Just Some Madman I Don't Know

After the Donovan family fell, I was cornered by creditors. That's when he returned—Cian Rourke, the man I once cast out, now the formidable new Don of the Chicago Outfit.

He loomed over me, a king judging a beggar. "Willow Donovan," he said, his voice cold as steel, "belong to me, and I'll settle your family's blood debt."

To survive, I accepted without a second thought.

The woman he now faced was no longer the proud, untouchable Principessa of the Donovan family.

When he brought his fiancée to humiliate me, I lowered my eyes and poured their drinks.

Even when he paraded another woman before me, I would only offer a faint, hollow smile and turn away.

I had become the obedient plaything he'd always wanted.

But when I had finally paid my "debt" and was ready to leave, he grabbed me, his eyes blazing with a desperate fire. "Who said you could go?"

"Willow Donovan," he snarled, "you don't love me anymore. Do you?"

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1

The wind in the back alley cut like a razor on a bitter Chicago night.

I huddled in a corner slick with grime, my body trembling uncontrollably.

The cigarette burn on my arm was a searing, bone-deep ache.

It was a "greeting" from Cian's men.

"Miss Donovan, if you can't scrape together the money tonight, the next butt gets put out on your pretty face."

They left me with nothing but their foul laughter and my torn coat.

A blinding beam of headlights sliced through the darkness, laying my pathetic state bare.

I instinctively raised a hand to shield my eyes, peeking through the gaps between my mud-caked fingers.

An armored Cadillac pulled up silently, its tinted window lowering halfway.

It was a luxury I'd taken for granted before the fall of the Donovan family.

The door swung open, and a polished, custom-made leather shoe met the murky puddle with a soft splash.

My gaze traveled up, past sharply creased trousers, to a finely tailored, handmade suit.

That suit alone was worth enough to buy this entire godforsaken street.

The man held a black umbrella, his eyes colder than the icy rain as he looked down on me.

I froze.

Cian Rourke.

The Soldato whose street-rat origins I had once despised, the man I had personally cast out of the Donovan family.

Now, he was the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the new king of the city's underworld.

And I was a fugitive, shackled by a blood debt.

The Soldatos who had been so vicious moments ago were instantly fawning at the sight of Cian.

"Boss! What brings you out yourself in this weather...?"

Cian ignored them, his sharp gaze locked on me.

He strode over and suddenly lifted his foot, grinding the tip of his shoe into the back of my hand where it was pressed against the asphalt.

I didn't flinch, letting him crush it.

The cold was so absolute that the pressure of his foot was a strange, paradoxical warmth.

He slowly applied more pressure, twisting his heel.

The sickening crack of bone echoed in the alley.

"Willow Donovan, does it hurt?"

His voice was a low rumble, wrapped in a chilling frost.

"Does it feel anything like that snowy day I was thrown out of your gate like a dog?"

I clenched my jaw, refusing to make a sound.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

But I had lost the right to cry out.

His men understood. Before this new Don, I was nothing but prey.

Cian removed his foot, disgustedly scraping the filth from his sole on a nearby brick wall.

"Willow Donovan, beg me."

I looked up, snowflakes and rain mixing as they streamed into my eyes, cold and stinging.

"Cian, can you lend me fifty thousand dollars? My brother, Finn... he needs surgery..."

"Lend?" He let out a short, cruel laugh. "The Donovans are ash. What's your collateral? That body every man in Chicago wants a piece of?"

I remained silent, my nails digging into my palms.

He bent down, his fingers clamping around my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.

"Belong to me, and I'll wipe your family's slate clean."

I had no hesitation.

Faced with Finn's exorbitant underground surgery fees, dignity was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"Alright."

The word was a raw, hoarse thing I barely recognized as my own.

My quick compliance seemed to displease him, a flicker of violence crossing his eyes.

"Get in the car."

The heat inside was stifling, mingling with the cold scent of cedar and gunpowder that clung to him.

On the passenger seat sat a delicate velvet cushion. Scarlett Montgomery's style.

Soaked to the bone, I hesitated, afraid of leaving a mark on the plush leather.

Cian got in and saw my state, his jaw tightening in disgust.

"Stop pretending you're so pure."

He grabbed my waist, pulling me onto his lap with irresistible force.

Mud and blood smeared his expensive trousers.

I scrambled to get up. "Cian, I'm dirty..."

"So you admit you're filthy?"

His tone was a whip, his fingers tracing mercilessly over the raw burn on my arm.

"This is all you're worth now."

The car sped through the city, pulling up to a luxurious penthouse apartment downtown.

This was Cian's new den.

He pointed toward the bathroom as soon as we were inside.

"Go wash up. Don't get my place filthy."

There were no clean clothes for me.

I emerged wrapped in a bath towel to find Cian on the sofa, cleaning a handgun.

He casually tossed a black silk nightgown at me.

It looked expensive. It also wasn't new.

"Put it on."

I unfolded it and the scent hit me immediately—Scarlett's perfume, rich and aggressive.

I turned my back, letting the towel drop, and slipped on the nightgown that belonged to another woman.

When I turned around, Cian was on a video call.

On the screen, Scarlett Montgomery was smiling sweetly. "Cian, are you in bed? I miss you."

His face, dark and grim moments ago, softened with a tenderness that made him a stranger.

"Not yet. Just dealt with a little stray cat. Go to bed, sweetheart. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

I stood ten feet away, a ghost in his home, listening to him whisper promises to another woman.

The moment he hung up, the tenderness vanished.

He looked at me, his eyes a toxic cocktail of desire and disgust.

He stood, crossed the room in two long strides, and shoved me down onto the sofa.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my body tensing like a drawn bow.

The violation I braced for never came.

A sneer brushed against my ear.

"You reek of poverty and blood. Disgusting."

He released me, then pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned each of his fingers as if scrubbing away a contamination.

"Get out. Sleep on the rug in the guest room. I don't want to see you."

Clutching the collar of the borrowed nightgown, I scrambled into the guest room.

The room was enormous, but I didn't dare touch the soft, sprawling bed.

I curled up on the Persian rug, my fingers tracing the faint indentation on my left ring finger.

A ring woven from a bullet casing had once sat there.

It was made for me by the boy who was then a simple Soldato, his hands stained with blood in the family's shooting range.

He had said, "Willow, one day, I'll replace this with the real thing."

Now, the ring was gone.

And so was the girl who wore it.