AllFreeNovel
Share Us
O’Malley scowls at me. But I can already see him cracking. Even his earlier rage didn’t come from the place of a protective father but was the irritation of a man who didn’t want to give up a prized possession.
“Fine,” he grunts. “But it won’t come to that,” he adds quickly. He turns away from me, running a hand down the back of his neck. His next words are so quiet I almost miss them. But that torturous music has stopped, so I catch them despite the whisper.
“God help me.”
My eyes dart up to the balcony.
But no one’s there.
There’s relief in that. No wide eyes watching me. No music clawing at the scar of something that might have once been called a soul.
“God can’t help you now, O’Malley,” I say, keeping my voice cold and steady. I mask the disgust I feel for him, so greedy and pathetic he’d offer up his daughter, a lamb to slaughter, to save his own skin. There’s repulsion, too, for my own unexpected weakness. For my wanting.
But stronger than any of that – the disgust, the loathing – is the beat of that fucking music in my blood.
And I already know without a shadow of a doubt that even if I slit my own throat and bleed to death right here on the grass…
I’ll never get it out.
Chapter 2
Deirdre
New Year’s Eve 1.5 years later
“You’re so lucky your birthday is on New Year’s. Always guaranteed an awesome party,” Willow says, grabbing a flute of champagne from the table beside us. “Welcome to your twenties, Dee!”
“It’s not midnight yet. Technically my birthday is tomorrow,” I remind her. “And I’m not sure I would call my dad’s usual New Year’s Eve bash an awesome party,” I add with a snort, grabbing my own glass of champagne and taking a fizzy sip.
“Bitch, how would you even know what a good party is? You never want to go out with me. I told you I’d take you clubbing for your birthday and you said no!”
I smirk and roll my eyes at her. For my best friend, “bitch” is a term of endearment. Her name may be Willow, but there’s nothing willowy about her. The only things sharper than her tongue are her cheekbones and the piercing crystal green of her eyes. Tonight, her jet-black hair is tied in a high ponytail, accentuating her bare neck and the plunging neckline of her curve-hugging black dress. She’s actually a year younger than me, only just turned nineteen, but no one would ever guess that I was the older one between us.
She takes another sip of champagne and then tosses her ponytail over her shoulder.
“Fine. I’ll grant you that this isn’t the coolest New Year’s party I’ve ever been to. It isn’t even one of your dad’s best, to be honest. Weren’t there a lot more people last year?”
She’s right. The crowd is thin this year, mostly comprised of my dad’s clients and their wives milling around our large living room, picking away at the fancy cheese and pastries the catering company brought. Willow’s dad, Paddy Callahan, is among them. He runs an Irish pub, Briar and Boar, in downtown Toronto. My dad is his business accountant.
“For a room full of mobsters it’s actually kind of boring, to be honest. And they’re all at least thirty years older than us. Which wouldn’t normally be a problem, except none of them are hot.”
My gaze cuts back to Willow, my lips pursing. I ignore her comment about older men – that’s pretty much par for the course with my best friend – instead snagging on the other thing. The thing about the mobsters.
She raises her brows questioningly at me over the rim of her champagne flute, and I blow out a sigh. I can’t even argue with her because it’s true. My dad’s an accountant. It’s easy to pretend that he runs a normal firm and that his clients are all upstanding citizens. But the reality is that he helps clean money for businesses that funnel funds to the Irish mob.
It’s something I don’t like to think about and that I’ve largely been protected from. Willow, on the other hand, doesn’t give a shit. She embraces the life Paddy’s a part of, taking everything in high-heeled stride. But even so, neither of us have any real standing. We aren’t part of the ruling Gowan family. Our dads are at the bottom of the mafia ladder, and so are the other guests here. No one truly important to Toronto’s crime scene has come tonight, and that’s just fine with me. Willow’s right – I don’t care about parties, and I care even less about having some of the city’s most lethal men in my living room.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say with a laugh. “You can still hit up the club after this and get laid.”
“Oh, you know I will, Dee. But I was more thinking about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes! How am I supposed to act as a wing woman and get my best friend’s sweet little cherry licked, sucked, and popped if there’s no one here good-looking enough to qualify?”
Mr. Byrne, who runs Byrne’s Butcher Shop, nearly chokes on a macaron beside us. Mrs. Byrne pats his back then glares at us while Willow smiles innocently back.
“Jesus, Willow,” I mutter before taking a huge swig of my drink. Willow is my ride-or-die, but sometimes being around her requires vast amounts of alcohol.
