“Does it matter if the Five Points helped Davidson become president?”
“What if your da is ECD too?” There it was. The kicker.
“No fucking way,” he disagreed. “Da can’t take orders from the Internal fucking Revenue Services, never mind some fucker in jail in Ireland.
“He wants the motherland united and free from British tyranny but let’s face it, he’ll be donating to legitimate fronts so that’ll be a nice tax break for him too. Bastard’s never even been to Ireland. It’s not that big of a cause to him.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, wishing I could trust that, but he didn’t know about his ma’s involvement in my mother-in-law’s death. And none of us knew what the ECD’s terms of blackmail were…
I didn’t say a word, but Aidan steamrolled on, “I know my father, and you know what, Finn? You know your father too. Think about it. Having a president in his pocket—that’s Da’s idea of a wet dream.
"But answering to some zealous motherfuckers with less sense than a gnat and more memory than an elephant?” He sniffed. “I hate the asshole most days, but even I think that he’s got more to him than that.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue, just told him, “Conor says the leader of the ECD ain’t in jail anymore.”
“Huh. Well, I don’t see what that changes. He’s been in jail for years, hasn’t he? Anyway, you want to bring this up with Da?”
“I don’t know.” I couldn’t trust him. Or could I?
“You know what’s funny?”
“There’s something funny about this shit show?” I sputtered in disbelief.
“Yeah. Remember last year when Da tried to get that law overturned about allotted airspace?”
My mind whirred. Manhattan airspace was as much of a premium as ground space. To build a skyscraper, you had to own the rights to not just the plot beneath a building, but above it too.
“Vaguely. We could only get the Danu building to sixty stories instead of the eighty Senior wanted because we couldn’t buy rights from anyone on that street.”
“Yeah. If Da does have the president in his fucking pocket, why didn’t he win? Why’s that law still active?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Davidson couldn’t do anything to change the law.”
“It’s fucking airspace. That’s gotta be federal.”
I blinked. “No, it’s a zoning law. That comes under city ordinance. Either way, there’d be something he could help with, and Davidson didn’t sound all that happy about his ties with the mob. Said he wasn’t a puppet.”
“That fits. Maybe he doesn’t play ball like Da wants. It’s not like Da wouldn’t blow his own horn if he had a president in his pocket. I think Davidson doesn’t do as he’s told…
“Wonder what that’s about and why Da lets him get away with it.” He heaved a sigh. “Shit, now you’ve got me thinking all kinds of conspiracies.”
“Me too,” I said tiredly.
“Finn, what’s going on with you? Aside from the crap you just told me, I mean. Where’s your head at?”
“I gotta tell Aoife some bad shit, Aidan. Some real bad shit. I don’t know if our marriage can survive it.”
“Jesus, what the fuck have you done?”
I could have confessed to him. Could have shared the burden, split the load, but I didn’t deserve that.
Sucking in a breath, I told him, “I can’t tell you. Yet. She deserves to know first.”
Aidan muttered, “Must be bad if you won’t tell me.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “But I gotta share that shit about her mom being killed because of her dad as well…”
“I’ll see you on the other side, deartháir. Later, I’ll need answers, okay? You get away with this no asking questions bullshit now, but not tomorrow. Hear me?”
The words were simple, but they were genuine.
“Thanks, Aidan.”
“No need to thank me. Tell me how it goes.”
It wasn’t a request.
“I will.”
If I fucking survived it.
Every marriage had a defining moment. My father’s and Lena’s had been defined by the rolling pin incident. I just prayed that Aoife didn’t have nefarious plans with a cookie cutter and my balls.
If she did, I’d take whatever she doled out though.
It was the least I deserved.
Twenty-Five
Aoife
When the elevator doors opened, the penthouse was silent so I heard the swoosh as if it were a clanging bell.
Lena had taken Jake on a visit to the zoo to give me some time to cry, but with every passing minute, I both missed him more and knew that it was nearer to Finn coming home.
Finn—the man I’d told my worst secrets to. The man I loved. The man I’d vowed to be with until death did us part.
Twice.
But who I couldn’t share this truth with.
A truth that…
After researching sirenomelia, I knew what I was going to do, and I knew he wouldn’t agree.
Over the hours of staring at nothing, of looking up at the ceiling and trying to think of a resolution, I knew what my next steps would be.
Knowing that the penthouse would have spat out a bubbling, gurgling toddler who’d be squealing happily if it were Jake and Lena returning from the zoo, I quickly shot up from the mattress and darted into the bathroom.
The second I saw my reflection, I winced because I looked like I’d been crying. That was the opposite of what I needed. I had to present a calm front, a strong and resolute front, so when I told Finn how it was going to go down, he’d listen and wouldn’t take over.
Scrubbing my face with my cleanser, I wasn’t surprised when there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Aoife?”
My brow furrowed as I heard the note in his voice—sorrow? I knew my husband well. He was the king of the poker face, and that extended to most parts of his body.
Okay, not his dick. But everything else, he had complete control over.
If he sounded like that, it was because his guard was down, and that meant something had happened.
Something bad.
My own worries shoved aside, I dragged open the door, soap still on my face, and demanded, “Finn? What is it?”
His voice matched his expression which only augmented my worries.
Jesus, he looked like he’d aged a hundred years since this morning.
Finn was incapable of being unattractive, it was those O’Donnelly genes, but the way his shoulders were stooped and his expression—his exhaustion reached out to me.
Did he know?
That was all I could think.
Had the doctor called him? Had John, my guard, told him?
Finn looked like he was grieving.
He pressed a shoulder to the door and told me, “I need to speak with you, sweetheart.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
“No.” Rubbing a hand over his face, he muttered, “I wish.”
“What is it?”
He wafted a hand at me. “Wash your face first.” Then, I watched the transformation happen—he went from being my husband to being the reason I’d love him until the day I died. He straightened up and questioned, “Do you need something to eat? How are you feeling?” He moved over to me and pressed his fingers to my stomach.