I shook my head. "You can't blame him for your own foolish choices, Stuart—"
"You think me losing was an accident?" he gritted out. "Either time? They set that up, too, Brogan and that other Irish fucker. The blond one."
I shook my head. Fionn? Fionn wasn't any part of this. Was he? "They didn't hold a gun to your head and force you to gamble!"
"Not the first time, but they did guarantee I'd lose. You remember how good Brogan was with numbers. I bet anything he was counting cards, the motherfucker. And what was I supposed to do after that? I'm ruined. And so yeah, I gambled again. What other possible way did I have of earning any money? Was I not supposed to try anything I could? Was I not supposed to take every chance I had available to try to win our father's company back?"
I rubbed my temples. Hadn't that been the reason I'd given myself? Work for Brogan and beg him for our company back? That I wouldn't allow the regret of not trying anything and everything I could, even if it meant risking my pride?
And yet, after hearing the hope and excitement in Trudi's voice yesterday about the results the team Brogan had brought in were achieving, I was questioning what I had once fought so hard for. Despite my current feelings for Brogan Ramsay, what if . . . what if what was best for De Havilland Enterprises—what would actually keep my father's dream alive—was for Brogan to run it? God, I couldn't think clearly. The wine from the night before was still muddling my thoughts.
Stuart rattled on. "They're orchestrating my entire downfall, and now they're trying to make it look like they're going to help me. But they're not. Mark my words. This is just another part of the overall scheme," Stuart spat out, twitching again. "They won't be happy until I'm dead in the ground."
God, he was paranoid. How had he deteriorated so quickly? "They don't want you dead, Stuart. You're lucky they're trying to help you out of the mess you yourself created."
"Oh really, Lydia? I'm supposed to be thankful? I created this mess? Brogan Ramsay created this mess. We'd be at our desks right now at our family company if not for Brogan Ramsay."
I sighed. Brogan Ramsay had created this mess. Originally. Not that things were fine and dandy even before he'd come along. My feelings for him, and this situation, were all warped and confused. But regardless, Stuart had made things worse. Stuart had created a situation that not only ended in his financial ruin, but perhaps his very life. And mine. Regardless of what Stuart thought, Brogan was not behind that. Right?
"You shouldn't be here," Stuart said flatly.
I pulled out a bar stool and sat down. "I know. But I had to talk to you, to check on you. You're my brother. I worry about you." Take care of your brother, Lydie.
His face seemed to soften, a look of sadness passing over his expression. "I worry about you, too, Lydia. God, I'm such a failure. I'm so sorry." His voice was hoarse as if tears were lodged in his throat.
I remembered a time when I'd heard that same tone in his voice. Stuart had been about twelve, and he'd come home with an art project he'd done that received an honorable mention in a school art fair. His eyes had shone with happiness. I'd gushed over it. It had been good. It was a portrait of our house, the sprawling lawn, horses grazing in the pastures beyond. He'd looked so proud as he showed it to my father. My father had taken a brief glance at it, grunted noncommittally, and then said, "You need to focus on things that matter, son. Scribbling on paper isn't going to earn you any money in the future."
My brother had agreed, but he'd looked crushed and to my knowledge he'd never drawn again. My heart gave a lurch of sympathy. Sometimes I felt like Stuart had never grown up. He was still that twelve-year-old boy who would always be a failure in his father's eyes. But I couldn't be his babysitter forever. It was killing me. Even before all of this—even before Stuart had lost our company in a poker game—it had been killing me. I could admit that now.
I took a deep breath. "This is going to be okay. Somehow. What's done is done, and we both need to take responsibility for our parts in this mess. And maybe something good can come from it. But in the meantime, you have to clean yourself up. Debt or not, mob or not, you're going to have to come up with a plan for your life once this is all figured out."
He nodded, pressing his lips together. I didn't miss the expression of hatred that quickly passed over his face—hatred aimed at Brogan I could only assume. I paused before saying, "Hey, Stu, can I ask you a question? Brogan told me you found him in the Bronx all those years ago. That when I asked you to find him, you did. Only, you never told me. Why?" I couldn't help the hurt in my voice.
Stuart looked confused for a moment, but then his expression cleared, understanding coming into his eyes. "Yeah, I did. So what?"
I frowned and tilted my head. "You knew how important it was to me to find him. I was pregnant, Stu, was carrying his baby. Why? Why did you keep his whereabouts from me? And why didn't you tell him I was trying to find him?"
He let out an impatient breath. "You were better off without him, Lydia. I took one step into that hellhole they were living in and I couldn't . . . I couldn't allow him to be a part of your life. Our life. You would have never been free of him."
I grimaced at the coldness in his tone. "That wasn't for you to decide," I said, the injustice of what he'd done to me crashing down on my shoulders.
"I was protecting you! And him as a matter of fact. Though I'm sure that selfish bastard wouldn't see it that way. He could barely afford to feed his little sister. There were bugs and . . . mold growing on the walls, Lydia. Mold!" He screwed up his face in disgust. "How was he going to take care of a baby when he could barely take care of himself?"
Anguish gripped me as I pictured Brogan and Eileen in a place like that. I shook my head. "Our father would have given him a job. Our father would have helped them. You know he would have. You know it now and you knew it then." And that was the real reason he had remained quiet about Brogan's whereabouts. Oh God. Stuart, how could you?
"It's in the past anyway," he muttered, having the grace to look partially ashamed. "If I could change it I would, Lydia, I swear to you, but I can't."
I stared at him, trying to hate him for what he'd done to me, to Brogan, but only able to muster up a numb sense of pity. And it wasn't in the past. Surely even Stuart could see that it was anything but in the past. His current situation should be proof enough of that. Our current situation.
"You should get home," he said. "It's better that you're not here. I think they're watching my building. I've seen strange cars pass by out the window." He glanced to the large expanse of glass, and back to me, a twitch in his shoulder making it jump slightly. Was he paranoid or was he really being watched? "Your place is safer."
"Maybe. I'm not sure. I was staying at Brogan's apartment here in the city until this morning."
He looked shocked. "What the fuck?" he practically yelled. "I thought that was over. Lydia, he better not—"
"It's not like that," I lied. "He just thought it was safer there."
"That's a load of shit. It's part of his plan. He wants to turn the last person on earth who's in my corner against me. And then he'll ruin you, too. You have to see that! You have to see that he's not done with us."
"I—"
"Stuart?" a female voice called. I looked back to see a woman with bleached blonde hair wearing what looked like one of Stuart's button-up shirts and nothing else walking toward us from his bedroom. I turned toward Stuart and raised a brow. Seriously?
"I have to eat," he defended. "I can't even leave my apartment. How am I supposed to get food?" He must have forgotten about all the options for grocery and food delivery in New York City. Although apparently his "food delivery service" also included plenty of liquor, possibly drugs—though I had no idea how Stuart was paying for them—and sexual favors. I might throw up.
The woman nestled into Stuart, and he wrapped an arm around her. "Who's she, Stu?" she asked, shooting me a flirty smile. Really?
"I'm Lydia," I said, "Stuart's sister. Nice t
o meet you."
"Oh hi, I'm Jewel." She looked up at Stuart. "You coming back to bed, baby?" Well, that was my cue.
I stood up from the bar seat. "I've gotta go."
Stuart detached Jewel from his side and met me as I headed toward the front door, picking up my bag. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I will be."
"Stay away from Brogan Ramsay, Lydia. I swear you're safer away from him. There's something not right about this whole situation, and he's behind every bit of it."
"All right, Stuart," I said, because frankly, I intended to stay away from Brogan Ramsay. "Things are going to be okay," I murmured, though I was beginning to sincerely doubt that was the case. He nodded at me and let me out.
As I rode the elevator downstairs, I leaned against the wall, considering the current situation. Yesterday, I had thought I knew Brogan, understood him, and today . . . I realized I didn't know him at all. I knew nothing about his life. He'd been evasive about his business, there were women who just popped out of the woodwork—that made three I’d seen him with now—and apparently at least one had some sort of hold on him. And as for his feelings for me . . . would I ever know for sure how he felt? A wave of despair washed over me. I had hoped . . . what had I hoped? I chewed at my lip, considering that question. I had hoped Brogan and I were moving back toward where we'd been so long ago. Yes, I could admit that now. But that was impossible. We'd been innocent teens then. And now, we had so much baggage, so many obstacles between us. And what hurt the most of all was that for a brief moment, I had believed it possible anyway. Despite everything, I had believed.
My heart heavy, my mind troubled, my travel bag suddenly seeming to weigh twice as much as it did before, I stepped out onto the street and debated which way to turn. The truth was, I wasn't sure where to go. I'd been warned away from living at my own apartment, but other than that or Brogan's place—which I refused to return to right now—I didn't really have anywhere else to go.
Trying to move that depressing thought aside, I stood for several minutes debating before taking my phone out of my purse. I had several missed calls from Brogan, but decided not to answer him right away. Instead, I dialed Daisy's number.
"Lydia Loo," she answered in a sing-song voice. I smiled despite my pitiful current circumstances.
"Hey Dais." I stepped around an older couple walking hand in hand along the sidewalk. "What are you doing?"
"Shopping for an outfit. Will you be at the Christenson's Fourth of July party?"
"Um, no. I don't think so. Daisy, I need to catch you up on," I moved to the far side of the sidewalk as a large man with white-blond hair came walking straight toward me, not looking like he was going to change course before we collided, "some stuff that's been going on." I continued to veer right and the man did the same, clipping me slightly as we passed each other. I gasped as I felt something sharp poke my side, letting go of my bag. The asshole had been holding something sharp. Had it dug into my side as he passed?
"Lydia?" I heard Daisy say. "Hello? Are you still there?"
I turned to glare at the man and he leaned in to me, hissing in my ear, "Remind your brother what happens when we don't get our debts repaid."
My blood ran cold as I fell toward him. He held on to my upper arms for mere moments before he let go and disappeared into a group of people walking by in the opposite direction. I lurched forward, my hand going to the spot on my side that had been struck with whatever he'd been carrying.
"Damn crap connection," I heard Daisy saying from the phone still clutched in my hand. "If you can hear me, I'll call you later," Daisy said loudly. I dropped the phone on the ground, the screen shattering.
As I tripped and fell to my knees, someone off to my left gasped. I brought my hand from my side to my face. It was bright red with blood.
I'd been stabbed? Oh my God, I'd been stabbed!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brogan
My heart lurched in my chest as I pulled over across the street from Stuart De Havilland's apartment. It was the only place I could imagine she would go. I'd arrived home, and she'd been gone. I couldn't exactly blame her, but I'd still felt my stomach drop with sudden, icy fear.
I'd rushed downstairs and jumped in my car, driving the ten minutes to Stuart's apartment, my heart racing as I banged on the steering wheel and blared my horn at people going too bloody fecking slow.
I pulled my car into a no parking zone, and jumped out, starting across the busy street. She had to be here. Where else would she go? Feck me. I needed to fix this, but first, I needed to find her and make sure she was safe.
Relief pounded through my blood when I spotted Lydia exiting Stuart's building. Thank God. Thank God. I increased my pace, pounding my fist on the hood of a BMW that blared its horn at me.
As I started across the flow of traffic on the other side of the center median, I saw a man walk quickly past Lydia, grab her upper arms and move on. Something about the movement seemed strange, but before I could think too much about it, Lydia turned in the direction the man had continued walking. Oh shite. No. Clutching her side, she stumbled forward, falling to her knees.
"Lydia!" I yelled, breaking into a sprint. The sharp sound of squealing brakes barely penetrated the fog of panic I felt. "Lydia!"
I made it to her at the same moment an older gentleman was stooping to help her up. "Miss, are you okay—"
"Lydia," I rasped, pushing the man aside.
"I was just trying to help," he muttered from somewhere seemingly far away and then obviously moving on.
"Brogan?" Lydia said, confused and pale.
I pulled her to her feet. "Can you stand?" I asked, my voice shaking.
Had the man knocked her over on purpose? She weaved toward me, her hand again going to her side, a look of startled confusion on her face. I looked down to her waist and saw the bright red stain coming through the fabric of her striped shirt. Oh Lydia, Lydia. Oh feck.
My breath came out in wild pants as I walked her across the sidewalk to stand under the awning of a closed service entrance to Stuart's building.
I looked quickly back in the direction the blond man had gone, but didn't see a trace of him. Fedor Ivanenko. The unusual height . . . the white-blond hair . . . it had to be. I wanted to roar with rage and helplessness. I wanted to sprint after him and pound his face into the concrete. But if I was right about who that'd been, he would be long gone by now. The mob didn't hire hit men who didn't know how to make a quick getaway.
I moved Lydia until she was leaning against the inside wall of the entryway and inched the fabric of her shirt up, my hands shaking. I used the hem of her shirt to clean away the blood in order to assess the wound, my heart beating out of my chest. When I'd cleared some of it away, I saw it was mostly a flesh wound, deep enough to need stitches, but not deep enough to cause real injury. "Thank God," I breathed. "Thank God. Are ya okay?"
"I, I think so," she said. "I was just walking down the street and . . ."
"I know. Did the man who did this say anythin' to ya?"
She bit her lip as I continued to apply pressure to the wound with the bunched up material of her shirt. "He said . . . he said, something about reminding my brother about what happens to people who don't repay their debts." Her eyes met mine, wide and full of fear. "Oh God, Brogan, he was one of the men Stuart owes money to. I thought you said you were working with them and that—"
"Motherfuckers!" I swore, dropping my hands and leaning back against the opposite wall. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk?" I guided her hand to where I had been using mine to apply pressure to her wound.
"Yes. But wait, what about Stuart? He might be—"
"Fuck Stuart!" I started to pull her.
"No!"
I attempted a calming breath. Was she really going to dig her heels in now? "Lydia, you're bleeding. I need to get you safe and get you bandaged. Stuart is fine. This was a warning for him already set in motion. I talked to the men holding his loans this mo
rning and we're almost done negotiating a deal." What I didn't say was that after this, it was done. I'd agree to anything. The warning meant to convince me had worked in just the way they'd planned. I glanced down to the blood-soaked material where Lydia held her hand as I worked to control my breathing. "Now please," I said, more gently, "come with me."
"You really almost have a deal worked out?"
"Yes."
She hesitated briefly before allowing me to lead her from the doorway. "Wait, my bag, my phone . . ." she uttered, pointing to where they both still lay near the curb. The fact that she'd brought all her belongings gutted me. She'd meant to leave. Permanently.
I led her there quickly and picked both up, noticing that the screen of her phone was shattered. Once we were across the street in the safety of my car, I reached behind me into a gym bag on the floor of the backseat and retrieved a small towel. "Here," I said, handing it to her, "this is thicker than your shirt. Apply it to your wound." My hands trembled as I wiped them on my pants so they wouldn't be slippery with blood and then started my car, pulling out into traffic. Needed to get her back to my apartment. Needed to make sure she was safe.
I glanced over at Lydia who was leaning back in the seat, her face pale, her hand pressed to her side. This was my fault. Christ Almighty, enough. I wanted to scream and break things. I bloody hated myself for this. And Lydia would too, if she didn't already. Clenching my jaw, I forced myself to focus on just getting us home.
As I drove, I made a quick call to Fionn, explaining the situation and telling him to send Margaret to my apartment. He didn't ask questions, just took directions, said he'd handle it and hung up. My shoulders relaxed slightly.
Ten minutes later I pulled into the underground garage, and five minutes after that, I was leading Lydia through my apartment door. I guided her immediately to the bathroom in her bedroom and had her sit on the edge of the tub. Digging in the cabinet under the sink, I found the first aid kit and returned to Lydia. "I need you to take off your shirt," I said. She hesitated, but lifted it over her head. The cut on her side was bright red and stood out in stark contrast to her creamy skin. And it sent the message loud and clear: you are not safe, not anywhere, even on a crowded street. We own Stuart De Havilland, and now, we own you and those you care about. I knew how these men operated. I'd worked for them. "Does it hurt?" I asked, my voice hoarse with the rage I was barely holding back.