Page 9 of Craving Sin

“After she died… Jesus, the women you had coming and going—pretty, young women who you could get to do what you wanted. Did you care about any of them? Never mind. I know the answer to that.” Another drink. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself. You were horrible to her…to me, to every woman you snuck around with behind the backs of everyone else, yet the world loves you. No one sees it. No one talks about it. How do you keep the wool pulled over their eyes?”

The line is quiet for a moment before my father speaks again, his voice even and measured, but I can hear the anger in it. “Tread very carefully right now, Preston. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t the perfect husband or father, but I loved your mother, and I love you. I love this state, and the people in it, and the community knows it. I have nothing to hide, and I’m offended that you would try to say otherwise. The people of Massachusetts know who I am, even if my son doesn’t.”

They don’t know who he is, or he wouldn’t have just won reelection. They think he’s someone he’s not, and those who know the truth wouldn’t dare cross him. Not the powerful Preston Abbott Senior.

“You don’t sound like you’re doing great. Is this about that man you were dating? I heard he’d stepped out on you. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

It’s fake. So fucking fake. He has no concern for me. He never did when I cried after Mom’s death, when he left me alone in my grief. When he manipulated me to do what he wanted. “Fuck you,” I tell him. He’s not sorry, and he never even met Hector. He doesn’t give a shit about anything going on in my life…but he does know. Clearly, he knows what’s going on.

“I’m not who you think I am, and I believe I’ve done enough to prove that. There are a lot of people who will speak up for me. Remember that.” There’s a pause, and then he continues, “Get some rest, son. Sleep it off. You’ll see more clearly in the morning.”

CHAPTER THREE

Rian

“Are you ready to head back to Ashford?” I ask Cillian as everyone files out of the building. We had most of our family here today—Tiernan, Dean, Rory (Cillian’s best friend), Conan, Finan, Flynn, and about twenty others—for an O’Shea family meeting, meaning a business meeting.

We have a warehouse we use for this—one outside of the city and less likely to call much attention, but then, anyone who is anyone knows who we are and what goes on here, anyway. Pretending otherwise is always just pretense—but our name is too big, too important for anything else to be true.

Not a lot of Irish gangs made it out of the Prohibition era, but the O’Shea family was one of them—the only one that matters really. And while things were up in the air a little after Sloan’s death, we’ve made sure everyone knows we’re not going anywhere, even if the Italians run most of the rest of the East Coast—hell, the country.

We still own Boston.

We own the whole fucking state of Massachusetts, and that’s not going to change.

Ever.

“Why are you asking me that?” Cillian frowns, pulling my attention back to him.

The truth is, I don’t know why I’m asking him about going back to college. It’s something the Rian of ten years ago would have asked his son. Is he ready for school? What is he most excited about? But questions like that are so foreign to us now. At first, because I was too sad, and then, because I knew I didn’t deserve him after everything I’d put him through.

We’ve been trying to find our way back to each other since last Thanksgiving. Then, in the spring, when Rory’s boyfriend’s mom had been kidnapped, Cillian called me for help. It took a lot for him to do that, and there hadn’t been anything I wouldn’t have done to fix whatever he’d needed that day, if only so he could start to learn that he could trust me.

I think he can trust me.

I want him to be able to trust me.

“I don’t know. Isn’t that a thing fathers do?” I ask.

“It’s not a thing you’ve done in a long time,” he reminds me. I can’t even be mad at him about it because it’s true. “It’s not a thing Sloan would have asked Tiernan, or Rory’s father would have asked him.”

He’s right. None of us have been shining examples of what it means to be a good father, but I’ve always tried to be different. For a long time, I thought I had been.

“Should I be an asshole instead?” I cock a brow, hoping Cillian is willing to be playful with me, rather than us hashing out what a shitty job this family has done by their children.

And my father had been the worst of them all.

“Par for the course.” Cillian shrugs. He doesn’t take shit, and I respect him for it. Still, he must take pity on me because he replies, “Yeah, we’re ready. Ollie’s excited.”

“But not you?” I attempt to continue the conversation.

“College isn’t important to me. I go because O’Sheas go to Ashford, and because it’s what Tiernan wanted.”

That’s my son in a nutshell—doing what’s expected and proving his loyalty to those he loves. I hope he never has to learn the lesson that eventually the loyalty between people he loves will pull him in different directions. That doing what’s expected, what’s always been done, will conflict with what the most important people in his world will want or need.

I know because I experienced it many times myself when Moira was still alive.

“Ollie’s a smart kid,” I say, bringing the conversation back to his boyfriend.