Page 20 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

Most people bent when enough pressure was applied, but Maeve never seemed to understand that concept. Even now, even here, she walked into my home like she was ready for a fight she knew she couldn’t win. Patrick followed behind her, looking exhausted, his tie crooked and his shoulders carrying years of regret, which I noted with a quiet approval I didn’t bother hiding. Near the windows Father Michael held a worn leather Bible beneath one arm and met my eyes briefly before I gave him a small nod, nothing more. Declan remained beside the bar, watching everything the way he always did.

Maeve’s eyes found mine, defiance sharp in them, and I crossed the room to her slowly and deliberately, just to push her. When I stopped in front of her I saw it immediately—the tensionin her body and the anger sitting too close to nerves she didn’t want to admit—and it almost made me smile.

“You’re late.”

She lifted one eyebrow and gave me an annoyed look. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

Father Michael cleared his throat. “We should begin.”

The room rearranged itself. I glanced toward the city beyond the glass while Father Michael opened the Bible. This had started as leverage, a solution, a clean answer to an ugly problem, at least that was what I’d told myself. But standing beside Maeve now, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to examine too closely before: this no longer felt strategic; it felt permanent.

Father Michael kept the ceremony short, and I appreciated that because nobody in this room wanted poetry. While his voice carried through the penthouse and Boston burned in gold and white beneath us, I wasn’t paying attention to his words. My focus stayed fixed on Maeve as she stood rigidly still, hands clasped in front of her, angry and humiliated in a way she was determined not to show. That stubborn pride kept catching my attention as Father Michael finally turned to me.

“Do you, Sean O’Connor, take Maeve Callahan to be your wife?”

“I do.” No hesitation, and beside me her breathing changed.

Father Michael looked at her next and asked the same. The silence stretched until I watched her swallow once.

“I do,” she said, firm and defiant, like she was forcing the words out through clenched teeth. Something possessive stirred inside me, because despite everything she’d still said yes.

Father Michael called for the rings and Declan stepped forward, placing mine into my hand, our eyes meeting briefly. He understood exactly what this marriage was supposed to be,even if something in his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced an old debt was the only reason for it. I took Maeve’s left hand. Her fingers were cold and tense, but she didn’t pull away, and slowly I slid the ring onto her finger as the gold settled against her skin.Mine. The thought arrived instantly, brutal in its simplicity, and once it appeared it refused to leave.

Maeve stared at the ring afterward as though she no longer recognized her own hand, and I understood the feeling. An hour ago she’d stood outside my world, but now she was a part of it, tied to it with my name, my wife. The finality settled heavier than I’d expected, heavier than business, heavier than power, heavier than debt.

Father Michael finished the ceremony, strain visible in every word, and I noticed the exhaustion around his eyes, the disappointment, the history. “Amen.”

Declan gave me a small nod while Patrick looked like a man at his own execution. Maeve remained motionless beside me, still trying to process what had happened. I turned toward her, and for the first time as her husband I placed a hand at the small of her back. She went completely still beneath my touch.

The ceremony ended without applause. Father Michael gathered his Bible quietly and spoke with Patrick near the windows. Declan poured himself a drink he barely touched, and tension hung in the air like smoke that refused to clear. Maeve stood near the edge of the room with her arms folded tightly across herself, the wedding ring catching the light every time she shifted. She still looked ready to run or fight, possibly both.

Patrick approached her first, carrying the exhaustion of a man who’d reached the end of something he didn’t know how to stop. Relief and guilt fought openly across his face. “Maeve—”

“Don’t,” she cut in immediately.

The silence that followed hit heavier than shouting would have. I watched Maeve carefully as she looked at her father,anger keeping her upright even with the strain she was under. Patrick saw it, too. That seemed to hurt him more than anything else in the room.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” he said quietly.

Maeve let out a bitter laugh under her breath. “Yeah,” she muttered. “I’m sure you will.”

Patrick’s eyes moved toward me. Shame flickered across his face before he turned and left the penthouse without another word. Father Michael lingered a moment longer, and he paused near me on his way to the elevator.

“This path closes very few doors,” he said softly.

I met his gaze evenly. “It closes the one that mattered.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he left anyway.

The elevator doors slid shut behind him, leaving only me, Maeve, and Declan inside the massive penthouse.

Declan looked into his glass. “Security’s already been doubled downstairs.”

Maeve turned to me immediately. “Excuse me?”

I stepped toward the bar calmly, loosening the cuff of my sleeve. “You won’t be going anywhere alone for a while.”

Her eyes narrowed instantly. “That’s not happening.”