by Cara Dee
“I went to your house. Your mom told me you were out with your boyfriend.”
Sarah winced and looked down. “I wouldn’t call him that.”
“So, there is someone.” I stared at her, noticing more differences. Her blond hair was straighter than usual. Shinier too. What the fuck, were those highlights?
“There is,” she admitted, “and I don’t want you to judge me before I’ve told you everything.”
That would’ve been insulting had she not looked genuinely upset. Being upset made people forget things, such as my not being Franny. I had no room or reason to judge.
“That’s not how you and I roll.” I covered her hand with mine. “Tell me.”
Releasing a breath, she appeared to gather her thoughts, and she glanced around us to make sure we were alone.
“You’ve met Finnegan O’Shea, haven’t you?”
Not what I expected to come out of her mouth. I stiffened, and my stomach flipped.
“Patrick—his brother—told me,” she went on. “That’s who I’m seeing. Patrick, I mean.”
My forehead creased—wait. Oh, she was kidding. I chuckled and withdrew my hand. “That’s funny.”
Except, she wasn’t laughing. Then suddenly, her words tumbled out in an anxious rush. “There’s a lot going on, Em. I want to tell you everything—every little detail—but I can’t. What I can say is that the list Franny was talking about—in Nurse Walsh’s office? It’s real. The bitch has literally scouted the school for girls who might be suitable for her brother’s sons.” This was going too fast. Nurse Walsh—right. Hold up. Suitable for Shannon’s sons? “Patrick got my name from that fucking list.” She said that with no small amount of bitterness. “He came to my house—”
“Wait.” I put my hand on hers again. I didn’t want to freak out over nothing. Franny had already made me overreact once. Possibly. Hopefully. Jesus Christ, I really hoped so. I needed Sarah to tell me the reason Finnegan had come to my house was…I don’t know, a fluke or something. “When you say suitable, you mean…? Because this isn’t the fifties, and you make it sound like—”
“They’re looking for wives,” she answered flatly. “Trust me, there’s nothing cute about it. It’s all status.”
I swallowed the lump of panic, and it went down like a rock. “This isn’t the fifties,” I repeated. “People don’t just go looking for wives.”
She averted her gaze briefly. “Money still talks, Emilia.” Shame. That’s what I saw in her eyes, and it filled me with dread. Had she…? No. No way. She wouldn’t. “Patrick said he had an offer for me and asked me to dinner.”
I closed my eyes as Finnegan’s identical proposal flew through my mind.
Proposal—bad choice of word.
“I can finally get away from here,” she whispered.
“Oh God, you—” I looked away and hugged myself. Fellow students stood in little groups all over. I hadn’t transported to another time or place. This was beginning to feel way too real, yet I refused to consider what this meant for me. “If he forced you, you can go to the police.” Even as I said the words, I knew they were bullshit. She’d chosen this. She wore the clothes to prove it.
“I’m thinking about my future,” she said. “Please see this from my perspective.”
I faced her once more, and I wanted verbal confirmation. “This is actually happening? Some mobster from the newspapers offers you money, and you ride off with him?”
Her silence spoke volumes.
I shook my head and looked up at the gray sky.
Finnegan had told me he could get me away from here too.
“I decided it was the best option for me, yes,” she answered.
Great. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t mentally equipped to deal with a scenario like this.
“You’re judging me,” she said quietly.
“No…” I wasn’t. Running a hand through my hair, I tried to make sense of this, but I knew too little. There was no rhyme or reason. “I’m confused and terrified. Finnegan asked me to dinner too, and I turned him down. Does that mean I’m safe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” She tilted her head. “Is that what you want? Freedom to stay with your dad until you graduate and start working full-time at the diner? Freedom to get kicked out on your ass?”
Too fucking far. I glared at her.
She looked at me even more imploringly and grabbed my hands. “Listen. I can barely stand the guy. Patrick O’Shea is an arrogant prick, but it’s not permanent. He gets to look better in front of his boss and climb in the ranks, and—”
“Mafia boss,” I stated. “Let’s not forget that these people are the scum of the earth. When we were kids, there were documentaries about their family and all the trials. We’re not talking about alleged shoplifters. They’ve done time for murder, grand theft auto, and armed robbery.” I paused and gave her hands a squeeze. “I’m not judging you, Sarah. I know the hell you live with. I understand—and relate—every time you say you wanna get the hell out of here. I do too, with every fiber of my being. But if you go along with this, I need you to do it with your eyes open. This isn’t a TV show. You’ll be smack dab in the middle of a mafia family.”
She smiled softly, a little sadly. “My eyes are wide open, Em. I promise. And I still wanna do this. That’s how badly I wanna get away.”
I couldn’t fathom much of anything here. And as shitty as my own dad was, Sarah’s hints were enough to know her father was ten times worse. She never wanted to talk about it.
I’d seen bruises on her more times than I could count, though. I wasn’t blind.
“It’s not a coincidence we’re on that list, is it?” I asked.
“No. Nothing is a coincidence—not even that they picked this town.” She blew out a breath and brought out a pack of smokes, handing me one. “Money only talks if there’s a demand for it.”
I understood that. I borrowed her lighter and sparked the cigarette.
“You said it’s not permanent,” I mentioned.
She nodded and lit up her own smoke. “I have to agree to be married to him for three years.”
“What makes you think—”
“Before you go there, he’s told me I can pick whatever law firm I want when we sign the papers. Or contract, I guess.” There goes that argument. But even so, how could she trust Patrick? Mobsters weren’t known for being honorable. “It’s three years of my life, and then I’m free. Set for life. I can get whatever education I want. I can become a doctor, Emilia.”
Three years. My stomach churned with how much I wanted the same possibilities, but at what cost? I could probably give away three years of my life too, though not without knowing the consequences. A lot could happen in that time. She could be framed for a crime she hadn’t committed. She could get pregnant. She could end up dead.
This fucking hurt. Sarah was already eighteen, so she didn’t have any illusions of being protected for another couple weeks. Every day when we walked home from school, we did so knowing there could be purgatory waiting for us. Her father was never gonna stop taking out his anger on her, and my dad was never gonna stop blaming me for my mother’s death. We weren’t even special. We lived in a town full of cautionary tales and white-trash clichés.
Sarah had found her escape, and she clung to the possibility and promise of it being true.
“When are you gonna sign this contract or whatever?” I muttered.
“After graduation.”
I took a puff from the cigarette, hungry, nauseated, scared, and uncertain.
“I take it he’s already giving you stuff?” I gestured at her clothes.
She looked down at herself, then nodded. “Jewelry and money too. I’m saving all of it, and he knows why I accept it.”
For insurance. Everything worth something could be sold.
“What did your parents say?” I wondered.
She let out a humorless laugh. “Like they give a shit. Mom doesn’t approve of him, but then, ne
ither do I. And I think Patrick’s given my dad money too. He’s on board. He just wants me out as soon as I graduate.”
I swallowed hard at that. There was no way I could count on Dad if he was offered money to kick me out. Would Finnegan be so cruel? What was I saying—of course he would. He was a goddamn criminal.
I’d turned Finnegan down, though. Hopefully, he wouldn’t bother me anymore.
After school, I went to the library. My shift at the diner didn’t start for another hour, and I wanted to dig up as much as I could about the O’Shea family, starting with Finnegan.
He had his own Wikipedia page.
The word “alleged” popped up everywhere, as it tended to do around mobsters. He’d recently turned twenty-five. Born in Philadelphia. Grew up there, as well as in England and Ireland. He had dual citizenship, both as an American and Irishman. His family was from the southwest of Ireland, specifically the province of Munster. While the O’Sheas belonged to a county called Kerry, the Murray family, with which they’d created their crime organization, was from Cork.
Finnegan and Patrick had gone to an all-boys boarding school in the UK before returning to Philly for high school.
Finnegan had graduated from high school early—at sixteen—then studied one year at some prestigious college in Dublin. Quickly afterward, he’d come home and gotten sucked into everything that happened in Philly at that time.
I read up on the charges and accusations, coming across a link for a man named Ronan O’Shea. He was Finnegan’s paternal grandfather, who’d been the head of the Sons of Munster up until some eight to ten years ago. They were iffy on exact dates. He had been assassinated with his closest adviser, Ennis Murray. Then Ennis’s son, John Murray, had become the boss, and things had escalated into a full-blown war.
I sat back and took a swig of my water. Talk about trouble in paradise. It appeared the two families who’d created this behemoth of a crime organization didn’t get along very well. I’d assumed all the murders taking place were because of a turf war between different organizations. I mean, wasn’t that what it usually was? Turf? But no, everyone involved back then had ties to the SoM.
Today, it seemed like the two families were kept separate. Most of the Murrays were in Chicago, while the O’Sheas were in Philly and parts of Jersey.
I was on Ennis’s Wiki page when I saw something curious. The patriarchy was strong, with only sons ruling, and almost exclusively the eldest. But in lists upon lists of names that sounded primarily Irish or English, Giovanni stuck out. The link was red, meaning there was no developed page for him. Giovanni couldn’t sound more Italian though, and he was listed as Ennis’s oldest son. Not the John guy who was boss today—
“Miss Porter?”
I squeaked in shock and quickly exited the Wikipedia page, then looked over my shoulder to find a man in a suit there. He didn’t work at my school.
“Yes?” I pushed down my nerves and eyed him. Crisp white button-down, black suit, definitely a holster hiding under his jacket. If he was another O’Shea, I was gonna scream bloody murder.
“I’m Kellan Caldwell,” he said and extended a hand. “I’m a federal agent, and I was wondering if we could talk.”
My life was officially over. Finnegan O’Shea had asked me to dinner, and now I was on FBI’s radar. Oh God.
“C-Can I see some ID?” I shook his hand nervously and stood up.
“Of course.” He retrieved it from inside his suit and flashed his badge just like they did in the movies.
Kellan Caldwell.
The photo matched. Short, very dark cropped hair. Stormy blue eyes. Tall as a skyscraper. But, um, question. Wouldn’t it be wise to teach kids in school how to tell if an FBI badge was real? I had no idea what they were supposed to look like.
“What can I do for you?” I asked hesitantly.
“I have some questions.” He gave me a reassuring smile. “You’re not in any trouble, Miss Porter. But it’s come to our attention that you’ve had some form of contact with Finnegan O’Shea—”
“I turned him down!” I blurted out, panic rising. “He asked me out, and I said no. That’s it, I swear.”
He chuckled and gestured toward a small seating area at the back of the library. “Can we sit down and talk?”
Like I had a choice.
That whole evening, I was useless. My thoughts bounced from one catastrophe to another, from Sarah to Finnegan, from the FBI to my living situation, from Franny’s conspiracy theories to the future. Thank goodness Dad was at the bar getting shit-faced. He would’ve had a fit if he knew I’d missed my shift at the diner because an FBI agent wanted to talk.
He wanted a lot more than to talk, though. The FBI wanted my help. My help! As if I could do anything? I was a nobody.
As I wiped down the kitchen counter for the fifth time, I wondered if I could press charges against the FBI for coercing me into this crap. Agent Caldwell had made it sound so easy, and in retrospect, I’d agreed because I’d been half seduced by his words.
“We wouldn’t put anyone in danger, Miss Porter. Much less a minor.”
“Of course, this is only if Mr. O’Shea contacts you again. It might not happen.”
“The Bureau would be eternally grateful. We need good citizens like you who are willing to do what it takes.”
I whimpered and slid down to the floor, my breaths coming out choppy. Me…? Willing to do what it takes? I was in way over my head, and I didn’t know how I’d ended up here. Everything had snowballed in such a short time.
“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this. The O’Sheas are notorious for planting bugs and recruiting people to be their eyes and ears.”
I couldn’t even tell my best friend—whoa. My head snapped up, and I gasped. Sarah had told me there was a lot going on and that she couldn’t tell me everything. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. Holy crap, had she been approached by federal agents too? Was that why she’d agreed to go out with Patrick, to gain information for the FBI?
I touched my lips, my brain spinning. If that was what she was doing, I had no words for how brave she was. Could I be that gutsy?
Because I was a minor, Agent Caldwell had informed me I wouldn’t be obligated to do anything other than ask a few questions. Hell, not even obligated. It wasn’t like I’d be wearing a wire or anything. I’d merely show curiosity about Finnegan’s life. I’d do my best to keep him talking, all while there was some device nearby that picked up every word he said.
The agent had gone on to explain how almost impenetrable the SoM were because of how close-to-the-vest they kept their operations. Everyone with valuable knowledge was basically family, so the authorities had to jump at every opportunity that came their way. Sarah and I were a way in, according to them.
I bit my thumbnail and struggled to keep my anxiety at bay. Part of me wanted to cry and hide under my bed. The other part wanted to scream about the unfairness of it all. How the hell did I get here? I was innocent. I was insignificant. My biggest problem was supposed to be whether or not I’d be homeless in nine days when I turned eighteen. Yep, nine. Dad had actually circled the date on the calendar that was stuck to the fridge. Every day that passed, there was a red X.
Was he gonna kick me out? Demand rent? The latter was a given. It was the former I feared.
Agent Caldwell said you’d be compensated…
Ugh. I leaned forward, and my fingers disappeared into my hair. If only I could vent to Sarah.
I was on pins and needles for the next two days. All I managed to accomplish was cutting Sarah some slack. Because I loved her and had known her forever and she was a genuinely good person. If someone was brave enough to “do what it takes,” it was her. I had to believe she’d struck some deal with the FBI.
And while she helped the authorities get info on the O’Sheas, she was hoarding the gifts Patrick gave her. I’d do the exact same. Those expensive items would be liquidated for her to use for her future. It made her smart.
I remained fairly useless. I cooked and cleaned on autopilot, but school and work suffered. I couldn’t shake the unease of it all.
On Wednesday after school, Franny walked with me to the diner. At this hour of the day, it was filled with lumberjacks getting off work. Since the mine had closed over ten years ago, the people either worked with logging companies or they commuted to Gettysburg to help them out with their steady stream of tourists.
“I’m so gonna flunk on this test tomorrow,” Franny moped.
“Me too.” Though, that wasn’t new.
In the time it took me to go out back and change into my uniform, Franny filled a table with schoolbooks and ordered a big Coke and fries. Then I lost a couple hours serving people their greasy dinners and chitchatting with Franny whenever I had a second to spare.
During my ten-minute break, I slid into Franny’s booth with my free meal of the day.
“Can you quiz me?” I stuck a couple fries into my mouth and nodded at her English book. “Maybe I can get a C if I—”
“Shh.” She sat rigidly in her seat, head a bit tilted, and she was jotting something down in her notebook. “I’m listening.”
To what? Ugh, gossip. Or so I guessed. After all, it was the main reason she sometimes sat here and studied while I worked. The diner and the hair salon were Franny’s crack—same with her mother.
I bit into my burger, and now that I knew Franny was listening in on a conversation, I couldn’t not try to figure out which one. The four guys in flannel behind her didn’t look to be having the most exciting conversation. Maybe it was the two women behind me.
My internal alarm sounded at the faintest mention of O’Shea. It was the four men seated in the booth behind Franny.
“Nah, we have fifteen men working on the fortified fence alone,” one of them said. “This ain’t temporary. Big property like that, and with what’s going on underground?” He whistled. “They’re pumping in too much green for this to be some summer getaway.”