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“The lady who got murdered by the Italians?”
My heart thuds in my chest, bile churning in my stomach. Poor, poor Mrs. Dawkins. She didn’t deserve what they did to her. I don’t know if Connor has much to do with Marco Lastra – the Italian capo who killed Mrs. Dawkins personally – but I hope he doesn’t. That man was nothing short of awful.
“Y-you know about that?”
Connor shrugs, sighing as he shoves his hands into his pockets again. “Lauren was very upset about it.”
I nod mechanically. We were all upset about it, but I can see how it would affect Low deeply. Mrs. Dawkins practically raised her.
“She was kind of the surrogate grandmother for all the kids in our building. When Mom was off hooking, or just off her face on drugs, Mrs. Dawkins used to let me hang out in her apartment.”
I shrug, my hands stopping their movement on top of the fresh laundry as I stare unseeing at the wall in front of me, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“She didn’t have a TV, just a radio that only ever played this Jesus channel. So I used to play in her kitchen. She taught me how to bake. Told me that if I ever got to open up my bakery, she’d be my first customer.”
I don’t notice Connor move, but suddenly he is right next to me, his long fingers brushing at my cheeks. My wet cheeks. He’s brushing away tears. How embarrassing.
“Sorry,” I mutter, raising my hand and dashing away some more tears as they fall. “What they did to her….”
The bile from my stomach rises in my throat as I remember. Connor turns me slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before he draws me to his chest, his arms coming around me as he hugs me.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,leannán,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking through my hair. Closing my eyes, I let go of the need to be tough and sob like a child into his chest. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to let go of my emotions and let someone else take care of me.
His cheek presses against the top of my head, and I wrap my arms around his waist. I’m unsure how long I cry, but Connor doesn’t speak or move. He holds me, his cheek resting on top of my head, one of his hands stroking through my hair at the nape of my neck. I didn’t know how badly I needed this. Just this.
Eventually, my tears dry up, and I step away from him. My face is probably swollen and splotchy, but Connor looks at me tenderly, stroking my face for a moment, smoothing away the tear tracks.
His eyes dip to my mouth, and his lips part. I don’t know if he’s about to say something or kiss me. I really, really want him to kiss me, but when he simply stares at me for a long moment and leaves, heading upstairs, no doubt to change out of his tear-soaked shirt, I know it’s for the best.
He might be sex on legs, but he’s my boss. It would be bad to get involved, especially because I live here. As bad an idea as it is, it’s a wicked tempting thought.
No, Andie. Don’t eventhinkabout going there. Scrubbing my face with my hands, I hear Connor’s tread on the stairs as he leaves the house and goes back into the cottage while I return to my chores.
Chapter SEVEN
Andie
I’m not entirely sure what Connor’s “job” is. I mean, he’s a mobster, so based on what I’ve seen in movies, he goes around cutting off horses heads and putting them in the beds of movie executives?
I’m about ninety-nine percent sure he’s never done that, but he always disappears after dinner. He insists on eating with me in the kitchen whenever he’s home for a meal, which is nice. I suppose he was used to eating with his mother. I wonder what that was like.
We’ve fallen into a pattern the month I’ve been here. I get up and eat, map out my meals and chores for the day and go for a jog.
When I get back and have showered, he usually emerges, has breakfast, and wanders out the back to the cottage by mid-morning.
In the afternoon, he works out in his gym upstairs before disappearing. He’s typically home for dinner, leaving again as I clean up and go to bed. Rinse and repeat. It’s not an exhausting routine. Lauren hooked me up with a wicked sweet deal here.
Speaking of Lauren, she wants to go for a girl’s night out. I’ve cleared it with Connor. He said he’s going to be elsewhere for dinner anyway, so Paddy will take Lauren and me to Oracle, the club the Irish own in West Boston.
A strip club isn’t exactly my first choice of venue for a girl’s night, but I guess when you’ve married into the Irish Mafia, your options are limited. At least if I’m with Low, the service should be good.
I look around as Paddy pulls into a parking lot beside the club, past a sign on a gate readingStaff Only. He helps Lauren out of the front seat, keeping a hand on her back as he closes my door for me.
I jump when his hand lands on the middle of my back, but when I glance up at him, he’s not looking at me, his eyes darting around, lingering on a white car across the road. When I glance at it, I notice the two guys sitting in it, watching the club's front door.
Maybe they’re PI’s, scoping the place out to catch husbands. I'm about to giggle about it to Lauren when she catches my eye, shaking her head, her eyes flickering to Paddy’s stiff jaw.
Because he’s so aware of Lauren at all times, Paddy’s eyes move down to meet hers, a bit of the tightness disappearing as his eyes soften.
