Chapter 4 The Negotiation

The restaurant was the kind of place where deals were made and secrets were buried.

Liam arrived fifteen minutes early, two of his men flanking him as he stepped inside. The place had been shut down for the night. Chairs pushed in. Lights dimmed low. One table sat in the center of the room, round and exposed, like an offering.

Neutral ground. Heavy security. No weapons past the door.

He’d left his gun in the car.

The absence of its weight sat wrong in his gut, like he’d forgotten something vital.

The maître d’ guided him to the table. Round. Intimate. No head of the table. No angles to control the room.

Smart.

The Council never missed details like that.

Liam sat, adjusting his cufflinks more sharply than necessary, jaw tight. Two days since the ultimatum.

Two days since the cemetery. Two days of restless nights and whiskey that burned but didn’t numb.

And now this.

Dinner.

A polite, civilized meeting with the woman he was being forced to marry.

The thought would’ve been laughable if it didn’t make his stomach twist.

The door opened.

Liam looked up.

And cursed himself when his breath stalled.

Alessia Scarpetti didn’t enter the room so much as claim it.

The emerald dress fit her like it had been designed for her body alone. Her hair was pulled back, exposing her neck, her posture straight and unyielding. Her eyes swept the space, sharp and calculating, before landing on him.

No smile.

No hesitation.

Two men followed her inside but stopped short, remaining behind as she approached alone.

Liam stood. Habit. Training. His mother’s voice in his head, reminding him that manners mattered—even toward enemies.

“Miss Scarpetti,” he said evenly.

“Mr. O’Sullivan.”

Her voice was smooth, composed. Not impressed.

They held each other’s gaze a beat too long.

Then she sat.

He followed.

A waiter appeared immediately, placing water glasses, menus. Neither of them reached for theirs.

“I assume you’re as thrilled about this as I am,” Alessia said.

Her tone was polite. Her eyes were not.

“Thrilled isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What would you use?”

“Trapped.”

Her lips curved slightly. Not a smile. More like acknowledgment. “At least we’re honest.”

The waiter returned. “May I—”

“Wine,” Alessia said, eyes still on Liam. “Red. Expensive.”

“Whiskey,” Liam added. “Neat.”

The waiter nodded and vanished.

Silence stretched between them.

Alessia folded her hands on the table, posture flawless. “So. How do we do this?”

“Do what?”

She tilted her head. “Pretend we’re not imagining how to kill each other.”

“I’m not imagining anything.”

“Liar.” Her gaze sharpened. “You thought about it the second I walked in.”

He leaned back slightly. “You give yourself too much credit, princess.”

Her jaw tightened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? It fits. Don’s daughter. Raised protected. Untouchable.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. Gone just as fast. “And you’re the tragic heir? Forced into leadership by blood and bullets?”

“I never claimed tragedy.”

“Good. Because there’s nothing tragic about what your family does.”

Liam leaned forward, voice dropping. “Funny, coming from a Scarpetti.”

Her eyes hardened. “My family didn’t start this war.”

“No?” His gaze locked onto hers. “Where were you the night my brother was shot in the street?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I was seventeen.”

“Old enough to know who your father is.”

“And you?” she shot back. “Where were you when our warehouse burned? When three men died screaming?”

“I don’t owe you answers.”

“And neither do I.”

The drinks arrived.

Alessia lifted her glass, took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.

“Let’s be clear,” she said quietly. “I don’t want this marriage. But we don’t get a choice. So we either destroy each other quietly, or we survive this.”

“Survive,” Liam echoed.

“What would you call it?”

“A prison sentence.”

“Then we’re cellmates.” She set her glass down. “Rules. Boundaries. We play the part. Public unity. Private distance.”

“You think that’ll hold?”

“No.” Her voice dipped. “But it’s better than war.”

He drank. The whiskey burned.

“What’s the alternative?”

“We pretend.” A short, humorless laugh. “Like that would work.”

He watched her closely. Something was there. Something she wasn’t saying.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You. Not your father. Not the Council.”

She hesitated. Barely. “I want to survive.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s all you get.”

He leaned in. “We’ll be living together. You think I won’t notice what you’re hiding?”

Her eyes iced over. “And you think I won’t?”

The waiter appeared again, pale and nervous.

“We’re fine,” Liam said.

The waiter disappeared.

Alessia swirled her wine. “Your sister. Siobhan. Art student.”

Liam went still. “Leave her out of this.”

“I’m not threatening her.” She met his gaze. “I’m reminding you we both have something to lose.”

Silence stretched.

“I want the people I love safe,” she said. “Nothing more.”

For the first time, something real surfaced in her eyes.

It unsettled him.

“I can respect that,” he said.

“Good.”

She stood. “I should go.”

“So should I.”

“There’s a fitting two days from now.”

“I know.”

“And then we move in.”

“I know.”

She turned.

Liam’s hand shot out—stopping short of her wrist.

She froze.

He stepped closer, voice low. “Betray my family, and this ends in a funeral.”

She leaned in, unflinching. “Likewise.”

They stood there, breath close, neither backing down.

Then she stepped away.

“Goodnight, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

She left.

Liam stayed where he was, heart pounding, hand still raised.

And for the first time since the ultimatum, he wondered if he hadn’t just married the devil.

Or something worse.