot trouble, flash-fire-on-the-stove hot trouble—and I knew that his wedding would likely be spread all over the local news like salmonella from a dubious food truck the minute he said, I do.
And me? I’d never attracted too much attention. My social life was as active as a dead turtle. I didn’t have many friends. Those I had I’d kept oblivious to my shotgun wedding. I was pretty frightened of the groom, embarrassed with myself for agreeing to do this in the first place and too confused to deal with their potential (and understandable) questions.
Sadness pierced my heart when I turned on the faucet. My fingers brushed my engagement ring under the stream of running water. It had a diamond the size of my fist at the center, and two, smaller ones on each side. The band itself was plain, a thin platinum shackle, but the weight of the bling—literally, figuratively, freaking mentally—screamed nouveau riche to the sky and back. It also yelled money, power, and look-at-me pretense.
But there was one thing it didn’t even whisper—my name.
Me, Sparrow Raynes. Twenty-two. The child of Abe and Robyn Raynes. An avid runner. A tomboy. A lover of blueberry pancakes, hot chocolate, sweet summer air and unapologetic boyfriend jeans. That kid. The girl who sat in the first row of every class and fiddled with her lunch box during school breaks because no one wanted to hang out with her. The woman who never cared about fashion. The poor chick who thought money was overrated, glitzy cars equaled small dicks, and that happiness was Irish stew and Kitchen Cutthroat reruns under the covers.
This ring belonged to someone else. A Real Housewife of Whatever-suburb. A trophy bride of certain tastes and status. A girl who knew who Valentino was and why his dresses were so goddamned expensive.
Not. Me.
I turned off the faucet and took a deep breath, running my fingers over my incredibly stiff hair.
“Just deal with it,” I prompted myself quietly. Marrying a wealthy man who was known as one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston was hardly considered a punishment. “Not your choice, but roll with the plan.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. First-World problem or not, the last thing I needed was for him to take care of me. A soft knock on the bathroom door made me swivel my head in its direction. Sherry’s face, plastered with makeup and a fake smile, peeked through the cracked door.
“Mr. Brennan’s here to see you,” she announced in her syrupy-sweet, insincere voice.
“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I gritted out, clenching my fists together and allowing the monstrous ring to dig into my flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction.
“Trust me, it’s even worse luck to piss off your future husband.” I heard his iron-cold tenor cutting through the air outside the door.
I took a step back, hugging myself protectively. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, looking so much bigger than life and any of the pep talks I kept drilling into my head.
He wore a formal black three-piece suit and leather wingtips. He owned the small bathroom, sucking all air and my presence out of it. Suddenly, I felt even smaller than my already tiny frame. His icy glare peeled my walls of defense, exposing me for what I really was—a sweltering ball of nerves.
“Unfold your arms so I can see you,” Brennan ordered sharply.
I did as I was told, not out of respect, but out of fear. My arms hung at my sides as I gulped hard. He’d never looked twice at me before. Not in the eighteen years we lived in the same neighborhood or in the last ten days. This was the first time he’d acknowledged my existence this personally. The day of our wedding.
“You look beautiful.” His tone was detached.
I knew the dress was spectacular. Phrases like “mermaid silhouette” and “Queen Anne neckline” flew in my direction when I first tried it on at the bridal shop. Not that I chose it myself. Joe, the stylist, got his orders directly from my dear future husband. So did Sherry and the hair stylist whose name I couldn’t remember and even the woman who chose my jewelry for the event. I had no say about anything when it came to this wedding. Just as well, as I wasn’t exactly Bridezilla. I wanted this wedding like a bad case of gonorrhea.
“Thank you,” I finally managed to reply and despite my simmering rage, felt oddly compelled to reciprocate with, “You look nice, too.”
“How can you tell? You haven’t looked at me once since I stepped into the room.” Brennan’s voice was frosty and unapproachable, but it didn’t sound like he cared.
I gingerly lifted my chin and dragged my gaze to meet his eyes, every muscle in my face tightening as I watched him. “Very nice,” I repeated, not a trace of sincerity in my voice.
I heard Sherry fussing over God knows what in the other room and Joe talking on the phone, or at least pretending to. Meanwhile, the hair stylist and Connor, the bodyguard who followed me everywhere, were silent, which was coincidentally louder than any of Sherry and Joe’s futile attempts to sound busy. The buzz of a disaster rang between my ears.
He has a troubled past.
A disastrous future.
And I’m about to become a part of his present, whether I like it or not.
“Connor, Sherry, everyone—get the fuck out,” my groom ordered as he continued staring me down through narrowed eyes.
I twisted my fingers together and felt my mouth drying up. This wasn’t me. The insecure, little Mary-Sue wasn’t the Sparrow I had built over the years. But he was dangerous, and I was giving him trouble.
I was giving him trouble because ten days ago, completely out of the blue, he dragged me out of my house (a guy who was no more than a distant childhood memory in an expensive suit and a shady reputation) and threw me into his luxurious penthouse and announced (two days after he left me there with nothing and no one but a bodyguard and a number for a takeout joint) that we were going to get married.
Yes, Troy Brennan was one hell of a sociopath, and he didn’t bother disguising his nature and putting on a mask when he faced the world.
He stood in the presidential suite’s bathroom, looking at me like I was a bitter pill he had to swallow. It didn’t seem like he was mildly interested in me. He’d barely spoken to me, and when he had, a mixture of disappointment, boredom and apathy leaked from his gaze.
I was beyond confused by his behavior. I had heard o
f powerful, rich men forcing themselves on women before, but usually they desired the women they pursued. This wasn’t the case with Troy Brennan. The way he acted, it almost seemed like he was doing this because he’d lost a bet.
I stared back at my future husband, waiting for him to do something. Hit me, yell at me or break the whole thing off.
I wasn’t sure why the hell he wanted me in the first place. We grew up in the same Boston area, a blue-collar sketchy neighborhood. Our childhood scenery consisted of barred windows, ripped posters, old buildings in desperate need of repair and empty cans rolling down the street. But that’s where our similarities ended.
While I was the poor, working-class daughter of a drunken bum and a runaway mother, Troy Brennan was Boston royalty, and grew up in the nicest house in our zip code. His father, Cillian, once ran the infamous Irish mob. By the time I was a toddler, Cillian had moved on to more legitimate businesses, and by “legitimate” I meant strip clubs, massage parlors and other sleazy South Boston entertainments for guys barely making the rent. My dad, one of his last loyal soldiers, had worked as a bouncer in more than a few of Cillian’s joints.
Troy was an only child, with people saying Cillian’s wife couldn’t have more kids. He was therefore the apple of his father’s eye.
And while Troy might not have carried on with all of his dad’s old businesses, he was no choirboy either. Rumors about him spread like wildfire on the streets of our neighborhood, and at this point he was so talked about he was almost a legend. Word was that politicians, businessmen and rich people from all over the state reached out to him when they needed someone to do their dirty work.
And dirty work he did, and got paid plenty for it.
People called Troy “The Fixer.” He fixed stuff. Not in the handyman sense, mind you. He made people disappear faster than characters in Dennis Lehane’s books. He could cut your prison sentence in half and fix you up with a passport and a fake Social Security card in hours. In days, he could even convince the people who were after you that you didn’t exist. Troy Brennan was Boston’s master manipulator, pulling strings like we were all his puppets. He decided who lived and who died, who disappeared and who made a comeback.
And for some unknown reason, Mr. Fixer chose to marry me. I had no way to fight, escape or even defy his irrational decision. All I could do was beg for a feasible explanation. So I decided to use our first encounter together alone—without Connor, Sherry or any of Troy’s staff—to do just that.
“Why me, Troy? You never spoke a word to me all those years we lived on the same street.” I gripped the creamy vanity top behind me, my knuckles whitening. Maybe calling him by his first name would inspire him to be nicer to me.
He cocked an eyebrow, an expression that looked like Well, shit. She can talk, too. He buttoned his suit jacket with one hand and checked his cell phone with the other.
I was wind, I was a ghost. I was nothing.
“Troy?” I asked again. This time he lifted his eyes to meet mine. My voice dropped to a whisper, but I kept my stare trained on him. “Why me?”
His brows furrowed, his lips thinning into a hard line.
He didn’t like the question, and I wasn’t satisfied with the answer.
“We don’t even know each other.” My nostrils flared.
“Yeah, well…” He kept punching his cell phone, his eyes dropping back to the screen. “Familiarity is overrated. The less I know someone, the better I usually like them.”
This still doesn’t explain why you thrust yourself into my life with the finesse of an army tank.
I glared at him under my newly fake eyelashes, trying to figure out whether he was even good-looking or not. Troy Brennan was never on my radar, but he was on everybody else’s. He was like the IKEA canvas pictures of London and New York in bachelor apartments, like fast food, like Starbucks, like a freaking Macbook Air for a preppy student—mainstream and well liked. At least among women. Buying into his bad boy, influential, rich mobster’s appeal was the polar opposite of who I was.
And still, even under the unforgiving bathroom light, I could see he might be a monster inside, but on the outside, he was anything but.
His thick black mane—so dark it had an almost bluish hue—was trimmed into an expensive haircut with smooth and soft edges. He had the palest, frostiest blue eyes, and a slight tan that made them pop even more. From afar, he was old-fashionedly good-looking. Tall as a skyscraper, wide as a Rugby player and with prominent cheekbones you could cut diamonds with. As he neared you, though, the dead expression behind those baby-blues made you want to run the other way. His eyes were always lazily hooded, vacant of any trace of emotion. Almost like if you looked deep enough, you’d see all the horrific things he’d done to his enemies running in slow motion.
Then there was also the sneer. The challenging smirk plastered on his face 24/7, reminding us all just how unworthy we were in comparison.
I feared and loathed Troy Brennan. He was practically untouchable in Boston. Loved among the cops and respected by the local gangs, he was able to get away with murder.
Literally.
Three years ago, Troy had been the prime suspect in the murder of Billy “Baby Face” Crupti. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charge stick, but word on the street was the murder was payback. Supposedly Crupti was the one who’d killed Cillian Brennan. No one knew who had sent the simpleton gangster to off Troy’s father or why. The timing was odd. Cillian’s illegal activities were pretty irrelevant to gangland Boston by then. Then there was also the Father McGregor tale, about how Troy killed him too, for ratting about his father’s whereabouts to Crupti.
Yeah, Troy Brennan wasn’t one to take any prisoners.
I still remembered how, growing up, I used to wait for my turn to ride Daisy’s bike (she was the only girl in the neighborhood to have one, and with training wheels, too), and watch in awe when he ran into the cops. I swear the police patted down the boy down the street more than a newborn puppy. They were waiting impatiently for teenage Brennan to follow in his father’s footsteps. He got slammed into the hood of every patrol car that rolled by, and every cop on our beat knew the curve of his ass by heart.
Now cops were too scared to even look at him.
As I stood in the hotel suite’s bathroom, staring at his expressionless face, I realized that I had no cards to play. And even if I had cards, he owned the freaking table.
I was completely trapped, a caged bird with clipped wings.
“Can I still work?” I asked through a strangled voice. Mob wives were not allowed to, but Troy was not a mobster. Technically. He took a step closer, his breath falling on my face.
“You can do whatever the fuck you want. You have a long leash.”
I felt his lips traveling inches from the crook of my neck, and I stilled. Thankfully, he didn’t touch me.
“But let’s get one thing straight—when it comes to men, I’m the only fucking one for you. Do not test me on this subject, because the consequences will be grave for you…and for him.”
He was being deliberately obnoxious, but his words still stung. I tried to focus on the small victory I was granted. I could still work. Still get out of the house and avoid him. Now it was just a matter of finding a job to keep me busy.
“If my leash is so long, why is Connor following me around?” I lifted my chin, challenging him.
“Because I always protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not your property, Brennan.” I seethed, narrowing my eyes. Yes, I was scared, but more than anything, I was royally pissed off.
“The fact that you’re in a wedding dress and have my ring on your finger begs to fucking differ,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “But even if you weren’t, with the amount of enemies I’ve collected in this city, anyone affiliated with me needs protection. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and headed out the door.
It was only after he left my personal space that I released the breath that was
trapped in my lungs for what felt like a decade. Why was he so hell-bent on reminding me how dangerous he was?
“You’re not going to get away with doing this to me, you know,” I called out after him, watching his broad back.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Red. I get away with everything. Always.” He didn’t even bother to turn around to face me.
Did he just call me Red?
“Oh, so now I have a nickname? This marriage isn’t real, Brennan. No matter what will happen in church this afternoon.”
That finally made him react. He turned his head in my direction. Our eyes locked. His frosty blues pierced through my greens, burning an imaginary hole all the way to the back of my skull.
Stupid girl. I felt my pulse—wild and manic—behind my eyes, at my throat, in my toes, pumping, pounding, my heart trying to break free out of my skin and run for its life. Why provoke the guy if you can't even handle a stare-down?
There was a brief beat, and then Brennan offered me one of his unpleasant I-Will-Destroy-You smiles.
“Dear future wife…” He smirked in a way that made me want to beg for mercy. “If you think you’re going to give me trouble, think again. I invented trouble. I stir it, I mix it, I fucking fix it. Don’t try my patience, because you’ll discover I have absolutely none.”
MY FATHER WAS giving me away at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, conveniently located in the center of the city. The guest list was full of people I didn’t know or care about. A mish-mash of high-profile businessmen, a handful of politicians, one senator and endless socialites.
A trail of black stretch limos lined up in front of the old church. Sophisticatedly clothed matrons poured out of the cars, assisted by their husbands, sons and daughters. The attire was formal and oozed power, as the men puffed on cigars, laughing with each other and patting shoulders good-naturedly, certainly enjoying the event more than I was.
By the number of security guards marching through the entrance, you’d think I was marrying the Pope.