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Amara did as she was told without hesitation. I followed her out of the study and across the billiard room, her heels clicking while my sneakers stayed silent. Her braid swayed as she walked, the diamonds in her barrette twinkling in the artificial light. Her movements were stiff, as if the mundane task of attending to me was beneath her.
When we entered the windowless, carpeted hall, she turned on me, her face inches from mine. She was over a foot taller—though her heels weren’t that high—and she had to bend forward at an awkward angle. Her breath smelled sickly sweet, like coffee creamer and mud.
“My uncle may have a soft spot for you,” she whispered, her accented words hitting me square in the face. The air leaving her body was glacial. “You were his grandson’s lover and the sole connection he has left to his memory. But it’s a matter of time before he demands to see Nathaniel’s suicide note. Then, we will discover just how long he’ll keep you around. Once he realizes you’ve been lying to him.”
I widened my eyes at her revelation. She knew I’d deceived Don Luca. My knees weakened as she gnashed her teeth at me. Her nails were long and sharp at either side of my head, caging me against the wood-paneled wall. Her sinewy arms were deceptively strong.
“My uncle hates betrayal over anything else,” she warned as a pair of men rounded the corner, approaching us. “You know that as well as I do.”
And I did. Luca Nicoletti had ordered the murder of his own daughter because she had betrayed him. Gotten pregnant, married without his blessing, fled the city then carried on an affair with Jeremiah Murray. An Irishman. It was a classic Shakespearian tragedy, too violent and twisted to be real, except in the world of organized crime.
In Don Luca’s mind, Maria’s biggest disloyalty had been keeping Nate, his grandson, from him—from the Mafia. Once his daughter was out of the way, the don had aimed to take his grandson under his wing, but things hadn’t gone as planned. Nate saw more than he should’ve and, as a result, killed himself.
In my bed while I had slept in ignorance beside him.
Amara released me from the wall, teeth bared in what must be her version of a smile. She tugged the cloth bag over my head, leaving me without sight.
* * * *
Jack
Emma hadn’t responded to my text, but it was still early in Manhattan. I’d hardly let her out of my sight all week, drawing on her strength whether I wanted to or not. She was in need of rest and, I hoped, sleeping in.
The thought of her tiny body in my bed—maybe cuddling a pillow—made my chest burn, like it was missing a vital organ. I wanted to call her, but the sound of her voice would worsen my symptoms. That soft, sweet tone would just remind me of the inescapable distance between us.
Eoghan was tracking her cell phone and MetroCard. Emma would go ballistic if she found out, but I had to be sure she was safe. It would make being away from her a bit easier. I hadn’t told her of the danger because I didn’t want her to live in fear, but I hoped I’d been grave enough to make her follow my command.
The Italian informant, Sofia, had told me about Luca Nicoletti’s pet with a penchant for slitting throats. The Babau. Sofia, working as a call girl for the Mafia, hadn’t overheard the man’s legal name. She had it on good authority that the Babau came from Italy with his own small crew. Only they knew his true identity, along with the don.
If Emma didn’t follow my order to keep herself safe, Eoghan would know about it. That gave me some comfort as I stared out of the window, watching Ireland’s soft green hills speed by, the hearse plowing through the fog. The sun was setting, but we would make it to the farm before it disappeared along the western horizon.
The farm where I’d spent the first seven years of my life had been on its last limb. The land was an infertile sludge. The animals that hadn’t died yet were starving, as were we. There were holes in the roof. We were constantly battling rats—and losing that battle.
Today, my family home was a sprawling manor. Hundreds of acres, two stables, three guest houses, an inn for visitors and fields of oat and barley. It was funded by the mob, an international criminal organization that my eldest brother had started and which had now been forced onto me.
The weight of responsibility lay on my shoulders, straining the muscles as if it were a physical presence. I’d been integral before—I made decisions, I held my own—but being the face of the mob was on a whole new level. It required finesse and balance, and in no way did I want the position.
Aside from preferring to stick to the shadows, I wanted my brother alive. To be there for Shannon. To raise their son together. I wanted to be back in Greece, losing myself in Emma, not a care in the world. I didn’t want to be driving my brother’s body through a marsh to bury it in our family cemetery.
What I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock.
My mum greeted me with open arms, tears like a fountain down her soft, plump face. Her embrace was something I hadn’t known I needed. It melted me a little, relaxing the knots in my neck. She held on for a long time, but I was grateful for it. When she turned to address Kieran, the stone resettled in my stomach, lodging itself there as it had when I had found Connor hanging from that rafter.
While our family laid my brother to rest, the entire town came to pay their respects. There were hundreds of villagers, but I recognized just a few dozen. I’d returned to Ireland a handful of times since moving to America, but not in the past two years. The small hamlet of Banshire had grown, largely due to the contributions from our family.
Kieran, Mick, Mum, Nan and I stood as they lowered the black coffin into the ground, bagpipes blaring. Distant relatives backed us, their hands out to comfort, but I kept myself from reach. There was one person who could soothe me right now, and she was across the Atlantic Ocean.
It wasn’t long until the priest finished the Rite of Committal. The villagers dissipated, the O’Connells set off to prepare the wake and Mum and Kieran drifted away, arm in arm.
I knelt in the mud, thick drops of rain coating the sparse grass. The skies had given up, opening for the inevitable downfall. In the distance, thunder boomed across the forest canopy, carrying with it a long, shrieking wail. It was far too late for omens, so I ignored the inhuman sound. I ground my molars to keep emotion from overwhelming me, fisting my hand in the wet earth. The earth that would be my brother’s home for eternity.
“Go n-éirí an bóthar leat, deartháir,” I whispered into the night.
May the road rise up to meet you, brother.
Turning my back on the open grave, I followed the others out of the cemetery, weaving through the ancient tombstones of my ancestors. The oldest grave postdated the Rebellion, which was when our bloodline had fled south to avoid British colonization. Emma would love it here—the history, the folklore, the ghosts.
The lights of the manor were a beacon, guiding me down the sodden hill. People poured into the modern castle, singing at the tops of their lungs. I rubbed my temples, massaging the migraine that was furrowing its way into my brain. If I couldn’t have my girl, I needed a bellyful of whiskey.
