My brows rose at that, and I peered out of the kitchen window and into the yard I’d just passed. It was dark, though, and I couldn’t see anything in the meager light.
He huffed. “You’ll see in the morning.”
I grinned at him. “Should I be excited?”
“Only that we have a lawn now. It was just behind ten tons of crap.”
I sniffed. “I considered it a work of art.”
“You just hate mowing—”
“You bet your ass I do.” I leaned back against the counter. “You been a good kid for Caro?”
He shrugged. “Pretty much.”
Taking him at his word, I nodded. “Thanks, Shay. I know it was last minute—”
He heaved a sigh. “I’m not a kid, Mom. I don’t need you to explain why you had to go away on business.” He rolled his eyes.
I wanted to sob and smile at the same time because he looked so grown up at that moment, it was heartbreaking.
Worse than that, he looked like Declan.
I mean, I’d have been a dumbass if I hadn’t seen the likeness between my boy and his father over the years. With Declan’s face imprinted on my retinas, a face I saw before I closed my eyes at night, and the first one I saw in the morning? That routinely made an appearance in my art?
You could bet your way to the bank that I thought about their similarities.
But it rammed it all home harder as I took him in now.
In four years’ time, he’d be eighteen.
He’d wanted to go to Harvard. Wanted to be a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. Wanted to change legislation from the inside out—get into politics even.
It blew my mind, but that was his goal.
He even had a five-year plan.
And now, here I was, about to wreck everything for him.
Did I do it now? Rip it off like it was a Band-Aid? Or should I let him think everything was normal, that nothing had changed?
Which was the greater kindness?
Before I could say a word, he scowled at me, then I realized it wasn’t at me, but something behind me.
He darted forward, past the whitewashed table that was shabby chic and a project we’d worked on together, and toward me. When he jerked me back, pushing me behind him, the motion not only stunned me, but it made me want to cry again.
Such a good kid.
“What is it?” I demanded, as tension soared through me. I peered at the window, trying to see what he had.
“I saw a shadow—”
A knock sounded at the door, making us both jump. I moved past him, heading to answer it as I called out, “Who is it?”
I wanted to groan when the voice called back, “It’s Rogan, Ms. O’Neill. Just wanted to assure you that the property is secured.”
Wincing, I muttered, “Thank you.”
The goons were more than just watching over me and making sure I obeyed... they were protecting us.
Protecting us because, as I’d learned on the ride home, the Irish were at war with the Italians, for fuck’s sake.
I hadn’t just brought chaos into my life, I’d brought war.
A war that was going to impact Seamus.
Fuck.
“We’ll be out in the car until you’re ready to return to the city.”
“I have a lot to pack,” I argued, tensing up at being bossed around.
“No. We have our orders. You’re to pack the bare minimum, then we’ll be returning to organize and put your things into storage.”
My mouth dropped open at the heavy-handed bullshit Eoghan was pulling, but then...
I scrubbed a hand over my face, unable to hide from the truth, even as I loathed being told what to do.
I’d been around for the war with the Colombians and the Haitians. Daddy had almost died, and Uncle Freddie had lost his life in a knife fight.
War was brutal.
It took no prisoners, not in this kind of battle anyway. Or, at least, if prisoners were taken, they were tortured and killed. No Geneva Convention or any number of Amnesty International rulings protected the Five Points’ men from being torn to shreds.
Hell, and I’d just brought my son into this universe.
What had I been thinking? Why hadn’t I just told Amaryllis to get gone when she’d seen my tattoo?
When I thought back to how this had all begun, I wanted to cry because it was so preventable. I’d been so stupid to get involved, and now Seamus was at risk.
But when a student had come to me, eying the tattoo, the tag, on my wrist like it was a lifeline from God himself? What was I supposed to do? Tell her to fuck off? Especially when she broke down, when she started sobbing in my classroom, telling me things about her boyfriend who’d just been kidnapped—using names I remembered. Phrases that I’d worked hard to eradicate from my brain by becoming as mainstream as possible.
Sure, I might have blue-tinted hair, and I might come across as a rebel for Sally across the road, but I was a suburban mom. I drove a minivan, for God’s sake. I wasn’t supposed to be getting involved with mafia wars anymore.
I’d striven long and hard to make a life for myself, a life for Seamus that was free from prejudice and free from violence. But one girl’s tears, her helplessness, the outpouring of love I’d heard in her voice for her man, had unraveled everything I’d spent years building. I’d been unable to say no. To back off. I’d pulled contacts I hadn’t talked to in years all to get her help.
And this was my thanks.
Jesus, it really didn’t pay to be kind, did it?
When Seamus asked, “Mom, what’s going on?” I bit my bottom lip, wanting to gnaw the damn thing off. Hell, that would be less painful than what I was currently going through, because admitting the truth to him was going to feel like I was taking a bullet to the belly.
And having taken one of those before, I knew exactly how painful it was.
Ironically enough, that had been by accident. Proof, I guessed, that violence was everywhere. Whether you were in the world I’d been raised in or not.
When the goon trudged off, evidently assuming I was pissed and that expecting an answer was dumb, I twisted around and whispered, “I-I…” I gulped, staring into eyes that were a bright blue, just like his father’s.
Everything about him was a mini Declan, so much so that it was painful to behold. At the same time, I’d never been so damn proud of him. When Declan saw him, he was going to shit a brick because it had to be like looking in a mirror, and since he was a handsome fecker, he’d passed on all the good genes.
There was barely any of me in Seamus’s face. That was why I called him ‘butt face’. Because he had a butt chin too, and that was literally my stamp on him. Great thing to pass on, huh?
“Mom? What is it?” His voice broke, and he winced. He hated how his voice kept changing, and I knew he was going to be even madder when he faced his father with a squeaky voice.
I blew out a breath, decided to stop being a chickenshit, and rasped, “It’s about your dad.”
DECLAN
BEFORE
“You need to start pulling your weight more, kid.”
It was so hard not to roll my eyes, but knowing I’d get a backhander was the only reason I restrained myself.
Pull my weight?
I’d like to know how I could do more than I already was.