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“What the fuck is he doing?”
Conor hooted. “I don’t give a shit. Oh, my God! I’m jealous as hell. Why didn’t he let me jump in the back?”
Camille’s unease was clear. “Are they stoned?”
“Not with Jake in the car,” I disregarded immediately.
Conor pointed out, “Maybe he’s not with them.”
“Who else would they leave him with? Aela’s in the kitchen with Ma,” I argued.
“True,” he muttered before he started cackling when the Range Rover surged forward, mowing through Ma’s prized flowerbeds.
“What the actual fuck?” I rasped, watching as Finn pulled a J-turn and rammed into what, in the spring, would house Ma’s favorite daffodils.
Dirt kicked up everywhere, spraying into the tracks the heavy vehicle had left behind.
Because it was Finn, and everyone knew that silver Range Rover was his, guards had run out to watch the show, but no one was laughing—everyone was just gaping.
Including the folks who’d finally figured out that something was happening, and who, without me even knowing it, had rushed outside onto the front driveway. Ma included.
A few minutes later, another couple of flowerbeds destroyed, the car pulled up outside the house, but Finn didn’t jump out of the driver’s side.
Aoife did.
Even more goddamn bewildered, I blinked at the sight of the carnage before us, a sight that had only just been rectified when Da had brought in a bunch of landscape gardeners to fix the mess from the holidays, and turned to study Ma.
“She’s going to shit a brick.”
“Nah,” Conor denied, folding his arms against his chest as he too watched our mother.
The second Ma’s eyes crashed into Aoife’s, I saw the change in her.
Her shoulders hunched, and instead of hurling curses at her, instead of getting in her face like our mouthy mother was more than capable of doing, she twisted on her heel and retreated into the house.
I blinked again.
Then I shoved Conor’s arm. “What the fuck is going on, Kid?”
He smirked. “Sucks not to be in the loop, doesn’t it?”
“When are younotin the loop? You’re always in the goddamn loop. Declan and I are the ones who are cut out of shit when you, Aidan, and Finn get together in your fucking fancy-assed high-rise offices. We’re the brawn in the goddamn docks and the Hole, and you’re the brains—”
“Not my story to tell.” Sniffing, Conor brushed off his sleeve. “You should have told me about Callum sooner,” he sniped.
“I’m not getting into this with you now,” I growled.
“Your dad looks like he’s going to have a stroke,” Camille interrupted uneasily.
Distracted, I shot Da a look and saw she wasn’t half wrong. But Aoife, showing more guts than any of Aidan O’Donnelly Sr.’s kids combined, strode past the man whom most of New York was terrified of, who had a face redder than a beet, with Jake now in her arms—his smiling face telling me he’d enjoyed the ride in the Range Rover—and moved into the house.
“I’ll find out what’s going on,” Camille assured me, darting onto tiptoe to press a kiss to my cheek before she scampered away, on the hunt for information.
As Conor made to follow her, I grabbed his arm and demanded, “What was that about?”
“Ma had it coming.”
“What the fuck?” I shook my head just in case I’d gotten a shit ton of water in my ears during my shower earlier. I’d been between Camille’s thighs for some of that, so it’d explain a lot.
