The Cold CEO and His Bride

Riley

Boston's streets are colder at night, even in April. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there. The kind of cold that makes you feel like you're suffocating.

I tighten my hoodie around my head and lean against the damp brick wall of an alley off Sixth. The stench of garbage fills my nostrils, but I don't move. I've been here too long to start caring about the smells anymore. The sounds of the city carry on-the wail of distant sirens, the hum of late-night traffic, and the muffled chatter of the bar across the street.

I'm waiting for him.

The man who killed my brother.

At least, that's what the whispers say. I've heard it all-how Liam's debts caught up with him, how he got tangled with the wrong people. And how Dominic "Dom" Callahan, a name that makes grown men hesitate, was the one who pulled the strings that got Liam buried six feet under.

The information cost me half my savings. But I don't care about the money. All I care about is making sure Dom knows who I am-and that I'm coming for him.

I glance at the cheap watch on my wrist. Midnight. The tip-off said Dom always stops by Raven's-the Irish-owned club down the street-around this time. My heart pounds against my ribcage as I take a deep breath and steel myself.

This is a terrible idea. I'm no fighter. No hero. Just a twenty-three-year-old waitress who's barely scraping by. But Liam deserves justice, even if it means I have to go down swinging to get it.

The club's green neon sign flickers, casting an eerie glow on the sidewalk as I cross the street. Two massive bouncers stand outside the entrance, their shoulders wide and their faces blank. They don't even glance at me as I walk past.

Inside, the air is thick with sweat and booze, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the floor. People press against one another on the dance floor, their bodies moving to the music. It's suffocating, but I push through the crowd, scanning for Dom.

And then I see him.

He's sitting in a booth in the far corner, surrounded by men in suits and women who look like they belong on magazine covers. His dark hair is slicked back, and there's a sharpness to his jaw that makes him look like he's been carved out of stone. He's laughing at something one of the men says, his hand resting on the glass of whiskey in front of him.

My stomach twists. I've spent months imagining this moment, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him.

This is the man who took everything from me.

I take a step forward, but someone grabs my arm.

"Careful where you're going, sweetheart," a voice drawls.

I spin around and come face-to-face with a man about my age. His blue eyes glitter with amusement, and there's a cocky grin on his lips. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a leather jacket that screams trouble.

"Let go of me," I snap, trying to yank my arm free.

"Not so fast," he says, his grip tightening. "You're about to walk into something you don't understand."

"I don't need your help," I hiss.

"Sure you don't." His gaze flickers toward Dom's booth, and his grin fades. "But if you're planning on getting close to Callahan, you're going to need more than guts, sweetheart. You're going to need a miracle."

The warning in his voice makes me hesitate.

"Who are you?" I ask, my heart racing.

"Someone who knows better than to mess with that man."

Before I can respond, his hand finally drops from my arm, and he leans in close enough for me to smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath.

"Turn around and walk out of here," he murmurs. "Before it's too late."

But it's already too late for me.

The guy in the leather jacket watches me for a moment longer, as if waiting for me to come to my senses. But when I turn back toward the booth, ignoring his warning, he shakes his head and melts into the crowd.

I shove the encounter out of my mind. Dom Callahan isn't going to wait forever, and neither am I. The closer I get, the more I feel the bass of the music in my chest, pounding like a second heartbeat. Dom is still there, lounging in the booth like a king holding court. He leans back, calm and confident, but there is a tension in his body-a readiness that makes my stomach churn. Even laughing, he looks dangerous.

I slow my pace, trying to decide on a plan. What am I going to do? March up to him and demand answers? Scream at him for what he'd done? Throw a drink in his face? None of these options sound like they'd end well for me.

Then Dom's eyes shift, locking on mine.

I freeze.

His gaze is like a spotlight, pinning me in place. Sharp. Cold. Calculating. He doesn't look away, and neither do I. It feels like a challenge-one I am not ready for but can't back down from.

One of the men at his booth leans in and says something to him, breaking his focus. I use the moment to slip into a dark corner near the bar. My breathing is too loud, too fast, and I feel like everyone in the room can hear the thundering of my heart.

I need to regroup.

But then I feel it again-that subtle pull of attention.

I turn and see the guy from earlier, the one with the leather jacket, leaning casually against the bar. He is watching me, a faint smirk playing on his lips like he finds this whole thing entertaining.

"Seriously?" I mutter under my breath.

He motions with his head for me to come closer.

I hesitate. I don't want to deal with him again, but he clearly isn't going to leave me alone. I stalk over, trying to look more confident than I feel.

"What's your problem?" I ask as I reach him.

"My problem?" He raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing. "Sweetheart, you're the one about to get yourself killed. I'm just trying to save you the trouble."

"I don't need saving," I snap.

His expression darkens, just a flicker of something beneath the charm. "Everyone needs saving when it comes to Dom Callahan."

There it was again-Dom's name, spoken like it carries the weight of a loaded gun.

"I'm not scared of him," I say, though my voice doesn't sound as convincing as I hope.

"Maybe you should be."

The guy pushes off the bar, closing the space between us. His height is intimidating, but there is something else about him-something magnetic. Up close, his blue eyes aren't just bright; they are alive, flickering with amusement and something sharper.

"Here's the deal," he says, his voice dropping low so only I can hear. "You've got about five minutes before someone at that table decides they don't like the way you're staring. And when that happens, you're going to wish you listened to me."

"Why do you care what happens to me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

For a second, he looks almost surprised. Then he shrugs, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Let's just say I like to keep my entertainment alive."

I glare at him, but he doesn't flinch.

"Look," he says, his voice softening just enough to make me pause. "Whatever reason you've got for being here, it's not worth it. Guys like Callahan don't lose sleep over people like us. If you're looking for answers, you're not going to find them tonight. All you'll find is trouble."

His words settle over me like a challenge.

"Thanks for the advice," I say tightly, "but I'm not leaving."

"Stubborn," he says, shaking his head like he already knows I won't listen. "Fine. At least tell me your name, so I know what to put on your tombstone."

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the way his smile makes my pulse quicken. "Riley."

He gives a mock salute. "Well, Riley, I'm Cole. And if you're not going to leave, at least do me a favor and stay out of the splash zone. I don't want blood on my boots tonight."

Before I can respond, he turns and disappears into the crowd.

I watch him go, torn between irritation and curiosity. There is something about Cole that doesn't quite add up. He seems like he belongs in a place like this, but the way he talks about Dom makes me wonder if there is more to him than the cocky attitude and leather jacket.

Shaking the thought away, I turn my attention back to Dom.

His table is empty.

My stomach sinks. While I was wasting time with Cole, Dom and his entourage disappeared.

"Damn it," I mutter, scanning the club.

But he is gone.

And just like that, my chance slips through my fingers.