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"I'm not," I argue.
He snarls, "You are, and everything you worked for is going to disappear. And you're taking the family down with you. You have responsibilities, and they're not in New York City right now."
I turn and walk to the window, staring out.
Time passes and tension builds. I debate what to do and whether I should make Maeve return and lock her up until this threat's over.
It's not going to be over until Grady and Dagan are dead.
Malachy too.
Dad steps next to me and softens his tone. "I understand why ya like it here."
I grunt. "Do ya? Because ya seem to thrive in both places."
He admits, "I do, but New York is my favorite. It got into my blood the minute I stepped off the boat."
I've never heard him admit that. I question, "It did?"
"Aye, it did. So I understand why ya need to feel the city and the energy, but ya have responsibilities."
I admit, "I don't want to live there. I want Maeve and I to live here."
Dad takes another puff of his cigar, and the weird part is, as much as I hate the smoke, I've missed it. I've missed him.
He blows several rings and then states, "Ya got some big problems on your hands. Ya need to deal with them."
"I'm trying," I claim.
He pins his challenging gaze on me, and I wonder if he's right.
Have I been hiding out in New York?
No. I just love it here.
Maeve is thriving here. She can't do that in Ireland.
Yes, she can.
Can she?
Dad says, "I'll make ya a deal."
The hairs on my arms rise. I cautiously ask, "What kind of deal?" My dad's "deals" normally involve a lot of sacrifice.
He takes another puff of his cigar, blows it out, then says, "Go back to Ireland. Take care of your responsibilities, and we'll transition ya and Maeve back here."
I pause.
Did I really hear that right?
No. It's my dad. Nothing is ever free.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch, son."
I arch my eyebrows. "There's always a catch with ya."
