Page 69 of His Kidnapped Irish Mafia Virgin

Liam lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “I’ll come back,” he whispered.

I looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt, but I found only determination and love. I tightened my fingers around his hand.

“Come back to me,” I said.

The words weren’t a plea. They weren’t spoken from fear. They were a promise between us, filled with certainty and the kind of love that had already survived too much to be fragile.

Liam’s eyes flickered. “I will,” he said, his voice low and steady. “No matter what happens, I’ll come back to you.”

I leaned forward and kissed him gently, holding onto him for one quiet moment before the world outside the doorway demanded him again. When we pulled apart, Liam rested his forehead against mine.

“Wait for me,” he whispered.

I smiled through the ache in my chest. “Always.”

Then he stepped back, and I watched him walk down the hallway toward the men.

I watched until he disappeared from sight, carrying my heart with him into the darkness.

***

After Liam left, the house felt too quiet. I stood near the window in the living room, watching the rain blur the driveway where the convoy had disappeared.

I wrapped my arms around myself carefully, mindful of my healing arm, and tried to breathe through the worry pressing against my ribs.

Maeve and Sofia were staying at the house with me while the men were away. Sean had arranged it before the operation began, insisting that I shouldn’t spend the day alone.

A soft knock sounded behind me, and I turned to see Maeve standing in the hallway, a folded blanket draped over her arm. She looked tired, though she wore it with the same quiet strength she always carried.

“You look like your thoughts are far away. Come sit with us,” she said gently.

I tried to smile. “I was just thinking.”

“I know,” Maeve replied. “That’s why I came to find you before your thoughts carried you to Toronto.”

She crossed the room and placed the blanket around my shoulders before I could protest. The gesture was so simple and familiar that it made my throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Where’s Sofia?” I asked.

“In the kitchen, trying to convince herself she can make tea better than I can,” Maeve said, a faint smile touching her lips. “I should probably rescue the kettle before she proves herself wrong.”

A quiet laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Maeve’s expression softened at the sound.

“There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you lost the ability to smile.”

I followed her toward the kitchen, where Sofia was already arranging cups on the table with exaggerated concentration.

“There she is,” Sofia announced when she saw me. “Wanna try some of my special tea?”

I laughed out loud. Sofia scoffed. “It would keep you from worrying yourself sick.”

Maeve rolled her eyes affectionately while I took the empty seat beside her. The night passed slowly inside the house, softened by the presence of my friends.

Maeve’s teasing affection toward Sofia created moments of unexpected laughter, the kind that escaped before I could stop it. Sofia’s stories filled the room with lightness, carrying all of us away from the weight of danger for a few precious minutes. I watched my mother smile at something Sofia said, and the sight startled me with its tenderness.

It had been years since I’d seen my mother smile without fear hiding behind it. For a little while, the house felt less like a place where we were waiting for bad news and more like a home where wounded people were learning how to breathe again. The laughter was real as it moved through the room gently, touching each of us with the promise that healing might be possible.

I let myself enjoy it and rest in the warmth of Maeve’s kindness, in Sofia’s easy spirit, and in the fragile peace growing between my mother and me. I felt what it meant to be surrounded by women who carried their pain openly and still chose to offer comfort to one another.