Chapter 23 "Aren't you a wonder," Caitlin says, her voice warm as she places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me into a quick hug. "No wonder Seamus loves you so much." Her words catch me off guard. Make me ache. I think of my mother. "Did your mother teach you to cook like this?" she asks, her eyes bright, looking at the honey cake cooling on the counter. I shake my head, looking away. "No. She's been gone a long time. I was just a child when she died." "Oh, sweet girl, I'm sorry," Caitlin says. I breathe out slowly. "Thank you. I taught myself. I'm pretty good at it." "Are you?" she asks, smiling. "I'm not very good myself. I had a sheltered life. Maybe I'll tell you about it someday. Not now." She winks. "My son likes to eat. They all do. Tonight's a little celebration," she says with a smile. "Doesn't feel right asking the bride to cook though! I hope Seamus isn't put out. Do you like wine?" "Yes." I nod eagerly. "White or red?" "Either's fine." "It's all right, lass. You can pick." "I actually like both," I admit. She chuckles. "Good. My son needs someone agreeable." I shrug. "Only one person can be in charge, I guess." "Oh, I know how that goes." She laughs again. "Now let's see. You teach me how to cook, and maybe I'll teach you how to survive a McCarthy man, eh?" I shake her hand with a laugh. "Deal." We start pulling things together for the meal, her guidance easy and practiced. The ingredients are simple but fresh. Roasted chicken with garlic and lemon. Buttered green beans. Honey-glazed carrots. Fresh bread, baked earlier in the day. And for dessert, a honey cake, light, golden, and fragrant. "This is amazing," Caitlin says, watching me mix and move. "Seamus will scold me for putting you to work." "I'd rather stay busy," I reply. "I cooked for him back at the cabin." She grimaces. "Oh dear. Tell me he didn't try?" I laugh. "He did." "No. Oh, I'm sorry." She grimaces. "Not his strong suit." "Definitely not." We laugh again, and I catch Kyla watching us from the doorway, coming and going with plates. Ashland's in the background too. Observing, quiet. Bronwyn enters just in time to admire the honey cake. "It only takes thirty minutes," I tell her. "Fresh food doesn't have to take forever." "Let's bring this out," Caitlin says, and leads me into a large formal dining room. "We don't eat in here much anymore," she says. "It's gone out of style, hasn't it? The old tradition of the family table." I nod. "We eat in the kitchen too." "Yes," she agrees. "But tonight is special." Bronwyn walks in. "Bronwyn, darling, wine glasses, please. Kyla, fetch your dad his drink." They move quietly, obediently. But I notice Seamus isn't here yet. It twists in my gut. "So," Caitlin says, pouring a glass of white wine. "Tell us about yourself." I take a sip, fruity, sweet. I like it. "I'm the youngest in my family. Three older brothers, one sister. She lives in South Africa with her husband. My brothers are all married. I stayed close to home." "How'd you meet my brother then, staying so close to home?" Kyla asks boldly, tearing into a roll. My cheeks burn. "She gets snappy when she's hungry," Bronwyn says. "Eat, Kyla," she says calmly. "And maybe shut up." "Girls," Caitlin warns, sharp-eyed. "Go on, Zoya." I clear my throat. "I got tired of my brothers' rules. Took a little trip to a pub one night. Met Seamus there. He's always been good to me." "When was this?" Kyla presses. "A while ago," I say, dodging the trap. Seamus said I was safe here. But am I? "If only he didn't act the feckin' traitor," Ash mutters. I set my wine glass down, hard. My gaze slices to Ash. "I told you. Don't call him a traitor." He scoffs. "You can defend him if you want, but it won't work." "No," I snap. "You want to go at him, do it to his face. But I'm telling you right now, my husband is not a traitor." I jab my finger into the table, my fury rising. "Is that right?" Ash gets up. "That's right," I say, standing. "That's my girl," I hear Seamus say behind me. Relief floods through me. I exhale at the sound of his voice, like a warm tide cutting through the chaos. "So brave. That's my good girl. Ashland, sit down. You want to call me a traitor to my face, lad?" Ashland scowls, his jaw tight. "You brought a fucking Kopolov into the house." "I did." Seamus's voice is calm, but there's steel underneath. "Obviously. I did more than that, actually. I put the man she was about to marry into the ground." He turns to face Ashland directly, like he's challenging him to argue. "Does that say anything about my decision?" Then he steps to my side, fingers weaving through mine like it's second nature. He bends down, kisses my temple, slow and deliberate, and says, "I love her." Then, eyes back on Ashland, "You want to take this outside?" A shiver runs through me at the tone of his voice. Ashland hesitates. Then, quietly, "No, sir." He sits down. "Kyla?" Seamus asks, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "I heard a tone I don't care for when you were speaking to my wife. Want to try that again in front of me?" She answers softly, looking down at the table. "No. But give us a minute, Seamus. I've given you several." But he snaps, sharp. "My decisions are between me and Dad. I'll demand nothing but respect from the rest of you. Zoya is one of us. She's Zoya McCarthy now." "She'll never be Zoya McCarthy," Kyla hisses. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, tosses her napkin on the table like it burned her, and storms out. Caitlin lets out a breath like she's been holding it for minutes. "Oh dear," she mutters. Seamus moves half a step like he's about to go after her, but Caitlin reaches out, gently pressing a hand to his arm. "No, son. Leave it. I'll have a word with her." My heart thuds. I don't want them to fight over me though. That's not what I came here for. That's not what love is. "Now, lad, come and sit. Eat. Have some of this delicious food your wife made for us." "My wife?" he echoes, looking at me with a kind of wonder, like the word tastes new and sweet on his tongue. "They put you to work already?" he asks, taking a seat. "Mm-hmm," I say, a little sheepishly. "The housekeeper had to leave." Caitlin chuckles, then turns to him. "You know how I am at cooking?" "I do know how you are at cooking," he replies, grinning apologetically, and I stifle a giggle. "This looks delicious, Zoya," he says, his eyes scanning the table. Bronwyn leans in, smirking. "See? Now I know why he married you. You know how to cook. The rest of us are absolute shite at it." "Bronwyn," Caitlin warns, giving her a look. "Language." Seamus scowls at his sister. "You heard mam. Watch your mouth," he adds. "Sorry," Bronwyn mumbles, her cheeks flushed. She doesn't meet my eyes. Bossy, overbearing brother is awfully familiar to me, only this time I'm married to him. Yikes. Just then, a hush falls over the room like a curtain being drawn. The door at the far end creaks open, and with it, the air shifts, charged now, like the static hum before a storm. Caitlin sits up straighter, and her eyes instinctively sweep over each of her children at the table, assessing, anchoring. Keenan McCarthy steps into the room, moving with a quiet, unspoken authority that bends the room to his will without a single word. It's the kind of presence that makes spines straighten and conversation die mid-breath. Seamus rises immediately, a reflex, a sign of deference that runs deeper than mere politeness. I follow a breath later, his cue, my instinct. His fingers find mine, a grounding point in the chaos, warm and sure. "Da," Seamus murmurs, his chin tipping toward the door in a subtle signal. Keenan nods, his gaze gliding across the room. And when it lands on me, it holds. No flicker of anger, no hint of warmth either. Just a cold, clinical assessment, like I'm another piece in a puzzle he's trying to fit into place. "Zoya," he says, deep and almost unnervingly smooth. "Welcome. I apologize for my earlier behavior. I'm sure you're well aware your family and mine... have not exactly seen eye to eye for some time now." His civility is unnerving. Not kindness. Not warmth. Just razor-sharp composure. "Thank you," I say carefully. "Yes, I'm aware." Better to stay quiet, let my silence speak for me. He doesn't press. Just claims the seat at the head of the table like it's a throne. Every movement is deliberate, surgical. "This looks delicious," he says, his tone appreciative but distant. Caitlin starts to rise to serve him, but he stops her with a raised hand. "No, thank you, lass. I'll get it myself." He reaches, helping himself. Caitlin nods toward me. "Zoya cooked for us," she says gently. "Is that right?" His brows lift with mild curiosity, eyes swinging to me again. "You like to cook?" "I do," I answer, the words catching slightly on my tongue. I feel exposed, as if my ability to prepare a meal somehow makes me more likable. "We're not much for cooking since our head chef left," Keenan offers, his tone neutral. "Yes... Caitlin told me." My cheeks warm. I'm not sure what to say, or where I belong here, how I fit in this hierarchy, in this family that's not mine. Do I call her mom? Mrs. McCarthy? She introduced herself as Caitlin... Seamus's large, warm hand finds my knee under the table, grounding me again with a soft, steady squeeze. "Bronwyn," he says, affectionately. "How'd your driving go?" "Very well," Bronwyn answers proudly. "Aye. She only knocked over two streetlights," Caitlin chimes in with a mischievous grin. Keenan's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline before everyone breaks into quiet laughter. "Just kidding," Caitlin adds, winking at Bronwyn. "Just one." "I didn't knock it over," Bronwyn mutters, her cheeks flushing pink. "It was just... wobbly." She shrugs, looking away, embarrassed. Then to Seamus, "Take Bronwyn out again tomorrow, will you?" Seamus agrees. I'm mildly surprised Bronwyn doesn't have her license yet. She must be around nineteen, old enough, surely, but maybe she's cautious. Or maybe Seamus has been protecting her. Maybe both. "How's the city?" Seamus asks Keenan. "All right," Keenan replies smoothly, cutting into his chicken with almost clinical precision. "Branson swept the warehouse on the coast." The table quiets. "It's clean," he continues. "Shipment came in. Easter arms, just like the specs." He sets his knife down, wipes his mouth. For a moment, we all eat in companionable silence, the kind that feels worn-in, familiar. And just like that, homesickness claws at my chest. It was like this at home-Rafail at the head of the table, the rest of us gathered around. Now that we're scattered and married and rarely home, Rafail has instituted once-a-month Sunday dinners. No excuses. It's the highlight of my month. Bronwyn leans in, her eyes sharp and unapologetic. "Now that Seamus is back... any chance Russia could come after him? He escaped custody, right? Would they want him returned?" A chill trickles down my spine. Oh god. Why hasn't that ever occurred to me? That the Russian government might still want to reclaim him? My eyes dart to Seamus, but he doesn't flinch. Unshaken. His fingers curl around mine again, a soft, steady pat. Reassurance without words. Keenan answers instead. "The likelihood of extradition is low. Political climates have shifted. Our alliances are mostly intact, for now." He cuts Seamus a look. "Keep a low profile. No headlines, no fireworks. Nothing flashy until the dust settles. Yeah?" "Yes, sir," Seamus says, his jaw locked. I can't help but think: No headlines, no fireworks, that might just be his preferred method of ruling. Quiet, effective, ruthless. Keenan turns his attention back to his plate, the conversation shifting again. And I start to see it, how Seamus learned to rule not by raising his voice, but by speaking only when he had to. His eyes find mine as if to say: I'm not afraid. You don't have to be either. Am I afraid? Maybe. Maybe I'm just lost, like a fish out of water. But fear doesn't feel quite right. Not exactly. "This is really delicious," Bronwyn says, sweet and earnest. "Leave it to Seamus to find a woman who can cook when we actually need one." Her cheerfulness is infectious. I smile. "Thank you. I do like to cook." "Can you teach me?" she asks. Ash snorts. Caitlin gently smacks his arm. "Ash, be nice." But he just shakes his head. "If you can teach Bronwyn to cook, we'll call you a miracle worker." I chuckle, placing a bite of chicken into my mouth. "We'll start small. Maybe toast." Seamus winks at me. My heart doesn't flutter, it somersaults. We may be married, we may have spent months tangled in each other's lives, but somehow he still does this to me. And I want him. God, I want him. Wine is passed around, and the conversation softens. It feels normal, almost. "Where is everyone else?" Seamus asks, his voice lowering slightly. He turns to me. "I have brothers, too, you know." "I'll introduce you shortly," Keenan says. "After your absence, I had to send them on a bit of a recon. I'll fill you in later. Tomorrow," he continues. "By then, we'll have the full family together. Here." Yay. "I can hire a caterer," Caitlin begins. But Keenan interrupts, his eyes locking with mine. "You could. Or you could give Zoya another opportunity to cook." A challenge. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Would you like that?" He's testing me. I meet his gaze, unflinching. "I'd love that. I cook for my family at home all the time." Silence. No one responds. And once again, I feel my cheeks burn. My family. Their enemies. Seamus leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "I've had enough of the social life now. Let's go." He stands. "Thank you for dinner," he says, reaching for my hand. "I prepared your old room for you, son," Caitlin says, standing to embrace him. "It's good to see you. Good to have you back." Keenan nods at Seamus but doesn't rise. "I'll see you tonight. I'd like to go over what you missed in your absence." "Yes, sir," Seamus replies. He heads for the door. "Well, that went well," I murmur to him, my voice a little wry, a little surprised, like maybe I hadn't expected it to. Seamus gives me a smile, slow and tight, but full of something private. Something just for me. Once we're in the hallway alone, the door clicks shut behind us, sealing off the muffled voices and lingering tension on the other side. It's quieter here. Dimmer. The kind of quiet that lets truths come out. He reaches for me without hesitation, like he needs the contact, and cups the back of my head, his palm warm and steady against my scalp. Then his forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us. "I love you, Zoya," he whispers, and the weight of it lands softly but undeniably in my chest. "I'm sorry." "Sorry for what?" I ask him, already knowing it's not just one thing. It's never just one thing. "I'm sorry this had to be your entrance into my family," he says. "I wish they'd done better. I wish it had been easier." I exhale softly. "I knew what I was walking into, Seamus. You think if we sat down to dinner with my family, they'd be any friendlier?" I can't help but smile as I shake my head. "If anything, I think your family's probably nicer than mine would've been." He gives a soft, rough chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest. "You forgive too easily, Zoya," he murmurs huskily. "Do I?" I ask, tilting my head. But he's not wrong. I forgave him for leaving me, for good reason, maybe, but still. And I've forgiven many things in my life. Things most people would never even consider forgiving. I've made peace with monsters. "Come," he says, his tone shifting, want threaded beneath the word. His mouth to my ear, "I want you alone." My heartbeat stutters in my chest. The corridor is dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through narrow windows. The house is beautiful in a way that feels both old and curated, an Irish estate that's witnessed many come and go. He leads me to the second floor, then turns left, guiding me down a long, hushed hallway. Our footsteps are swallowed by thick gray carpet, soft beneath my feet. "We've had many families in here," he says. "There was a time when we were bursting at the seams. My father had to add a whole extra floor. A lot of remodeling." I can almost see it in my mind, children racing down these halls, thick accents and big tempers, rough affection and fierce loyalty. "This one," he says, stopping in front of a black door. "This room's mine. Has been since I was a small lad." He opens the door, no lock, unlike the heavy, bolted ones back at my house, and closes it softly behind me. I inhale slowly. My heart slows as I take in the space. It's stark. Masculine. Impeccably clean. Like his house, everything about the room is so intensely him, though a simple vase with red roses on a shelf tells me Caitlin was here. Once the door clicks shut, he turns to me and reaches for my chin. The kiss he gives me isn't rushed. It's not wild or needy, but gentle, intentional. A quiet claim. I melt into it. The heat between us builds, not fire, but something slower. Smoldering. An intimacy that feels like comfort and danger all at once. His touch is reverent, like he's reminding me this is us now. This space. This night. "Tonight, we rest," he whispers. Then, after a beat, "Or... perhaps tonight we try for that baby." I blink. "Try for a baby..." "Aye," he says. "Your idea, wasn't it?" "Mmm." I nod. I still think it's a solid strategy that neither his father nor my brother could argue with. He kisses me again, but this time it's softer. "Seamus." He pulls away a touch. "Aye?" "I... don't want our lovemaking to become a duty." He shakes his head, brushing his thumb over my cheek. "Neither do I, love." "I'm not on birth control," I tell him gently. "And by my calculations... I'm definitely ovulating." His brow quirks up, amused. Interested. Dangerous. "Are you?" he says. "Yes," I answer, fingers threading together as I watch him watch me. And that's when I note his hard length. He's already hard. The idea of making love to me, of claiming me like that, is enough to undo him. "Maybe it doesn't have to be a duty," I whisper, thinking aloud. "Maybe it doesn't have to be because someone else told us what to do. Maybe it's just because we love each other... and we want this." "Hush, lass," he nearly growls. And then I'm in his arms. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist. I hear the solid click of the lock behind me, and he's already striding toward the bed like a man on a mission. My body heats with every step. I feel his erection pressing against me, solid and demanding. When he lays me down, I remember. I remember the way he's spanked me, the way he's made me burn with need, the way he's never let me forget how much he wants me. "You're a good lass," he murmurs against my ear. "Such a good girl, aren't you?" I nod. Yes. I'm his good girl. Maybe the only time in my life I've wanted to be one. "I want you on your back, legs spread, darlin'," he whispers, his accent thick and seductive. "Let's get you stripped." Our clothes fall away like wrapping paper, each layer peeling back to reveal the gift underneath. Naked. Vulnerable. Open. He kisses every inch of my body like it's sacred. When he finally finds my pussy, his tongue strokes me in one perfect lick. My hips jerk of their own accord. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs against me. "You're good at it," I whisper, and oh god, yes, I do. "No rules tonight," he says, his breath hot on my inner thigh. "Do whatever your heart desires, angel." And I do. I spread my legs for him, shameless and aching, and his tongue finds my clit. My head tips back, my fingers curling into his hair like it's the only thing keeping me tethered. His inked shoulders are strong, a vision of masculine power. I grind into his mouth, overwhelmed. He tongues my core. Licks. Suckles. Nips, until I'm nearly screaming. "Please, Seamus," I beg. "Please. I want to come." "Come, love," he says. "Tonight's yours, lass. Tonight's your reward." The scruff of his beard scratches my thighs before he gives one last, wicked lick, and I break. My orgasm tears through me. My hips rise off the bed, and I stifle a scream as he licks me through every last wave of pleasure. Then he's on me. His weight, his heat. His need. He pins my wrists gently, his breath ragged. "On your knees," he growls. "I want you on your knees." I'm a little scared; it's still new. We've only done this a few times, though each time has gotten easier. Better. He spreads my legs. My chest hits the bed, my palms flat, bracing. "Back down," he whispers, pressing his hand to the small of my back. His voice is rough silk. "Good girl." It's different here, not like home. At home, I feel free, reckless. Here, the walls feel like they have eyes. Watching. Judging. And yet... I kind of like it. Maybe I have a touch of voyeur in me after all. Fuck whoever wants to take us apart. This? This is my husband. This is us. I want him. He positions himself behind me, the head of his cock nudging my entrance. "If it's too much... tell me," he says softly. "I don't want to hurt you, Zoya." "Please," I whisper, trembling. "I want you in me. I want you, Seamus." And then he pushes into me, and it's not pain, it's perfection. Full, deep, right. It's everything. I shatter. My pussy hugs his cock, contracting in ecstasy. I stifle a scream, loath to be overheard, as he fists my hair and pounds into me. I rock with him, riding the waves of pleasure, until we're both spent and boneless. It's been a long night. Every inch of me aches in that delicious, spent way. He cleans me up tenderly, his touch reverent, then I collapse onto the bed, my body giving out. My eyes are half-lidded, floating somewhere between consciousness and sleep. "You're so tired, darling," he murmurs, brushing hair from my cheek. I give him a soft, lazy smile. "The wine's hit me. It makes me sleepy," I add, barely above a whisper. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, a teasing glint in his eyes as he winks. I drag myself to the bathroom, moving like a half-dead zombie. My limbs feel like they're moving through syrup, but I want to be clean before I crawl into bed for real. Once I'm done, I slide under the covers, and he's there, lifting them gently, tucking me in. No one's tucked me in since I was a little girl. I didn't know I missed that. It feels... warm. Safe. "Thank you," I whisper, and I mean it. He bends down, presses a kiss to my forehead, and there's something sacred in the gesture. "Thank you," he says back. He doesn't tell me what he's thanking me for. But he means it too. I can feel it. "Are you coming to bed?" I ask, surprised when he doesn't join me. I want him behind me, his warmth, his weight, his breath on my neck. My oversized teddy bear, lethal and all mine. "Not yet," he replies. "I have some work to do." He walks to the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony, phone in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. His body is ridiculous, cut like stone, and mine to worship. But there's something in the set of his shoulders that tightens my chest. Something's wrong. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask gently, hoping, praying, he says no because I'm too tired to carry anything heavy tonight. "Not yet," he says, turning to glance at me. "I will. Get some rest, Zoya." I grab my phone, check for messages from home. Nothing. Why has no one reached out again? It's unlike them. I scroll aimlessly, letting the blue light lull me. But I can feel it, the tension pulsing in the room. I wonder if the code he swears by is fraying at the edges. If the whispers have started weaving their way through his ranks. I know they don't trust me. Our families are at war, and I'm the enemy in their eyes. Thank god that Keenan said it's unlikely Seamus will be picked up by Russia. Though he did say unlikely... not impossible. His phone buzzes. Again. And again. He scowls down at it, thumb tapping the screen. "Branson," he mutters. I drift off to the low hum of voices. His voice, serious and sharp. I don't know how long I sleep. An hour? Two? When I wake, I can tell it's the dead of night by the inky blackness out the window. He sits beside me, gently shaking my shoulder. "I'm sorry to wake you, lass. You awake, love?" I sit up fast, heart pounding. "Yes." "I got a call," he says quietly. "And I need to go. Makes me nervous leaving you here, darling. You remember what I said about you accompanying me. I trust my family, but they aren't the only ones in and out of this house." "You want me to come with you?" I ask, already throwing the covers off. I remember how he said he'd come with me wherever I go. I'm your shadow, your bloody shield, your man for every damn thing. He hesitates. "I'm just meeting with my men. They have updates. My father wants me there." I nod. "I understand." "But aye. I want you there." I throw on clothes just before he hands me a gun. "Here. Take this." My heart pounds harder. "Of course," I say. "But... why? It's just your men?" His expression darkens. "Do you remember what happened at the bar in Russia, darling?" I nod slowly. I remember. He killed his own men... because not all of them were loyal. "Right," I whisper. "Got it." We walk downstairs. The house is quiet, heavy with sleep. The voices we heard earlier are gone, swallowed into private rooms. If anyone's awake, they're not making their presence known. Outside, two cars are idling, headlights casting long shadows across the driveway. Seamus nods to a man who opens the passenger door for me, helps me in, and then slides into the driver's seat. "You remember the rules, Zoya," Seamus says as we pull away, giving me a sharp side glance. "Stay quiet. I don't want to hear a word. Do what I say. This is not the time to fucking push me. Understand? It's for your own safety." "Yes," I answer quickly. "Of course. I'm not going to disobey you." "Because you're loyal. And brave," he says. "And sometimes the loyal and brave do fearless things to protect people." My stomach drops. "Oh god. Seamus... are you in trouble?" He shakes his head. "No. I'm reclaiming what's mine and bringing you with me." I wonder what his father told him. "Does your father know you're going?" "Aye." The warehouse we pull up to is nothing more than a nondescript rectangular box on the edge of town. No lights. No signs. If Seamus hadn't stopped the car, I would've missed it completely. I follow close behind him, every step echoing in my chest. I whisper a prayer, though I don't know the words. I just need someone, anyone, to keep him safe. My husband. Inside, the ceiling yawns high above us. Figures linger in shadows, flickering in and out of view under dim, buzzing bulbs. They stop when we enter. No one speaks. Seamus doesn't hesitate. Doesn't flinch. He stands tall, still, a living monument to danger and dominance. He looks around. "This is my wife. Zoya. Respect," he says flatly. One by one, they rise to their feet, except for one. He stays seated. Defiant. Seamus's gaze locks on him, and the whole room tenses. The air stills. The moment stretches long and sharp before he draws his gun. Fires. The man drops, crimson blooming on dark hair. No warning. No explanation. His head lolls forward. I clamp a hand over my mouth, the scream silent behind my fingers. But I don't move. Seamus looks around. "Anybody else want to disrespect my wife?" he asks, lethal and calm. "No, sir," comes the chorus. A wave of reverence. Fear. Submission. He turns to me. "This is Zoya McCarthy now. She's mine." Then, like nothing just happened, he walks to the head of the table and pulls out a chair for me. I sit, every nerve still screaming, but steady. He takes the seat beside me. "Now," he says, folding his hands. "Where were we?" A Fated Encounter movie summary talks about Emma Brown who is forced by her father Henry to take her sister Bella's place and marry Tommy Anderson to save her business. Unlike the rumor Tommy turns ou...