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It blew my mind, but that was his goal.
He even had a five-year plan.
And now, here I was, about to wreck everything for him.
Did I do it now? Rip it off like it was a Band-Aid? Or should I let him think everything was normal, that nothing had changed?
Which was the greater kindness?
Before I could say a word, he scowled at me, then I realized it wasn’t at me, but something behind me.
He darted forward, past the whitewashed table that was shabby chic and a project we’d worked on together, and toward me. When he jerked me back, pushing me behind him, the motion not only stunned me, but it made me want to cry again.
Such a good kid.
“What is it?” I demanded, as tension soared through me. I peered at the window, trying to see what he had.
“I saw a shadow—”
A knock sounded at the door, making us both jump. I moved past him, heading to answer it as I called out, “Who is it?”
I wanted to groan when the voice called back, “It’s Rogan, Ms. O’Neill. Just wanted to assure you that the property is secured.”
Wincing, I muttered, “Thank you.”
The goons were more than just watching over me and making sure I obeyed... they were protecting us.
Protecting us because, as I’d learned on the ride home, the Irish were at war with the Italians, for fuck’s sake.
I hadn’t just brought chaos into my life, I’d broughtwar.
A war that was going to impact Seamus.
Fuck.
“We’ll be out in the car until you’re ready to return to the city.”
“I have a lot to pack,” I argued, tensing up at being bossed around.
“No. We have our orders. You’re to pack the bare minimum, then we’ll be returning to organize and put your things into storage.”
My mouth dropped open at the heavy-handed bullshit Eoghan was pulling, but then...
I scrubbed a hand over my face, unable to hide from the truth, even as I loathed being told what to do.
I’d been around for the war with the Colombians and the Haitians. Daddy had almost died, and Uncle Freddiehadlost his life in a knife fight.
War was brutal.
It took no prisoners, not in this kind of battle anyway. Or, at least, if prisoners weretaken, they were tortured and killed. No Geneva Convention or any number of Amnesty International rulings protected the Five Points’ men from being torn to shreds.
Hell, and I’d just brought my son into this universe.
What had I been thinking? Why hadn’t I just told Amaryllis to get gone when she’d seen my tattoo?
When I thought back to how this had all begun, I wanted to cry because it was so preventable. I’d been so stupid to get involved, and now Seamus was at risk.
But when a student had come to me, eying the tattoo, the tag, on my wrist like it was a lifeline from God himself? What was I supposed to do? Tell her to fuck off? Especially when she broke down, when she started sobbing in my classroom, telling me things about her boyfriend who’d just been kidnapped—using names I remembered. Phrases that I’d worked hard to eradicate from my brain by becoming as mainstream as possible.
