“Then what’s the problem?”
His hand moved over to press against my stomach. “Another soul is coming into the world. My child is coming into the life. I can’t control that or stop it or change it.”
Ah.
Shit.
I should have thought about that.
I was still in the happy phase. Still wondering if it would be a boy or a girl and hoping I’d get through the pregnancy without too many health issues. Unlike last time.
Finn, though I'd only told him I was pregnant this morning, was thinking about when Jake and this baby—if it were a boy—were approaching fourteen.
Fourteen... When the Irish Mob had their version of a Bar Mitzvah and introduced their teenagers to the lifestyle.
My heart shriveled at the thought of arming Jake with a gun in thirteen years’ time… Would that happen? Would Aidan Sr. still be alive so Finn couldn’t break the cycle?
“My stepdad raped me, Eef.”
“I know he did, baby.”
My thumb traced over the line of his cheekbone. Little spiderwebs of wrinkles had appeared at the corners of his eyes this past year, and I was pretty sure that had everything to do with stress and not being almost forty-two.
“It isn’t my secret to tell, and I’ve kept this locked up inside for decades… I’d never have said a word either. Never, but—” He released a breath. “Let me start at the beginning. Conor was raped by a priest, Eef.”
For a second, I thought he was joking, but then my brain just whirred to a halt because this wasn’t funny in the least.
This wasn’t a joking matter.
And somehow, even though it was the opposite of a punchline, I knew my husband had more to tell me than that.
So, like anyone facing a hurricane armed with nothing more than a dollar-store umbrella, I braced myself.
Knowing that even that wouldn’t be enough.
Because for the Irish Mob, nothing ever was.
Three
Finn
Aoife knew I was a sinner.
She’d seen that firsthand.
I’d long since passed the point of worrying about my eternal soul, but hers gave me cause for concern.
Seeing what I’d seen these last couple days, hearing what I’d heard, doing what I’d done…
I tipped my forehead forward and pressed it against hers.
“Junior and I, we found them together in the confessional. Aidan lost it. I just protected Conor. Aidan was the one who killed him.” To this day, I was still ashamed that I'd stalled. That I hadn't helped punish that bastard. "All I could remember was how I’d felt after what had happened to me, and he was younger…” I shook my head, dragging my forehead against hers.
"You caught it happening?” she asked quietly, her voice calm. Soothing.
Judgment-free.
It unlocked something in my memory banks.
Let the words form.
“We did. The second I saw that, I knew the bastard wasn't going to make it out alive..." I released a breath and tried not to be a pussy.
Tried when just thinking back to that day was enough to trigger me.
I'd killed.
I'd tortured.
I'd maimed.
But if anything fucked with my head, it was thoughts of my stepfather and what he'd done to me.
And that day.
Witnessing Conor's abuse with my own eyes.
A visual reminder of what had been done to me in the flesh combined with knowing the kid I'd loved, part of the family who'd taken me in and who'd loved me in return, had endured what I had.
There was no peace of mind when the worst had been done to you. There was no rest, no salvation when you couldn't let go of your trauma.
I could remember the first time I'd sliced a man's collateral ligaments; only, the details were getting hazy. I couldn't remember the guy's name or why I'd punished him that way. But the feel of my stepfather’s—
Exhaling, I told myself it was better now that I knew he wasn't my biological dad, but it didn't take away from the feeling of being raped.
Couldn't.
I thought of the pain of being violated. The internal scream that never abated, that clouded the soundtrack of my life.
"Finn? Baby? Talk to me."
Aoife's soft voice was like the shock of the defibrillator against my chest, restarting my heart, making me suck down a breath.
Her smell—lavender and cotton—invaded my senses, overtaking my olfactory system.
She was here with me.
She wasn't going anywhere.
Tonight was not that night.
She wasn't my mom.
She'd kill anyone who harmed our kids. Not with cyanide she made in our kitchen, but with a cleaver she’d learned how to wield in culinary school.
"Junior just kept on hitting the guy," I rasped. "Over and over until he was mulch. We'd sneaked into the church looking for Conor, and there was this moan..." I could still hear it. "We armed ourselves with a candlestick from the altar and a plate. That was what Aidan used on the priest.
"I remember standing by the pews, blood spattering onto me, wishing that he’d been there when my stepfather had done that to me. Of course, I thought he was my dad back then…”
Her hand cupped my cheek. “Aidan Sr. took care of things, didn’t he?”
“He killed him,” I confirmed, remembering the little Senior had told me. I took pleasure in cutting that bastard to shreds was all he'd said. “I don’t know how. Maybe I should ask for details. Maybe that would feel good, knowing how it happened? I mean, I just know he’s at the bottom of the Hudson.”
“He’s fish food, baby.”
“He is,” I said simply. “So's the priest who hurt Conor." The memory replayed before I had the chance to shut it down. "The other night, Junior told Senior about Kid's abuse, about what we did that day, and he completely lost his shit.”
“Didn’t take much to figure out that something was wrong with him, sweetheart. He’s been edgier than usual all day. Actually, Lena has been weird too.”
I thought about how Aidan Sr. had tortured the Archbishop of New York.
I thought about how he’d set fire to the cathedral after dumping him at the altar so he could feel the flicker of the flames eating him alive.
But more than that, more than any of that, I thought about how he and Lena had tried to kill themselves.
Guilt, they said they couldn't live with knowing they'd let Conor down...
“My mom had to know, didn’t she?” I blurted out.
She tensed up at the question, and I didn’t blame her. She’d known my mom. Hers had been best friends with mine, and she’d been practically raised by Fiona too.
“You know I don’t have the answer to that, sweetheart. I just know that she grieved you until the day she died.”
“Good,” I said simply. “Aidan and Lena destroyed a centuries-old cathedral for Conor. They tortured and burned the archbishop alive and almost killed themselves…
“My mom should have carried the burden of grief for my abuse for the rest of her life too.”
I braced myself for her judgment, for her telling me that was out of line, but she didn’t do that.