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My father was the one member of my family who knew what Jack did for a living. Being a lawyer, he’d pulled strings and gotten a few gritty details on Frank O’Connell from his colleagues. Fortunately, Jack and his brothers had evaded the law thus far, unlike their father.
“No,” I lied. “This was unrelated.”
Whether he believed me or not, I could sense his relief. And I hadn’t technically lied. I was safe from the Babau as long as Luca Nicoletti continued to grant me amnesty. I wouldn’t let myself think about what would happen if he changed his mind or didn’t keep his word.
Although I assured him everything was copacetic, my dad insisted on coming to the city and taking me out to breakfast. I protested, using Shannon as an excuse not to leave the penthouse, but he demanded the address and said he would see me in thirty minutes.
When I ended the call, I looked toward Guillermo, who was still busying himself in the kitchen.
“We’re gonna have one more dining with us, chef,” I grumbled.
Nearly thirty minutes to the second later, my father’s gaze raked over me from across the dining table as I shoved bite after bite of cheesy eggs into my mouth.
“You’ve lost weight.”
I reached for a third piece of buttered toast, nodding. “My appetite is just coming back.”
My dad smiled, but it was forced. He hadn’t touched the gourmet spread Guillermo had set in front of us. Gregory Marshall was a black coffee for breakfast kind of person. Sometimes he’d spice things up with a bran muffin.
“How’s Shannon?” he asked, sipping at his cup.
I spoke through a mouthful of bread. “Terrible.”
Guillermo had retreated to the master bedroom to serve Shannon her breakfast. He was a caring person. He would ensure she had enough to eat. I didn’t know how much time I had to consume my own food before checking on her, hence the sloppiness.
“The street is flooded with reporters.” My dad inclined his head toward the picture window behind me. “The police have shut down a section of Fifth Avenue. I had to flash my work badge to get through. They’re under the impression I’ve been hired to assist in Connor’s estate.”
I was aware of the media frenzy downstairs. After I’d hung up with my father, news outlets had descended on the Shannon like a storm of locusts. Connor’s death had gone viral. The story was now global news. The city was buzzing with rumors about a serial killer targeting white men. The idea that even someone as handsome and affluent as Connor O’Connell couldn’t escape death was being sensationalized. It infuriated me.
“Are you sure about all this?” Dad asked, his expression inscrutable.
“All what?”
“Jack. His…life. I worry about you, Emmy. I know he cares for you, but I don’t want you caught up in his world. Jack might be all right, but the people he deals with are dangerous.”
I set my glass of orange juice down, contemplating my response. My father was a smart man, top of his class at Yale Law. He didn’t buy the line of bullshit the media was spewing. He knew Connor’s death had everything to do with the criminal underworld.
Still, my appetite vanished at his suggestion. Leaving Jack was out of the question. I’d known this conversation was bound to arise eventually, and I aimed to nip it in the bud.
“I love him, Dad,” I said, willing him to see the depth of emotion reflected in my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. Please don’t suggest it again.”
He tilted his head, analyzing my resolve. His chest rose as if he planned to say something more, but Guillermo suddenly appeared in the dining room, pale and flustered.
“Is Shannon all right?” I asked, rising from my chair.
Guillermo shook his head, panicked. “It’s the baby, Miss Emma. He’s coming.”
* * * *
I paced the bright hall of New York Presbyterian, phone pressed to my ear. The line rang off and I cursed, jabbing my finger on the “end” button before the voicemail picked up.
Jack wasn’t answering. Neither were Faye or Kieran.
A pregnant woman walked by, wobbling as her husband guided her down the hall. I gave them a short smile, then returned to my frantic dialing. Why wasn’t anyone answering? It was four o’clock in the afternoon in Ireland.
Shannon was in the room behind me, hooked up to a steady flow of pain medication. The baby would be coming soon. She was already eight centimeters dilated. The doctors had tried to slow her labor, but to no avail. That baby wanted out—now.
It was understandable. The warm, loving body he’d been growing in had turned cold and grief-stricken. It wasn’t Shannon’s fault, of course, but the baby could probably sense it was time to leave his mother’s womb and try his luck on the outside.
