The bathroom door opened, and before I could spin around, a hand covered my mouth. His skin smelled like a mixture of cigars and spicy cologne. Not Marcello. My throat burned as I struggled to scream, swatting at his hand. But, as usual, he was too strong, and I was no match for the great and powerful Founder who was trying to ruin my life.
He dipped his head down and slid the hair off my shoulder so he could roll his hot tongue across my skin. His teeth grazed my neck, soft at first, then more forceful as I struggled in his arms. Knowing he liked it better when I fought him, I stood painfully still. Even though it killed me to let him kiss me like this, to touch me with his dirty, dangerous hands, I let him do it. Because if I didn’t challenge him, he would eventually grow bored and stop.
“Rhiannon,” he breathed between kisses, his hand moving down my stomach over top of the dress. “My Celtic goddess. Haven’t you learned your lesson by now? No matter where you go, I will always find you.”
I hated when Cillian called me that, as if I were anything like the goddess in The Mabinogion.
“We can’t do this anymore.” I threw his hands off me, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “You have a wife and two sons.”
He waved his hand to dismiss me. “I make the rules, little one. Not you.”
“If my father ever found out about us…”
“Your father works for me,” he snapped, then grabbed a lock of my hair and yanked so hard tears stung my eyes. “Which means you belong to me.” With his hard cock digging into my backside, he pulled me back against his chest. His hand traveled down my stomach and dipped between my thighs. “Which means your pussy is mine.” He pinched my nipples over the fabric. “Every single part of you belongs to me, Rhiannon.”
“I hate you,” I whimpered as he tugged on my dress. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because you’re the best pussy I’ve ever had.” He nibbled on my ear, his hot breath warming my skin. The key he always wore around his neck tapped my skin. “And I’m not giving you up.”
“You never had me to lose.”
“I know about your relationship with Marcello Salvatore,” he growled in my ear. “Stay away from him, or Arlo will find out. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
Furious, I elbowed him in the stomach and spun around.
He staggered backward, clutching his side. “You little bitch.”
I’d had the year from hell and wasn’t taking any more of his shit. First, my mom was kidnapped and brutally murdered. She was the only reason I still lived at home, and now she was dead. My father’s enemies had almost gotten to me, but I was lucky his security detail found me in time. After that, I spent three months in Cork with my grandmother. I was safe in Ireland. And after my dad settled the beef, shedding a lot of blood, he ordered me to come back to Beacon Bay.
It was my mistake for letting Cillian into my life. I was idiot for trusting him, believing an older man like Cillian would do me a favor without expecting something in return.
That was how it started.
A favor for a favor.
My dad had frozen my trust account, and I didn’t have enough money to pay for college. The money I made working as a tattoo artist at The Ink Yard wasn’t enough to pay the hefty tuition at Beacon University. So I asked Cillian to loan me the money until I could get in my father’s good graces again. Dad was mad I had attended a party with the son of a rival crime family. In my defense, I didn’t know who he was before we hooked up.
Cillian’s nostrils flared, and he blocked the door with his big body. “Marcello followed you upstairs. I know he was in this room with you before he left to deal with family business.”
My eyes widened as I looked up at him. “What did you do?”
“I might have mentioned to Arlo that his son has been slumming it in Beggars Bay with you.” He smirked as he approached me. “Arlo will never accept you into his family.”
“I don’t need his approval,” I fired back, even though I knew it was the truth.
Arlo Salvatore would never see an O’Shea as his equal, no matter how much money or power my father amassed during his reign. We had connections to the IRA that Arlo could have used, but Arlo was that fucking spiteful. He considered the Irish to be less than the dirt under his Italian loafers. We ran similar businesses to his Italian Mafia counterparts. None of that mattered to Arlo.