“Is it really a bad thing not to have the stomach for murdering and killing and torturing?” Eoghan questioned before he sank down some whiskey. “I don’t think that’s the worst crime, Da.”
“He was supposed to reign by my side, goddammit,” Senior snarled, and I wasn’t surprised when his fist went flying and it collided with the mirror behind his desk. Fist bleeding, knuckles bloodied, that didn’t even stop him as he hissed, “Leave us, sons—”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Junior rasped.
“You’ll kill each other,” I agreed.
“It’s okay, boys. Leave us be. If he wants to beat on me, then he can. I don’t give a fuck. I just need to get Liam home.” His eyes collided with Junior then Conor, and whatever they saw within his gaze had them getting to their feet.
“Come on,” Junior urged.
Conor started for the door. “Let’s leave them to it.”
Shaking my head, I followed them, as did Declan, Brennan, and Eoghan. As we left the room, leaving the brothers to duke it out, Brennan grumbled, “Well, that was informative.”
“Wonder why there aren’t any pictures of Ma at a debutante ball?” Conor mused.
“Probably because Senior stole her before they could photograph her,” I muttered.
“He’s your da too,” Conor pointed out. “You can call him that.”
My brow furrowed. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He was the one who asked, but I knew I was at the center of their attention.
Uncomfortable, I retorted, “Because he’s been Senior a lot longer than he’s been my father.”
“He’s always treated you like family,” Declan pointed out softly. “Hell, most of the time, he was nicer to you than he ever was to me.”
Though I cringed, I couldn’t deny that was the truth. “You always did get the short end of the stick.”
“The short, pointy end,” Declan groused.
“No arguing with that,” Brennan agreed with a sigh.
“Anyway, we have a problem.”
Aidan turned to Declan just as the sound of something crashing came from Senior’s office. “More of a problem than that?”
Another crash echoed down the hall. It warred with The Clash’s ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go,’ from the soundtrack of the movie Victoria and Shay were watching.
“Think that was the Chippendale?” Brennan asked wistfully. “I wanted that cabinet when the fucker finally died. It’d look perfect in my office.”
“Yeah, more of a problem than that,” Declan said with a grimace.
Aidan hobbled away from the office door and limped into the nearest den. As he slumped on one of the chairs, he muttered, “Come on, then. Hit me with it.”
I was the last to head into the room, and as I did, I saw Aidan sitting in Senior’s armchair.
The move was probably accidental because it was the closest to the door, and I could see that his knee was paining him, but it seemed more like fate.
We congregated around him, each of us taking our place close to his seat all while our father lost his shit in the other room.
It felt… right.
Like stepping away from the past and walking into the future.
I shook off the thought as Declan mumbled, “I didn’t mention anything because I didn’t want anyone to know, even went as far as to hire private guards for the event, but Aela was recently invited to the White House.”
Arching a brow at that, I asked, “Why?”
Brennan sat up. “Your wife, a woman known to associate with a mobster, was invited to the White House?”
“Well, it wasn’t official until we got married, was it?” Declan retorted. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if that whole administration was as crooked as Da.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked, even though I knew truer words had never left his lips.
“Aela was commissioned by the First Lady to make the Davidson official china set.” He crossed his feet at the ankle as he told us, “I feel like a real dumbass for not registering it sooner, but she wants the words Éire le chéile go deo inscribed into the dishes.”
For a second, none of us said anything, then as I processed that we no longer needed Michael’s word for it, Brennan growled, “You mean to tell me that the First Lady is a fucking cheile?”
Thirty-Nine
Aoife
“She did WHAT?”
I grimaced at Aela’s screech, but I had to admit, how my sisters-in-law gathered around me made me feel better.
A hell of a lot better.
I’d been isolated since the miscarriage, with most of that being self-imposed.
I hadn’t meant to put up barriers between my family and friends and myself, but right now, everything was much too much, and I needed to shut down. Go into turtle mode to lick my wounds.
But seeing Inessa’s round eyes, Camille’s furrowed brow, Savannah’s clenched jaw, and the way Aela was practically vibrating, hands fisted at her sides as she loomed over me in the large conservatory, I felt embraced by their horror. Warmed by their outrage.
I mattered to them.
I knew that, but seeing was believing.
“She killed my mom,” I repeated after a couple seconds of basking in their care.
“This is fucking nuts,” Aela hissed, dropping to the seat next to me then quickly leaping up again. “Why isn’t she in jail—?” She snapped, “Goddamn Senior. You shouldn’t be here, Aoife. Why are you here? You’re not going to eat at the same table—”
“Finn told Aidan I wasn’t coming, and I wanted to spite him,” I admitted sheepishly.
“He can’t have known,” Inessa whispered, her pallor pinched.
“He did.” I stared down at Jake’s hands as he tugged on her bright blonde hair.
“He’s lucky you didn’t kill him.”
Savannah was new to this little circle, but her cool words drew my attention.
I wasn’t sure if she meant it. Wasn’t sure if she was joking. But she sipped on what appeared to be a mimosa, one arm slung along the back of the sofa like she was ready to be photographed for a magazine.
Picture perfect.
How I wished that I were like that.
We’d had a couple fallings out because of Jen, our mutual best friend, and how Savannah had treated her, but her words made me realize that she was on my side too.
“It’s the men who kill. Not us,” Camille rasped. “That’s not our job.”
“Our job?” Aela mocked. “What’s she supposed to do when the guy with that job is the one who needs killing?”
Her staunch defense soothed me, but it made me feel bad for admitting, “I love him.”
Inessa’s soft eyes landed on mine. “Oh, Aoife.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to forgive him,” Aela grumbled, but my admission seemed to take the wind from her sails.
She sat down heavily, her arm rubbing up against mine in comfort, not happenstance.
“I don’t,” was my prompt reply. “I really don’t, but I don’t want to kill him. I don’t—” I sighed. “I thought we were solid.”