Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“You should’ve heard what he threatened.”
“That’s the clan talking, not him.”
“What’s the difference? Is there any difference? Cillian is the clan.”
“No, no, that’s not how it works here. The O’Shea clan is a democracy and a meritocracy. Cillian’s in charge now because the others want him to be, but if he starts fucking up, if he starts doing terrible things to his own sister, they’ll vote him out of power in an instant. It’s both a strength and a weakness.”
I wipe my face with both hands and Ronan digs into his pocket, producing a handkerchief. I take it with a little laugh—men don’t carry these anymore. But it’s nice, and I use it to clean my face.
“There you are,” he says softly, accepting it back. “Listen to me, I know you’re new to this world. Your mother did a lovely job shielding you from the ugly truth of what we are, but when you went to work for the Brunos, you decided to get involved. Now there’s no going back. They’ve got their hooks in you, and we want to save you from whatever terrible fate they’ve got planned.”
“It’s just a job,” I say and even that sounds weak to me.
“Oh, yes, it always starts that way. But how much have you heard during your stay there? Did they tell you too much? Let you see too much? And what is too much? You can’t know when you’ve crossed the line, because the line is arbitrary. One day you’ll wake up with hands around your throat, and you’ll be dead, all because of some comment you overheard that you didn’t even know mattered. That’s life with a family like them.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to hear this, but I think back to my time at Villa Bruno, and there are some moments which stand out. Small things, but things which might be important. Overheard conversations, offhand remarks, almost like I was being set up from the start.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to try to convince me.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I suppose I can’t help but try.”
I tug at the sheets, doing anything to keep my hands busy. “Why didn’t you come see me before all this?”
“I suppose I should have, but by the time I learned about you, you already had a life. You were in college, with friends and a future and all of that, and your mother hadn’t told you for a reason. Who was I to waltz in and announce, hello, love, I’m your real daddy? I couldn’t do it.”
“If I knew about a child of mine, I’d go to them, even if they were adults. I’d let them make up their own minds about seeing me.”
“I’ll admit I might’ve made the wrong decision. But I’m here now, and I think we could start over, if you wanted to.” He holds a hand out between us, knuckles on the bed, palm in the air, like he wants me to reach out and take it. I stare at the wrinkles, at the light tufts of gray hair on the knuckles, at the rings on his fingers. This man, he doesn’t know me at all, and I don’t know him either.
But there’s something so familiar about the way he talks. It’s an ache inside of me, a deep ache down in my bones. It hurts, and it feels good, and I want to take that hand. I could see myself holding it, following him to a beautiful home in the countryside where I’d live with Cillian and the rest of the O’Shea clan. I’d marry one of their men, have children, smile and laugh, have a life. I’d send all my money back home to my mother so she could have the retirement she deserves.
It’d be easy. What are the Brunos to me, really? I went there for the money and nothing more. And if I found something bigger than cash, much bigger than paid-off student loans, it’s not here to help me now.
Ronan’s here. My biological father. He’s here now, smiling at me. He spent all that time cooking a meal, and all for me, and if I reach out now, I can feel what it’s like to have a father again, to hold his hand and feel a part of something, to have a family bigger than just my mother and me.
Something keeps my hands in my lap. He cooked for me. I look at the empty bowls, at the dark black bread. And I think about the noise I heard from the kitchen, the noise that lasted a few hours.
He cooked for me and he left me in this room to rot.
The thought strikes me like a mallet to my skull. I feel dizzy with the sudden, painful clarity. If this man really gave a damn about me, he could’ve brought me out and let me sit with him. There are guards on this place. I wouldn’t have been able to escape. He was on the other side of that door for hours and he never once came in to check on me. Instead, he focused on making his stew, his food.