by Cara Dee
I slumped down in the confession booth and let out a heavy sigh. When I was a kid, I hated the cramped spaces of these and could never sit still. I’d changed a lot since then.
“Forgive me, Father. It’s been…” I squinted in thought. “Two months since my last confession.” I made the sign of the cross.
“How have you been doing since then?” he asked. “How’s work?”
“Busy,” I replied bluntly. “Busy but good.” Starting the security firm had been a stroke of genius on my part. I’d gained legal access to technology and knowledge that were invaluable to my, uh, actual work. It helped that I had Eric on board, one of the few men I trusted with my life. Because he’d been screwed over royally too. Whereas I’d only gotten thrown in prison after a year of a bitch trial, Eric had lost his brother and sister-in-law.
He was as motivated as I was.
“And your social life?” Father O’Malley hedged carefully.
My mother made her confession to him every week, so I had no fucking doubt he already knew about my social life. Or lack thereof. It was one of the reasons she worried. And one of the reasons I was offended.
“People say I’m not funny anymore,” I said irritably. This was weighing on me a lot lately. “I don’t blame them for saying I was…off or whatever before—I mean, when I got out of lockup. It’s an adjustment. But to say I’m not funny…?”
“Prison’s no dance.”
Exactly. I’d been tenser. It’d taken me a while to reset my internal alarm and get used to freedom. Sometimes, I could still wake up and expect a guard to make the morning head count.
I’d missed five years, and they were five important ones. The last of my teenage years and the few first of my twenties—that was when other guys were out late at night and raised all kinds of hell.
Missing out on that wasn’t what made me angry, though, and I was angry. I was fucking livid. It pissed me off that others around me weren’t as focused and determined as I was. A lot of O’Sheas had been taken to the cleaners when everything went down. Lives had been lost, families ruined, and years got wasted in prison.
A handful of guys were in the can to this day, and a couple would never get out.
“Patrick wants me to go out partying with him,” I said. “I can’t do that. I’ll lose my focus.”
I’d turned to my faith instead. It kept me on a rigid schedule. I was healthy, I had my goals in sight, and I didn’t make mistakes. Sure, I went out for a few beers here and there, but I didn’t stumble home at dawn or wake up in the wrong bed.
Unlike my brother and many of our friends, I didn’t believe in premarital sex for myself, and an overactive of social life was nothing but a string of distractions. Just look at them. In the two years I’d been out, I was a hell of a lot more successful than most men who hadn’t served a fucking day.
“A night off doesn’t have to steer you away from your dreams, son,” Father O’Malley pointed out patiently. “It’s important you give yourself some rest.”
I’d rest when Uncle John was six feet under.
“Guys, we have a problem.”
At the sound of Gary’s voice in my earpiece, I lifted a brow at my brother. Everyone I was with right now could be trusted. I held up a hand, stopping Patrick from speaking. It was my job. If Gary was the one who’d worked against us, someone have mercy on his dead ass.
“That’s not what I wanna hear,” I replied and adjusted the gadget. “We need you here in—” I checked my watch “—thirty seconds. The vehicle is ready to be transported.”
Kellan and Colm were loading the Firebird onto the platform as we spoke.
The connection crackled, and then Gary answered. “I can’t get there! I’m being pulled over, man.”
Bullshit.
“Traffic cameras say otherwise,” Eric informed me in my ear. He’d switched to a private line so Gary couldn’t hear him. “He’s stopped at the side of the road. There’s no one around.”
“What do I do, boss?” Gary put up a good front, pretending to be halfway to panic.
“We abort,” I snapped and signaled to my brother.
“Cops’re here!” Pat shouted, his voice echoing in the garage bay. “Clear a path out back—stat!”
I disconnected the call and lit up a smoke, irritated as fuck. Now I had to deal with Gary too.
“I’ve found a wife,” I mentioned to Father O’Malley. That should earn me some points. The way I saw it, it counted as having a bit of a social life.
“Oh, really.” His wry amusement left a lot to be desired in the way priests shouldn’t fucking judge. “You’ve met a nice girl and fallen in love, or…you’ve found a future bride the way your brother has?”
“Love,” I scoffed under my breath. Let’s not get crazy. Emilia Porter was…hmm, the jury was still out. Bloody gorgeous, for sure. Almost breathtakingly so. First time I saw her was like a kick in the chest. It’d taken a minute for my heart rate to go back to normal. Hell, I hadn’t even known it was her. I’d stopped outside of a random diner and seen her.
Then I’d compared her to the picture and realized it must’ve been the same girl.
I’d expected to see the same gangly kid in the photo, and that couldn’t have been further from reality. She’d matured and filled out, and it was fucking with my head.
But she fit the bill as a future wife.
According to my research, she should be timid and compliant, and that suited me perfectly. She wouldn’t get in my face. I’d find a way to get her to agree to a marriage of convenience. In turn, she’d get away from her father, who seemed like a right tool, and I’d look more trustworthy to my uncle. When I worked, she’d stay at home or do whatever the fuck she wanted.
Her lineage might also give me leverage if I had to resort to Plan B.
“I think starting a family will make me happy,” I lied. “You know, have someone to come home to.”
“Every man needs that,” he agreed. “As long as it’s for the right reasons.” He paused, and I waited for the spiel. “Son, nothing makes me happier than seeing you at Mass every Sunday. You’re a strong voice in our community, and even at your age, people look up to you. But it’s my duty to guide you and make sure your faith isn’t misplaced.”
Here we go. “My faith is my strength.” It wasn’t a lie, technically. “It helps me stay on track.”
“Are you describing your love for our Lord or a day planner?”
Cheeky bastard. Shouldn’t he be happy? With a few exceptions, I was a good churchgoer, and I respected our traditions.
“Let’s just move on to my sins,” I said tiredly.
“Bless our family and friends, and these gifts which we’re about to receive from your bounty, through Christ our Lord,” Pop recited.
“Amen.” I tucked into dinner like I hadn’t eaten in two weeks, and while Ma and Patrick started talking about his new “girlfriend,” I had more important things to discuss. Besides, no one with a brain volunteered to be around when our mother was in quiz-mode.
“Did you talk to John?” I asked quietly.
Pop nodded once. “He knows something. He asked if you were having issues with your orders.”
I clenched my hand around a fresh roll and gritted my teeth. “I knew it.” The fake heist Patrick and I had set up had been kept secret even within our organization for a reason. Easier to hear canaries that way, and boy, was someone singing.
“The food is already dead, dearie,” Ma pointed out to me. “No need to choke it. Finnegan, you do make me worry. You’re always so angry.”
I blew out a breath and let go of the roll. The last thing I needed was an extra dose of her concern, so I placated her with a smile and assured her I was fine.
I avoided my brother’s intrusive gaze. It was another thing I didn’t need, his reminders that I’d changed and lost sight of the happy-go-lucky son of a bitch I used to be. I was still that guy, for the record. I was just…focused.
Everything came down to t
hat. I’d relax once I had accomplished my goals.
I listed my sins dutifully. Going against my personal feelings, I apologized for judging my mother and brother harshly for being worried about me. They did it out of love, and as reluctant as I was to admit it, I wasn’t the man I’d been. I’d grown colder, and I didn’t know how to stop. Not before…well, my uncle was gone.
I didn’t mention that last part to the priest.
Then I took a breath, and he allowed me a moment of silence to gather my thoughts.
For the past two years, coming to church had offered relief, temporary as it was. It was a Band-Aid atop a wound that probably needed invasive surgery, but I didn’t have time to dig deeper right now.
I wanted more. I missed the old days when everything was easier, and I hoped to come back to that. Or find a new way to better days ahead. Until then, I’d keep coming here instead of going to clubs and indulging in other vices.
Relaxing further, I reminded myself that everything was going according to plan. Patrick and I were moving in to our new houses next week, and our parents would follow shortly after. Perhaps living the small-town life for a few months would do us good. It was calmer—or dead—out there where Emilia and Sarah lived, and we wouldn’t be working much.
Additionally, the girls were a challenge, and I enjoyed those a shitload. It would be a welcome distraction to get Emilia to agree to marry me. As meek as she undoubtedly was, no one said yes to an alleged mobster right off the bat.
I’d seen an ounce of spark in her too. I’d have some fun exploring that. A wife with a temper wasn’t part of the goal, but it couldn’t hurt if the end result was the same. Uncle John would quit doubting me and let me in.
A submissive wife with a streak of defiance. Was that even real? No, I couldn’t imagine her tough-girl front was very thick. Sarah sure as hell hadn’t put up much of a fight. Money had been enough, and Patrick had already, unbeknownst to Sarah, set a date for their wedding.
Ma didn’t know that tidbit yet either.
“Where ya been?”
“I bought a CD and a couple books.” I closed the door to my car and buttoned my suit.
Patrick shook his head as I joined him, and we crossed the old shipyard together. “You have Spotify on your phone. No one listens to CDs anymore.”
“I do, fuckface.” In fact, my little shopping trip had brightened my mood. Father O’Malley had told me about an old man who imported demos by Irish bands, and those were hard to come by in the US. Most of those musicians never went into large-scale distribution.
“I remember when you threw yourself into mosh pits and cranked up Dropkick,” Patrick said. “Now it’s traditional music or Irish spiritual shit.”
I ignored the sarcasm and bitterness in his tone and pulled the CD from my pocket, still in the little plastic bag. “This ticks off three boxes, actually. Irish, classic, and electronica.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes.
Fine. He didn’t have to be excited. I was looking forward to listening to it.
“How are things going with Sarah?” I asked.
He made a face. “I mean, she’s agreed, but she ain’t exactly fond of me.”
That made sense. I was sending an incentive to Emilia on Monday. I had a feeling it would get her to agree to dinner.
Reaching the warehouse, I followed my brother toward a smaller, closed-off area. His mouth kept running, always about the same thing. I was no fun anymore, et cetera. I was having too good of a day to listen to this again, and why should I take advice from someone who spent his money on booze, gadgets he barely knew how to work, and vacations?
At least there was a method to my madness. More than that, there were good results.
I clapped him on the shoulder and handed him the CD for safekeeping while I worked. “How about we have this conversation when you don’t come to me to borrow money?” That shut him up—and pissed him off—and I left him behind.
Gary was duct-taped to a chair in the middle of an office nobody had used for years. The vinyl flooring had been torn up in places, revealing concrete underneath. Around Gary’s chair, splatters of blood told of Kellan’s fun. He stood in the corner, smirking, and I chuckled. He had promised to break Gary’s nose.
It did look broken.
I retrieved a tissue from my pocket and extended it to Gary. “You got blood everywhere, mate.”
He glared at me and growled something behind the strip of tape that covered his mouth.
“Right. I guess your predicament doesn’t make it easy to clean up.” I pocketed the tissue again and rounded the chair. “Why’re we here today, kids?”
Patrick leaned against the wall and folded his arms.
Kellan joined him. “Maybe Gary knows the answer. After all, we’re just gullible O’Sheas.”
“That’s true. What the fuck do we know?” I gripped Gary’s hair and yanked his head back, then tore off the tape. Christ—immediately, he started yelling. “Use your indoor voice!” I scolded. “Do you know why you’re here, Gary?”
“You got the wrong goddamn guy!” he spat out. “Whatever you think I’ve done—someone must’ve framed me.”
I frowned and studied his face. “You are Gary Lindsey, aren’t you? Low-man for the O’Sheas but secretly sucking Murray dick?” He was getting ready to shout again, so I pushed his jaw closed and slapped the tape across his mouth. Then I heard Kellan’s and Patrick’s low voices, so I looked over at them. “What’re you two doing?”
Kellan was inspecting my new CD. “I’m telling your brother your new taste in music is actually stellar. I’ve seen some of this shit on YouTube. It’s good.”
“Thank you,” I exclaimed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell this fuckwit.”
Patrick wouldn’t hear a word of what we said, so Kellan decided to prove it. He pulled up one of the songs on his phone, and I instantly relaxed as the room flooded with the sounds of two violins.
How could my brother not appreciate the beauty in this? One violin chased the other until the tables turned. It was the foreplay of music. In the background, an electronic loop of waves increased the tempo, and I closed my eyes to give it all my attention. The notes filled my head.
I was decent at best with a violin, but I could fake it well enough when the violin and bow were made of air. Mimicking the violin that was a bit more aggressive than the other, I kept my eyes closed and let the buildup take me. Through teasing loops and heavy bass drops toward Gary’s sentencing.
Brilliant fucking song.
“I’m not gonna admit shit,” Patrick said as I played the last notes. “If they play this at a club, I’m outta there.”
I took a deep breath and reluctantly returned to the present. Then I saw my furious prize sitting so close, which lifted my spirits again.
Gary. Was. Seething. It made me smile.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you.” I patted my pockets, wondering where I’d left my—there. Inner chest pocket. “The question now is how you earn back our trust.” His eyes widened at the sight of the knife, but there was hope too. He wanted to redeem himself. “I’m just fucking with you,” I laughed. “There are no second chances when you screw me over.”
I yanked back his head again and slit his throat.
“Anything else you want to confess, son?” Father O’Malley asked.
Not that I could think of. I pinched my lips together and racked my brain—and my conscience. It was the anger I’d aimed toward my mother and brother that bothered me the most, really. It wasn’t healthy. They were my family, and I was beginning to feel guilty.
“I don’t think so,” I replied slowly. “It’s… I don’t know. It’s more than anger. It’s resentment. I’m lying to them when I say everything is fine, but what if I’ll never be the bloke they remember? I don’t have time to fix anything right now, and I guess arguing with them is easier than admitting that who I used to be might be lost.”
Father O’Malley was a patient
man. He was also practical, and he suggested baby steps. If I missed who I once was, I could start by admitting it to myself. Then I should set goals to achieve my “personal happiness.” Once again, he advised me to rest more and stress less. Lastly, he strongly suggested I stop lying to my family. I could reword myself, he said. I could say I was working on it.
It was good advice, though I had no clue how to follow it. My personal happiness, as he put it, was directly tied to my long-term goal for the syndicate. On the other hand, that did mean I was working on it.
I exhaled, glad I’d come here tonight, and I recited the Act of Contrition, feeling a bit better.
“Keep coming to confession, son,” Father O’Malley said. “It’s good for you.”
I nodded and shifted in my seat. “I will, Father.”
“Very well. Go in peace and serve our Lord with love in your heart.”
Chapter 3
Emilia Porter
“Sarah!” After a weekend of going insane, the sheer relief of seeing her outside the school during lunch was overwhelming, and I jogged over to the picnic tables. She wasn’t in class earlier, so I’d resigned myself to another day of not talking to her.
She looked tired and mustered a weak smile when she spotted me, but that wasn’t what set off warning bells. Her clothes were brand-new and looked expensive.
In sixth grade, her dad gave her a black eye for forgetting her jacket on the school bus. Money just wasn’t something many had in this town. Drunks and abusive losers, sure. Loving parents who weren’t depressed and impacted by the economy, no.
“Where have you been?” I asked her, dropping my textbooks on the table. “Do you know how worried I was? And what the hell is this?” I gestured at her new coat. “Did you win the lottery?”
“Okay, slow down, hon.” She patted the spot next to her on the bench, and I sat down with a huff.