Declan chuckled, Brennan grinned, and Eoghan, dear Lord, his lips actually twitched.
Surprised and delighted by the response, when I usually garnered nothing more than a grunt over potatoes, I preened when Aidan, clearly amused, tucked me into his side.
“They’re starting to like you,” he whispered in my ear.
Which, naturally, made me squirm.
Some mobsters liked me.
That made the inner thirteen-year-old in me squeal with glee.
Forty-Three
Finn
My weekend had ended after my brothers and I hashed out a conspiracy theory worthy of a novel and had confessed to enough sins that we were never entering the kingdom of heaven.
The following week started with Baggy, Tink, and Forrest—Brennan’s crew—reenacting Rambo as they were given the coordinates to the location where Liam Donnghal was being held captive.
After a brief tussle with the bastards holding our cousin hostage, with Eoghan’s skills reportedly keeping the Five Pointers in one piece, Liam had been freed.
I didn’t get involved with that side of shit, but I’d heard the details, and that was more than enough for me.
Knowing he’d been locked up with some poor Triad kid made me glad that the Points and the Triads had worked together to kill every kidnapper on the compound.
While I was relieved for Padraig’s sake that his son was safe and sound—aside from a partially missing ear and psychological trauma that would haunt him for the rest of his life, small fry in the grand scheme of things—I had my own problems to deal with so I stayed out of the loop.
And if that sounded selfish, then I was fucking selfish.
Aoife was my priority right now, and she wasn’t making it fucking easy on me.
I’d told her about Aidan and Padraig, had even shared the news about Liam being a long-lost cousin who’d been kidnapped, and while she’d listened, she hadn’t really conversed with me about the fuckfest that belonged on a daytime talk show.
I didn’t know if her silence was telling me she wanted nothing to do with the O’Donnellys, or if she was just too grief-stricken to process more family drama.
Either way, stuck between a rock and a hard place—yet again—I’d shared what I could in the interest of being transparent, but it wasn’t getting me anywhere.
Case in point now.
“Aoife?”
She didn’t look up from the bowl of frosting that she was lacing with lemon juice.
“Sweetheart,” I said with a sigh. “You need to eat.”
“I can eat when Paddy gets here.”
Her flat words had me frowning at her because she hadn’t eaten at breakfast, nor had she eaten much last night at dinner.
My curvy wife was starting to look emaciated, and while I was all for her doing whatever the hell she wanted to her body, this wasn’t her choice.
This wasn’t her dieting to fit into a bridesmaid’s dress for Savannah’s wedding whenever the bride decided the wedding would be.
This was her starving herself because she had no appetite.
What scared me the most was that the loss of appetite wasn’t just for food but for life as well.
Strolling over to her, I watched as tension struck her, straightening her spine and stiffening her shoulders.
The physical rejection was something I deserved, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
Even knowing I was skating on thin ice with her, it didn’t stop me from continuing to walk over to her, moving behind and resting my hands on either side of the counter to lock her in.
“Finn, leave it,” she intoned grimly, her hand whisking the thin, syrupy goop in the dish.
It smelled of spring, fresh and citrusy, but my appetite had died with Imogen.
That was the bitch of it.
I understood why she wasn’t eating, but I still did it.
“You need to eat,” I rasped, ignoring her warning.
“I’m eating enough.”
“To get by?” I scoffed. “You’re getting thinner by the day.”
“Thought you’d like that,” she snapped.
She couldn’t see my scowl, but that didn’t make it any less ferocious. “When have I ever done anything but celebrate your curves?”
Her gulp was audible. “Just leave it.”
A plea.
She was itching for a fight.
I got that too.
Closing my eyes, I longed to press my head to her shoulder, to hug her, wrap my arms around her waist and hold her, but that wasn’t in the cards yet. I didn’t think she’d want that from me right now.
My impatient nature warred with knowing that I was doing the correct thing by taking this slowly.
With a care I wasn’t known for, I murmured, “You’re starting to look gaunt. It’s winter, sweetheart. If your defenses are down, you’ll get sick.”
“Finn, I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself—”
“You proved differently when you didn’t immediately book an appointment for a termination, Aoife, so excuse me if I feel like I have to check in with you.”
The words were a gauntlet I tossed down, but my tone was calm.
A shocked gasp escaped her as she whirled around to glare at me. “You did not just say that.” Her hands went to my chest, and she shoved me away, but I didn’t budge.
“I did,” I continued in that calm tone. “Do you know the doctor who treated you blamed me and my Catholic family for you not going through with the abortion?” Her cheeks turned pale, stark white like she’d accidentally faceplanted in the powdered sugar. “I read the files, did some research. What the fuck were you thinking, Aoife? Imogen wouldn’t have survived more than a couple of days—”
“There was surgery she could have had.”
“Invasive surgery that would likely have killed her!”
“There might have been a chance of her surviving,” she yelled shrilly.
I could feel my anger starting to grow as I saw how righteous she was. “You’d have put yourself through a high-risk pregnancy, would have risked yourself to have a baby that would have died within hours—”
“You don’t know that,” she rasped.
“I do know that. I read the statistics. I looked into this. The second your doctors accused me of putting my religion before my wife’s health and welfare, you bet your ass I looked into it. I just didn’t say anything because of—”
“Your withholding of the fact that you knew who murdered my mom,” she interrupted with a sneer. “And you were the one who made me promise to always put our children first.”
“Not above your health!” My mouth tightened, but I ignored her interruption and continued, “Jesus, Aoife, wasn’t that obvious? You need to slow down. You’re obsessed with baking—”
Her hands went to my chest, and this time, when she shoved me away, I rocked back on my heels. “Is our son clean? Fed? Happy?”
“This isn’t about Jake.”
“Answer the question,” she snarled.
“He is.”
“Is the kitchen tidy at the end of the day?”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “Yes.”
“Then what I do or do not do with myself is none of your business.”