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NIALL
The church is filling up. The Irish on the right are laughing, joking, and comfortable in their local church here in West Boston. The Romanians filling up the left-hand side are pinched, stealing glances, looking uneasy and unhappy at this forced union.
Seamus’s eyes flicker over the left-hand side of the church, but he dismisses them quickly. The Albescu lass might be about to become his problem, but he’s not going to have anything to do with her extended family. She’s coming to us, not the other way around.
Paddy looks like he’s at a funeral. He’s glowering at the world, gritting his teeth as his eyes flicker from Romanian to Romanian, studying their faces. He has a lot of anger, and for the last fifteen years, he’s decided it should be focused on the Romanians. I can’t say it’s healthy, but it’s what the lad wants.
I stand off to the side, between the church wall and the Irish pews, my eyes moving through the crowd. I’m not here as security, but I am here for a specific purpose, and it’s not to see Fitzy married. Connor’s eyes meet mine from where he’s seated in the front row between his mammy and Sean Fitzpatrick, head of the Irish mafia here in Boston, and his eyebrows dance.
I work with Paddy a bit to sort out gamblers who owe Connor money from the poker tables he runs above Oracle. He’s a good man. Loyal. Clever. But he has a knack for reading people and using what he sees to piss them off. I can’t say I’ve ever been on the receiving end – he saves a lot of it for Seamus and Paddy, his two best mates –but it’s amusing to watch.
The strains of the wedding march distract me from whatever mischief Connor is plotting. My eyes dart to the church doors, where Fitzy’s bride has appeared on her father’s arm.
She sweeps down the aisle on her father’s arm, her back straight and chin high. Marius Albescu is the head of the Romanian mafia here in the city.
I told Mellie no word of a lie when I told her that this arranged marriage will bring about a truce thirty years in the making. None of us are happy about it. Least of all, Seamus and Paddy.
Fifteen years ago, Seamus’s mother and Paddy’s parents were gunned down in broad daylight while eating at a café here in West Boston. They’ve always suspected the Romanians.
I don’t trust this Ylenia Albescu, but I do pity her. Seamus resents her very existence, and now she’s marrying him. Her life from here on out will not be a particularly pleasant one.
Paddy and Liam take the newlyweds to the hotel hosting the reception. I travel with Ronan, Connor, and his mammy.
“Wasn’t it a lovely wedding?” Siobhan Fitzpatrick sighs. Connor makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, toying with his phone. “And the bride looked lovely.”
“And so she did, Mammy,” Connor agrees with a sigh. “She’s an attractive lass.”
Siobhan shoots him a sharp look. “Maybe I should be asking Sean to arrange a marriage forye. I might actually get some weans from ye.”
Connor chokes on air, glaring across the SUV. “Ye do that, Mammy, and I’ll have ye on the next plane to Dublin. Ye wouldn’t be meeting any weans until they were full grown.”
Ronan catches his smirk, focusing on driving as Siobhan splutters. She and Connor argue in the backseat, Connor’s native brogue bleeding through. He clearly feels strongly about this.
“Ye can’t order me out of the country. I might remind ye who I am,” Siobhan snaps.
“Ye’re the woman who was married to Sean Fitzpatrick’s brother,” Connor spits back, “and Pa’s been dead for over twenty years. Don’t ye be overstepping. Ye’re a Fitzpatrick by marriage, not by blood.”
Siobhan Fitzpatrick falls silent, staring out the window as she sulks. Sometimes I think the woman forgets that Connor isn’t a little lad anymore and that she enjoys her comfortable life here by his grace.
Connor catches my gaze in the rearview mirror and rolls his eyes. Sure, there are times – like right now – when I’m glad I don’t have to deal with a headstrong mammy. Siobhan Fitzpatrick seems like a sweet little granny compared to my mammy.
As we step into the hotel ballroom, Siobhan marches off to find her table and her group of friends. Connor rubs his face, leading Ronan and me to the bar, signaling for three whiskies.
“Never let a woman run your house, lads,” he groans, slamming the drink back and indicating for the bartender to pour another. “They think they can run your life too.”
“So find her somewhere else to live,” Ronan suggests, earning himself a glare from Connor.
“Sure, and she’s my mammy. I’ve no intention of landing in hell for disrespecting the woman. D’ye not remember yer Sunday school? Number four, Ronan. Number four.” Connor shoots another whiskey, the bartender obligingly topping him up.
Before Connor can pick up the glass, it’s snatched away from him as Paddy pounds it back.
“Keep them coming,” he tells the bartender. Connor glances his way, whatever smart-arse comment he was about to make dying on his tongue at the look on Paddy’s face.
“You okay, Paddy?” he asks instead.
“I’ll be grand,” Paddy grits back between shots of whiskey. “This day will be over soon enough.”
“Aye, but Seamus will still be married to the Albescu lass in the morning.”
