Loving the Ruthless Mafia Man

Mr. Kavanagh

Chapter 2

Mr. Kavanagh

Lia

Angry blue eyes.

They pinned me with such ferocity that I instinctively took a step back, my breath hitching in my throat.

Dear God, that look could kill.

I had seen grown men crumble under it, their bravado shattered in an instant. I’d seen him do much worse than break someone with a glare… No. I couldn’t let my mind go there. Not now.

But it went anyway, dragging me back into the memories I’d tried so hard to bury.

My chest tightened, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed up, and the room seemed to blur around me. Those eyes—those piercing, stormy blue eyes—had haunted me every day for the past three years. They were burned into my mind, a cruel reminder of the past.

And now, just as I had finally decided to let go of my addiction to him, to cut the last fragile thread tethering me to the past, he shows up.

How was this even possible?

He couldn’t be here. There was no reason for him to be here.

Yet there he was, his presence an earthquake in my carefully constructed world. My mind spun, refusing to stop, refusing to give me even a moment of clarity. All I could see, all I could feel, were those furious blue eyes staring back at me.

“Lia?”

Savannah’s voice broke through the storm in my mind, pulling me back to the present. I blinked and looked at her, my heart still pounding in my chest.

Her face was etched with concern, her amber eyes searching mine as though she could sense the chaos inside me.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

She hesitated for a moment, her worry evident, but then continued. “I was just explaining that Mr. Kavanagh here loved your paintings. He purchased the entire collection. His favorite, though…” She paused, her gaze softening. “Was the one you were most desperate to sell.”

Her words hung in the air, and it took a moment for them to fully register.

He had bought all my paintings.

All of them.

My breath hitched. Oh my god… that painting.

He had seen it. He had seen that painting. The one I had painted in my darkest moments, the one that laid bare every emotion I had tried so hard to hide.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. The realization hit me like a tidal wave.

He knew.

I saw it on his face the moment I turned to look at him.

The realization, the recognition—it was all there, etched into his features like a cruel reminder of my own vulnerability.

My cheeks flushed hot, the all-too-familiar rush of embarrassment washing over me, just as it had so many times before in front of this man. It was like nothing had changed, like the last three years had disappeared, and I was still that foolish, starry-eyed girl making a fool of herself in his presence.

But things had changed. I wasn’t that naive girl anymore. I no longer thought myself in love with my so-called savior. Now, I was just a woman desperately trying to let go of a memory that refused to loosen its grip on me.

And yet, here I was, standing in front of him again, feeling the same rush of emotions, I thought I had buried.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening with regret.

I should have burned that goddamn painting.

I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“Oh…” I trailed off, my voice barely audible. “Okay.”

There was nothing else I could say. My words, my thoughts—they all vanished the moment I looked at him.

I had struggled to speak around him before, back when I was that foolish girl who couldn’t hide how he made me feel. But now? Now I was completely and utterly dumfounded.

The silence stretched between us, and I hated how powerless I felt in his presence. Three years apart, and he still had this effect on me. It was infuriating, humiliating even, but I couldn’t seem to shake it.

Dear God, the years had been kind to him. Too kind.

He looked even better than I remembered, as if time had only worked to refine his already perfect features. He was a Greek god come to life—more built, more chiseled, more impossibly breathtaking than before. And seeing him like this shattered me all over again, breaking apart the fragile pieces of my heart I’d just barely managed to glue back together.

“I have to… go…” I whispered, my voice trembling as I turned away, desperate to escape before the cracks showed.

But then, his voice cut through the air, low and smooth, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“Is that how you greet an old friend, Cordelia?” Aiden said, finally breaking the silence.

The sound of my name on his lips sent a shiver down my spine. I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay calm, to not let him see just how deeply his presence still affected me. But it was no use. He had always seen right through me.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself before turning back to face him. I couldn’t let him see the cracks in my composure, not after everything. Not now.

“Mr. Kavanagh, I do not believe we are acquainted,” I said, forcing as much strength into my voice as I could muster. But I felt the faint tremor in my hand, the one I had fought so hard to suppress over the years.

Aiden smirked, that infuriatingly confident expression I had once thought charming. He ignored my comment entirely, his emerald eyes glinting with mischief.

“You’ve become quite talented over the years,” he said casually. “I especially loved the painting you named Angry Blue Eyes. It really captured the intensity, the raw emotion. But tell me…” His gaze locked onto mine, unrelenting. “Did those eyes look at you that way, or was it something else?”

His words didn’t immediately register, my mind too focused on the deep timbre of his voice. It was thicker now, rougher around the edges, with a weight to it that seemed to heat in my core.

“I appreciate your support for my art, Mr. Kavanagh,” I replied, my voice firmer this time, though my pulse still raced. “But I believe Miss Cooper can process a r****d for you.”

He tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he found my response amusing. “I don’t want a refund.” He stepped closer, and I fought the urge to back away. “And it’s Aiden, Cordelia. I don’t believe you’ve forgotten the name you spent years obsessing over.”

His words hit like a slap, sharp and unforgiving, and I felt my cheeks burn. I clenched my fists, desperate to hold on to the composure I was rapidly losing. This was why I’d left, why I had tried so hard to forget him.

And yet, here he was, undoing all my hard work with a single smirk.

“This is a professional setting, Mr. Kavanagh, and I do not have a personal relationship with you. I’d prefer we keep it that way,” I said, my tone as icy as I could make it despite the heat rising in my chest.

“Savannah,” I called, turning to my friend, “would you please cancel the transaction with Mr. Kavanagh?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Aiden replied simply, his voice calm yet filled with an undertone of warning.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Savannah, the traitor, spoke first. “I… um… I’ll be right back,” she stammered before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving me stranded.

I watched her go, disbelief and annoyance mingling in my chest, before turning to make my own escape. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t be around him.

“We need to talk, Cordelia,” Aiden said, his voice stopping me mid-step.

“I don’t believe we do,” I replied coolly over my shoulder, refusing to look at him.

But I could feel his eyes on me, as unrelenting as ever, and I knew he wasn’t going to let me leave that easily.

“Your family has requested your return. Immediately,” Aiden said, his tone cool and matter of fact.

“Excuse me?” I turned back to face him, disbelief etched across my face.

“Your uncle Seamus has requested you return to Boston,” he repeated, as if that alone explained everything.

The nerve of this man.

“And he sent you to deliver this message instead of calling me himself?” I shot back, my voice sharp. “My aunt and uncle are perfectly content with me living in California, and I have no intention of ever returning to Boston.”

I crossed my arms, glaring up at him, daring him to argue. But, of course, Aiden Kavanagh wasn’t the type to back down.

"Not anymore," Aiden replied coolly. "I was already in LA when the decision was made. Your uncle asked me to deliver the news to you in person. You need to pack up and come home." He emphasized the word home again, as if trying to drill the idea into my head.

"I'm not going back," I said firmly, though my voice wavered ever so slightly. "I don’t want to be there, and I know you don’t want me there either. So, you can leave, and I’ll talk to my aunt and uncle myself."

His expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Do not speak for me, Cordelia. And do not make me repeat myself. You will be returning. Tonight."

I shook my head, the panic rising in my chest.

"Yes," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You can talk to your aunt and uncle about it when we get back there."

I felt my control slipping. My breaths came quicker, my chest tightening as the thought of going back to Boston clawed at my resolve.

"I... I can’t go back," I stammered. "I have my life here now. I have a boyfriend and friends-"

The words were barely out of my mouth before I saw his eyes flash with an anger, I recognized all too well. The same anger I had painted.

Instinctively, I took a step back, but Aiden closed the distance, grabbing my hand. The hand I had hurt last night.

I flinched, the pain jolting through me, and his eyes widened as he noticed. His gaze flicked to my arm, and before I could stop him, he pulled my sleeve aside to reveal my wrist.

The burn stood out stark against my skin, and I saw his expression shift—anger, disbelief, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

Before he could say or do anything, I yanked my hand out of his grip and turned my head away, unable to meet his eyes.

"Who did that?" he asked, his voice low and deadly, dripping with so much fury that I cringed.