by Hadley Finn
It took me cleaning my shoes day in and day out from Irish winter walks to decide to buy boots for just this occasion.
The squishing of the boots and the rustling of my coat are the only sounds I hear. No birds, no breeze. No anything. I didn’t allow Hagrid to accompany me. It’s not Killian’s favorite anyway—to have Hagrid try to chase and play with Winkles. He allows it, but it’s not his preference.
I couldn’t handle the energy and joy that dog brings on the morning after…after Bobby was murdered. Of that, I’m sure.
Since this bullshit nightmare isn’t going away and has followed me, albeit not physically, I need Killian’s sage wisdom and his help.
I knock and push open the door. Make my way straight to the coffeepot and pour a mug. Unlike any time since New Orleans, I also grab the Kilbeggan and pour three fingers. I sip on each, tending toward the Kilbeggan but not interested in getting drunk. The numbness would be welcome though.
“Good morning, lad.”
I raise my Kilbeggan in a mock toast but don’t meet his eyes.
“What is it, lad?”
“He’s fucking me from the grave.”
“Come now, lad, I’m sure—”
“He left a pink daisy on Sirona’s mom when he killed her. There was one outside my burned down house in the States. And now my best friend and my attorney. He’s. Fucking. Me. From. The. Grave.”
Killian simply reaches for the bottle of whiskey and takes a pull straight from the lip.
He sits in silence. He pours the whiskey into his coffee mug and sips while he waits.
My shoulders slump and the rage wells, like tears would, but never bubbles over.
“Fuck!” I slam my fists on his wooden kitchen table, shaking the bottle and rattling the mugs.
“Here’s the thing. He’s dead. He’s fucking dead. I killed him. Drove an ice pick through his heart and left him hanging until his heart stopped beating. I know he’s dead.
“I hated him. I’ve always hated him, but he had no clue who I was. How could he? I changed my name. I was his parish priest for fuck’s sake. No way he would put any of that together. His ego was too big to pay attention to a kid. I was nothing to him. Shit to be scraped off his shoe. Ma was…. I don’t even know, but Sirona’s dad? Sirona’s mom? Bobby?” My voice breaks on his name and I stop, staring off.
“Her da have a daisy too?”
“What? No. I mean he killed—”
“So, it isn’t his calling card or is it?” He takes a long pull from his mug.
I suspect it’s not coffee anymore.
“Yes. No. Wait. What are you suggesting?”
“Could it be someone else? A second player?”
“No. It has to be him.”
“Your rage is blinding you.” The lilt of his words forces me to concentrate. He stares at me as if waiting for me to understand. “Ice pick, remember?”
“But…”
“Why does it have to be him, lad?”
Silence while my wheels turn over and over and over. What the fuck? Could there be someone else? If so, what clues have I missed?
I pound the table with my fists again and he allows it. He waits with me, sitting there drinking his whiskey as I work through the suggestion.
“If there’s another player, they were at work while we were in New Orleans. They know me. They know my real name. My family isn’t safe.”
“How would they know?”
“I don’t know. But the house in South Carolina was bought under Declan O’Shaughnessy. Paperwork with Bobby’s law firm was under Declan O’Shaughnessy. Sean O’Ryan left New Orleans. Declan O’Shaughnessy was never there.”
“Keep pulling the threads, lad.”
I sit at his table for most of the morning, giving up the coffee altogether for straight whiskey. I replay everything on repeat in my head. What the fuck am I missing?
I leave Killian’s well after noon. Wish I could say that by the time I head home I have everything all figured out. To the contrary, I know less and less and am worrying more and more.
Two players? It could be. It can be.
The idea that Enzo Calabrese had not taken my mom, both of Sirona’s parents, and Bobby is a relief and offers a false hope that things aren’t as bad as they seem. That fucker didn’t deserve to breathe air and the idea that he was responsible for so much pain gives him a power that I refuse to offer.
The idea that a second player, equally as cruel and diabolical, with no regard for human life and a vendetta for me and was willing to take it out on Sirona? It would be unconscionable if it weren’t so plausible.
And it’s more than plausible.
The flowers alone for Sirona’s mom and dad. I’m going to have to ask about it and dredge back up two horrific realities. Worse still, I’m going to have to tell her I was responsible for her mom. Or at least that I brought it down on her. Even worse, that after everything: leaving her shop, her friends, family, city, culture—you name it—I still have her in the crosshairs and know absolutely fucking nothing about our threat.
I need more Kilbeggan.
I go straight to my office when I get home and open my laptop. I do the VPN shit I haven’t done in forever because I can’t have a search traced back to me. And I go to work.
I research Enzo Calabrese. I Google everything I can find, search all public records. From when he worked for Gambisi to when my mom died. How he came up the chain. I look into his legitimate businesses like the freighters and try to find the illegitimate ones like his money laundering. I read newspaper articles after the recent finding of his body and the unsealed police records since the case has gone cold. The police didn’t see him as much of a loss, but had to do the work anyway. One low-level crime lord off the streets isn’t worth making too much of a fuss over. Not in a dirty town like New Orleans.
I research what’s happened with the key players in his organization since his death. Four months have not been kind to them. Many arrested. Many more found dead. Some unable to deal with lack of power. No one sticks out as overly bright or cunning, and there’s nothing to indicate the motley bunch of lemmings has reunited.
I research Zera Hebert Calabrese. Her desire to be rid of Enzo isn’t documented anywhere, but I sat in that confessional booth and listened to her cry. I know she was trapped, wanted out, planned and plotted to make that a reality. As far as I know, there would be nothing to make her suspicious of me. Besides, killing Sirona’s mother doesn’t fit into her motivations, nor would it have gotten her closer to being free of Enzo.
As far as I can tell, Zera knew Sirona in that Enzo and Chad Dugas were “friends,” although business associates is a better phrase. His borrowing bears no ties to Zera, but I keep digging.
I Google Bobby. There’s little out there yet. The social media posts are scraping my insides and just when I can take no more, my phone dings.
Sirona: All okay?
Me: Yes
Sirona: You missed lunch. You sure you’re okay?
Me: In the office. Not hungry. Find you in a bit.
Sirona: Okay, Sean. Let me know if you need anything.
I don’t respond. I need to figure out what I’m missing. How to protect my family and how to tell my gorgeous, generous, funny woman that I am why she’s not safe.
I continue my search of Bobby and Sherrilyn and see nothing that indicates he had any hand in this. And now I have to tell Sherrilyn that I’m responsible for her husband’s death too.
It’s one thing when it’s at my hand… with my knife… and I spill the blood.
But targeted for knowing me? That is untenable.
I leave the office and head to the master bath, strip, and flip the shower on to scalding hot water. I step under and curse, but eventually settle under the spray and let it beat on me. It feels like sandblasting today. If only it would strip away… what? My guilt? My anger? My past?
My fists are clenched and I’m letting the water scrape down my body when the door clicks o
pen and closed. Sirona strips away her clothes, piling them on the counter one by one. She opens the glass door and steps in, reaching around me and turns the water down to normal temperature, and she reaches up on her tiptoes, wraps her hand around my neck, and holds my stare. I fall on her mouth, kissing her hard. I am giving and taking, and my hands slide around her body and pull her flush to me. My cock warms and twitches but I welcome it. It’s for her. She does this to me.
I bend over, drinking from her, wanting her, letting my hands roam to her ass and farther down still.
I slide my fingers into her, pulling out by curving my fingers and grazing her walls. I capture her moans, swallowing them. My fingers enter her until I squat just enough to lift her petite body and position her above my cock before impaling her. So tight, so hot, so wet.
And I thrust.
Her head falls back and I kiss her neck, bite her earlobe. I take her mouth again as I pulse into her body as quickly and as deeply as I can.
“Touch your clit, baby.”
“Too much, Sean. It’s too much.”
“Baby, touch your clit.”
“Sean!”
Before she can reach between us, she’s coming, sucking me in deep. A hot vise pulls at my cock.
“Baby, please touch your clit.”
She looks me dead in the eyes and reaches between us and when she does, I pump harder in a wild rhythm with my angry cock. Her face shows ecstasy and her hand loses purchase.
“Clit, baby. I’m going to come and I need you to rub your clit.”
She reaches between us again and the sensation of her fingers brushing my cock while she rubs her bud has me so fucking close. I hurry as if I’m rutting into her until she bursts again, and this time, she milks my orgasm out of me as her body wrings another from her.
“So,” she draws out the “oh,” “what brought on the whiskey? Only tasted that on you once before and that was—”
I can’t think of that time.
“Where’s Clara?”
“That’s one way to avoid the topic,” she deadpans.
“It’s important, love.”
“She’s watching movies.”
“After she’s asleep, I’ll tell you. Need your undivided attention and can’t risk her overhearing.” My words are rushed, coarse, and have little feeling.
Well, I certainly have her attention. And not in a good way.
We sit around the dinner table. Sirona is fidgeting. Clara is none the wiser. I ask if she’s heard they’re making Frozen II and that alone gets us through dinner.
At some point, I reach for Sirona’s restless hand. She practically jumps when I touch her and the fear in her eyes cuts me deep.
“Calm, love. It’s okay.”
She jerks a harsh nod but leaves the table, clearing plates. She’s jittery and it highlights my utter stillness.
Clara has carried the conversation and saved us from what could have been an even more awkward dinner.
“Go help your mom with dishes?”
“But—” She stares around, looking for any excuse.
“Do it, pretty girl. I’m going to help.”
“Okay.” She looks dejected as she slowly slides off her chair and trudges to the kitchen, head down.
“Clara?”
“Yeah?”
“After dishes, let’s see what we can find out about Frozen II.”
And with a spring in her step, she flounces toward the kitchen, yelling to her mom about our evening plans.
Later that night, I offer my hand to Sirona. She accepts it and nods solemnly and we leave the living room, turning off the lights as we go. She closes the door behind us in our room and attempts to sit on the bed. I shake my head and put my fingers over my lips and tilt my head to the bathroom.
I go in, start the water and strip, climbing under the spray.
“You’re insatiable.” She sounds jovial as she joins me but the look on my face must tamp down her good humor.
“Wish that were the case. I always want you, baby, but this is serious.” My face must say what my voice refuses, because she becomes smaller, folding into herself. I haven’t seen that from her since before we left Louisiana and I don’t like it one bit.
“You’re scaring me, Sean.” She reaches for me but must think better of it, so we stand there, facing each other, not touching.
“Not meaning to, baby, but this won’t be pretty.”
I inhale huge and, with the exhale, I begin. And the plain truth might as well be razors on my tongue. “Enzo Calabrese killed my mother. I saw him leave her house and I found her body.”
Her gasp could derail me, but I continue, “He was small-time then, an enforcer for Salvatore Gambisi, and was an up-and-coming hitman. I was fifteen and spent my summers with Ma in New Orleans. I’ve wanted him dead since that night. My father paid for the hit.”
Her throat bobs and she nods, all the while keeping my gaze.
“I killed him between the time you left town and the time that Clara and I did. There’s no way he survived.”
Her eyes round like saucers and the blood drains from her face but she says nothing.
“He didn’t leave a pink daisy on my mom’s body.”
Her confused look says I’ve lost her.
“Hate to bring it up, Sirona, and I mean I hate it, but did he leave one on your dad’s body?”
A swift shake tells me no. “I don’t understand.”
“The arson investigator at my house found a pink daisy.”
Her sharp intake of breath says she’s putting things together faster than I did.
“And there was another with Bobby’s body.”
“But my mom…” she stares off.
“….wasn’t killed by Enzo.”
“But he had to have done it. It helped him. He had to have—”
“I think there’s another threat. I’m so sorry. I’m…. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I brought this down on you and Clara. If there’s a second player, and it looks like there is, he killed your mom. That’s on me.”
“But…” She swallows, but the hoarseness in her voice ushers in her tears. “That can’t be right.”
“Love, the house in Charleston was in my birth name. Enzo couldn’t have followed that trail even if he were alive.”
“But then…” Her eyes brim with tears and as they spill over, she turns her back on me. Fuck, that hurts! “Then…”
“You can say it, baby.”
“Then my mom didn’t have to die.”
Silence. My mouth feels full of acid and my guts feel like they’re burning from the inside out.
She turns enough to look me in the face, her body still facing away, hiding, protecting.
“Baby, neither of your parents should have been killed. Just like my ma.”
Her tears flow. She slides to the floor and curls into a tight ball in the corner of the shower, folded in on herself and letting the emotions come. She pulls her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, resting her head on her knees. Her body racks with sobs.
I wait. It’s awkward and my hands feel leaden like all they can do is hang at my sides.
I block the water as much as I can until I finally turn off the shower and step out, grabbing a towel. I come back, wrap it around her and lift her, carrying her to the bed where she sits like a zombie, staring out into the unknown. I dry her as best I can, catching the water droplets from her hair as they sluice over her. I find an oversized tee and pull it over her and tuck her in. I use the same towel and drop it on the bathroom floor before grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms and pulling them on.
I turn off my bedside lamp and climb in behind her.
She doesn’t mold to my body. She is just a lump near me. Her tears are gone, but her sniffles remain.
She allows me to spoon her but her fists are clenched, her knuckles white.
We stay like that for a long time. “Why did you
tell me?”
“Which part?”
“That my mom— that you think there was a second threat.”
“Because I think there is a second threat, not was a second threat.”
She stiffens.
“I loved Bobby like a brother. He is one of less than a handful of people who knew my secret. You and Killian are the others. You and Clara are my family and I will protect you at all costs. But you have to know that someone’s out there.”
“Someone who would hurt me or Clara.”
I slide her hair off her shoulder and move my lips to her ear.
“I’ll die before that happens.”
I plant a small kiss right below her ear. “Now, sleep, baby. Know that I will never let anything happen to you.”
She nods and drifts off to sleep. I lie awake for hours, holding her and trying to wrap my brain around what this all means. In the wee hours, I fall into restless, dreamless sleep.
Forty
I wake alone and the sheets are long-since cold. I find Clara in the kitchen in her purple unicorn pajamas eating cake for breakfast. Icing rings her mouth and the deer-in-the-headlights look has me fighting not to laugh. One day this will not strike me as funny, but today is not that day. I face the window to avoid her seeing the twinkle in my eyes and ask, “What’d you have for breakfast?”
“Cereal?”
“You don’t know?”
“I do know. Cereal.”
I turn and sit at the table and keeping the smile on my face, I drop my voice just a little. “My beautiful girl, you are better than a lie. I may not like decisions you make, but I’ll never be disappointed if you tell me the truth, okay?”
She drops her eyes a little, but says, “Okay, Poppa.”
“Clara?”
Her little head pops up, her wild hair everywhere. “Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Poppa!”
During this exchange I hear the back door open and close ever so quietly. Quiet footsteps sound near what has become the guest room.
“You might want to go wash your face and hide the evidence,” I whisper conspiratorially and wink. There’s no way her mom won’t know. Sugar is her cocaine. Besides, the cake, usually perfectly sliced, is mangled and lopsided. And that’s not the half of it. The kitchen is a wreck, but still.