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“You pretended to be dead?” Conor asked flatly, then his jaw clenched. I turned to look at him, took in the fact he looked like he hadn’t slept in two weeks before he spat, “What kind of fucking godfather pretends to be fucking dead when his fucking godsons fucking need him?”
Paddy flinched. “I was a dead man walking, Conor. It was either make it look like I’d died or get my skull caved in for real.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know I’ve got some explaining to do, boys, but—”
“You can tell Da at the same time as you tell us,” Aidan remarked, “but I want you to answer one question, Paddy, before I let you go through that door.”
“What is it?” he asked uneasily.
“Why the hell are you back?”
Paddy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I need money.”
Conor shook his head. “Of course you do.”
Without another word, he trudged off after the others, and staring at him, I felt much the same desire.
I’d grieved for this fucker, had felt his loss as if it were another parent I’d buried, but he was back now.
For money.
I gritted my teeth at the sight of him, but Aidan was calm and cool still as he questioned, “Did the Sparrows get to you?”
Shooting him a look, I demanded, “Did you know he was alive?”
“I found out a few years back, when Da sent me after Savannah who’d gone hunting for some of our family secrets.” His mouth tightened. “Figured out that when Da killed Jurkavic—”
“Rammed him in the gut with a sword, didn’t he?” I queried, frowning as I tried to remember which of the many murders my biological father had committed we were talking about.
“That’s the one,” Aidan said with a nod. “He was drugged. The Albanians sold him out.
“Savannah uncovered evidence that proved the bastard on the autopsy table, who Jurkavic supposedly killed, was a couple inches too short to be dear Uncle Paddy.” He narrowed his eyes at his godfather. “Did you run because of the Sparrows?”
Padraig slammed his hands into his pockets. “Birds?”
“No, not fucking birds,” I snapped. “You must have heard about them on the goddamn news.”
His eyes widened. “You think I got something to do with those fucking pigs?” He pshawed. “I wish my life had been that simple. Once you mess with the ECD, boys, that’s it, you’re screwed.”
“The ECD?” I rumbled, trying not to show that his revelation staggered me.
Why did this feel like it was coming full circle?
“Yeah. Those goddamncheilesruined my life. You think I’d have left everything behind if I had a choice?”
“I don’t know anymore,” Aidan retorted, “I just know that you’re back and it ain’t for a good reason.”
“My boy’s been taken, Aidan.”
“You got kids?” I spluttered.
“A son.” His chin jerked up. “He’s a hockey player. Done real well for himself in the NHL.” He gulped. “Name’s Liam Donnghal, you might have heard of him.”
“Jesus. He’s the hockey player who got fucking kidnapped, ain’t he?” Aidan commented, for the first time looking surprised.
Paddy’s expression crumpled, and it messed with my head.
Unlike this generation, Frank, Aidan, and Padraig had all looked eerily similar. Like they were triplets, just with an age gap. So, seeing Paddy like that reminded me far too much of Senior over the holidays.
I knew what it looked like when a father felt as if the world were crumbling beneath his feet, not just because I’d experienced it myself, but because I’d seen it with my own eyes.
