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“Oy!” I yelled, commanding the attention of those who hadn’t yet turned. Realizing who was speaking, the bartender paused the music and waited for me to begin. “As you all know, my brother was murdered earlier this month.”
A round of hissing broke through the crowd, like a disgruntled hive of bees.
“He had his throat slit and he was hung upside down to let the blood drain from his body.”
The swarm grew silent. A few faces paled at my words. The headlining news of Connor’s death had hit Ireland moments after it had broken in America, but the reporters didn’t know the details.
“The person who did this isn’t a serial killer. He works for the Italian Mafia, and he’s been picking us off one by one.”
People exchanged nervous glances, eyes wide.
“People call him the Babau—named after a legend used to frighten children.” A few men nearest my makeshift podium spat on the floor, their disgust evident. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m not scared. I am fucking livid!”
The crowd erupted, screams and ale flying through the air. At my feet, an angry sea of red faces, scratchy beards and rosy cheeks churned, feeding off my emotion, ready for my demands. It was O’Connell money that had built this village from the ground up, wrenching the citizens out of poverty, filling their businesses and lining their pockets. Although we had never outright asked for help, these people would always answer an O’Connell’s call.
“Who’s coming to the Empire City with me to tear this bogeyman limb from limb?” I roared, tossing the remnants of my drink down my throat.
The energy was palpable. People slapped each other’s backs, howling their loyalty. A chant of “For Connor” and “Emerald Devil” echoed through the small-town pub. Men and women grabbed one another as the bartender pumped music through the speakers. They began to move to Flogging Molly’s The Devil’s Dance Floor.
How fitting.
I surveyed, intestines twisting with hatred and grief and whiskey, as my army assembled in front of my very eyes.
Mick helped me down from the table, patting me on the shoulder as he did. A soft hand slipped into mine, a pair of lips at my ear. I jerked from the foreign contact. The woman who’d winked at me was trying to pull me into a dance. I cast her a reproachful glare, widening the distance between us. I might have been drunk, but I hadn’t forgotten who I was or who I belonged to.
Bereft or not, no woman could hold a candle to Emma Marshall.
* * * *
Emma
Charlotte Aoife O’Connell wasn’t two hours old, and I was already in love. With her wisps of shocking red hair, pink cheeks and pursed lips, she was everything a baby was supposed to be. She would break hearts and mend even more throughout her life.
Her breathing was soft and consistent, a miracle in and of itself, as I stood over her bassinet. Shannon was getting cleaned and stitched up but demanded that I stay by Charlie’s side until she got back. It wasn’t a difficult request. I could stare at the little treasure for days, although she hadn’t even opened her eyes yet. Her eyelids were a pale lavender, twitching with movement.
When Shannon returned, the nurse lifted the swaddled baby and set her in her mother’s arms. Shannon glowed, eyeing her child clearly for the first time in the absence of the turmoil that was post-birth. Without any direction, Shannon tugged at her hospital gown and guided Charlotte’s rooting mouth to her breast.
My heart burst with aching warmth as I snuck a picture with my phone. Shannon would want it eventually. I left the room soon after to give them a chance to bond in private. Once I’d secured the door, my fury returned at the sight of Faye Walsh.
“Where the hell have you been?” I whisper-yelled.
Faye sauntered into the maternity ward, designer handbag swinging from her arm. She was dressed with precision, not a single auburn hair out of place. The buoyancy that’d existed in my chest moments before was gone, replaced with an icy hate.
She appraised me, unimpressed. I felt like a child in front of her in my ripped jeans and sneakers, my hair messier than before. I was exhausted. Two hours of active labor. Two hours of baseless encouragement while Shannon screamed in agony.
“Babies take forever to come.” Faye shrugged, nonplussed. She picked at her fresh manicure, coming to a stop in front of me. We were the only two people in the clean, clinical hall.
“Well, she’s here,” I bit back, arms crossed. It was an animalistic defense mechanism, the intuition to guard my underbelly. The woman made my blood run cold, and it was more than the fact that she hadn’t been here for her niece. It was unwarranted jealousy.
Faye’s brows skyrocketed. “She?”
“Charlie,” I clarified. “Short for Charlotte. It’s uncommon, but the doctors got it wrong. Gender aside, your niece needed you and you weren’t here.”
Faye rolled her eyes, straightening. “You’re an uptight little bitch. I don’t know what Jack sees in you.”
“What the fuck do you know about Jack?”
She gave me a meaningful look, almost glowing with mirth. “Oh, I know a lot about Jack.”
