Filthy Dark: A SECOND CHANCE/SECRET BABY, MAFIA ROMANCE (THE FIVE POINTS' MOB COLLECTION Book 3)

by Serena Akeroyd

  But his reaction gave me hope, especially as I watched his wince morph into a smirk.

  “I was born ready for anything.”

  Why didn’t I find that hard to believe?

  I moved over to the interconnecting door and tapped on it. Naturally, Shay didn’t wake up.

  Rolling my eyes, I knocked again, because he gave me crap about not respecting his privacy if I just walked in, but the little shit could sleep through a nuclear fallout. What was privacy in the face of that?

  So I peered inside after I opened the door a sliver, made sure nothing nasty was going down—you never could tell with boys—and when I saw he was a big lump on the bed, taking up far too much room for a fourteen-year-old in the queen size, I muttered, “He’s asleep.”

  Brennan cleared his throat as I closed the door. “Leave him. You guys had a late night.”

  “You want breakfast?” I inquired, then pointed toward the door Conor was behind and reminded him, “He said he’s hungry.”

  “Is it still breakfast at two in the afternoon?” he asked dryly.

  I shrugged. “I just woke up, so it’s breakfast for me.”

  “I could deal with some eggs. Anyway if we don’t feed Conor, he’ll whine all the way home.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Baby.”

  My lips twitched as I headed toward the phone and picked up the room service menu. I always ate the same thing for breakfast when I was in a hotel, so I tossed it at him and said, “Pick your poison.”

  He eyed me warily. “Don’t feel like dying today.”

  “Well, if it happens, it has nothing to do with me.” Because I got the feeling he thought I was taking this too easily, like I was too accepting and that meant he had to be cautious around me, I decided to drag off his kid gloves straight from the start and explained, “Do you know how long it’s been since I last saw Declan? When it all ended, I mean.”

  He frowned at the change of subject. “No. About fifteen years?”

  “Fourteen years, five months, two weeks, and eight days.”

  That had him blinking. “That’s precise.”

  I nodded. “It is. Because do you know how long I’ve known this moment would come? Except, instead of you standing here, I figured it would be Dec?”

  He cleared his throat. “Fourteen years, five months, two weeks, and seven days?”

  “Exactly.” I reached up and fiddled with one of my earrings. “And that’s why I’m not really upset. Sure, inside I am. I’m all roiled up. I wish there were things I could do, shit I could change, but what’s the point? I’m a big believer in embracing what you can’t change.

  “I gave him fourteen years of normalcy, and you guys are going to break that in the span of a few years.” I gulped. “If anything, that’s what hurts, but I’ll try to keep him on the right path—”

  “We’re not going to ruin his life, Aela,” Brennan countered softly. “Sure, there will be things that will change, but he’s about to become a part of the tightest knit family on the East Coast. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” I didn’t argue, because there was no point. Instead, I just said, “Throw that over to him,” as Conor stalked out of the bathroom like he was a hungry lion.

  “Gimme, gimme, gimme,” he growled as he made grabby hands for the menu, and I almost laughed.

  Somehow, I had two-fifths of not just the tightest knit family, but the hottest as well.

  Aidan Sr. was evident in all their appearances, but their mother was too. Her bone structure combined with Aidan’s dark coloring made beautiful babies.

  Any woman with these two in her room could let it go to her head, I thought with amusement.

  And yes, I was capable of amusement, even though the chains were starting to coil around me.

  My life was changing, Seamus’s was too, but I was adaptable. I’d had to learn to be.

  I’d roll with the punches, metaphorically.

  If Declan ever raised a hand to me, that was it. He’d be the one who’d be rolling—into an unmarked frickin’ grave. But I had to pray that the boy I’d known couldn’t have changed that much. He’d never have hit me. Of course, I’d never have believed he’d dump me the way he had either…

  With the phone call from last night resonating in my mind, where he’d told me I’d never stopped being his woman, Conor barged into my thoughts and, like he owned the place, strolled over to the phone and picked it up.

  As he placed his order, he looked at me, and I murmured, “Eggs Benedict. Plus get an order of toast and crispy bacon for Seamus.”

  His eyes glinted with interest at the mention of my kid’s name, but he placed his own order. “They said ten minutes.”

  “Money talks,” I commented wryly, as I walked over to the closet, grabbed the bag I’d stuffed in there yesterday, and started sorting through it for something to wear. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Neither of them argued, and I’d admit it was weird how unafraid I was around them.

  Maybe I should be. Maybe they just weren’t giving off those kinds of vibes. Or maybe it was because it hadn’t been a week since I’d come under their spotlight and I’d already had to kill a man… That changed things.

  Dramatically.

  With my stuff in hand, I headed for the bathroom and showered and prepared myself for the day ahead. I knew they were here to deliver us safely back to Manhattan, and I’d admit I was grateful because the O’Donnellys always had a way of making you feel safe.

  The ultimate of ironies, of course, because I was only in danger because of my ties to them.

  I didn’t rush my shower, seeing no point in it. I enjoyed the luxuriously appointed bathroom, indulged in the expensive toiletries, and pampered myself a little. I felt better as I dried off and wrapped my hair in a small towel like a turban. I dressed quickly, then applied some moisturizer before I headed out into the bedroom once more.

  There was a room service buffet stand there, and I saw that Conor had already grabbed his and was over by the dining area, chowing down his eggs and bacon like he hadn’t eaten in a month. Brennan’s and my dishes were still waiting, and so was Seamus’s.

  It seemed counterintuitive, but I lifted off the cloches until I found the bacon, used the cover on the toast to keep it warm, then let the bacon scent drift through the room.

  My kid had a Scooby Doo nose for bacon, and that was one way to get him up.

  Brennan eyed the move with a raised brow, but he didn’t say a word. Just grabbed his breakfast and mine and moved over to Conor’s side.

  The table had already been laid with cutlery, a jug of juice, a pot of coffee, and the associated tumblers and mugs, so I poured myself one of each and took a deep sip of OJ before I even thought about eating.

  A minute later, the connecting doorknob rattled, and my boy appeared.

  He looked a mess, but I couldn’t stop the pride that filled me at the sight of him.

  His hair was all over the place, he had lines on his cheeks from where the pillow creased his skin, and his eyes were like slits as he peered into the brightness. I was surprised he hadn’t grabbed his shades like he usually did, but instead he stepped into the room, then stepped back—not to avoid his uncles who I doubted he’d even seen—but he returned a second later with a cap he pulled low over his eyes. He’d also grabbed a tee but stuck with his boxers and Rick and Morty sock-clad feet.

  “Mom, where did I put my sunglasses?”

  I snorted. “How would I know?”

  He sighed. “You know I can’t see first thing in a morning.”

  “By choice,” I retorted, hiding a smile at his dramatics.

  Brennan and Conor eyed Seamus like he was a coiled rattlesnake that was waiting to strike. Conor had even stopped eating! They watched him as he wandered over to the trolley and picked up a couple of slices of bacon, all without turning to look at me.

  It was quite clear that he didn’t have an inkling I was with someone.

  I decided
not to clue him into that fact, wondering what he’d do when he saw I wasn’t alone.

  Would he recognize them?

  How couldn’t he?

  When he looked in the mirror in the morning, he had to see the likeness between them all.

  He hummed as he chomped down on the bacon, nice and dark like he loved it, then he picked up the cloche and took a slice of dry toast.

  “Where’s the sauce, Mom?”

  “I didn’t bring any this time.”

  His head whipped around. “You always bring sauce!” Then he saw them. And he froze. His cheeks burned hot before blanching, and he took a step back.

  Conor tipped his head to the side. “What sauce do you like?”

  Seamus bit his lip, then looked to me for backup. Because I’d always give him that, I smiled at him. Gently. Coaxingly. Trying to tell him that everything was okay. That everything would be okay too. Not exactly easy after what had gone down in our home, but he trusted me, just like I trusted him. That’d take more than a night to destroy.

  Warily, he gulped, then rasped, “It’s called HP sauce. Americans never know what it is.”

  “I know what it is,” Brennan rumbled. “Had it when I was over in Ireland.” He elbowed Conor. “That stuff that’s like A1 sauce but better.”

  Conor evidently processed that and took a bite of egg and bacon as he did so. Then he hummed. “I remember that stuff. Brown sauce I think you called it?”

  “That’s the stuff. Seamus likes to have a bacon sandwich with it,” I explained.

  “Huh,” Conor said simply. “Don’t they stock it here?”

  “I get it online.” To Seamus, I asked, “You going to come and sit down and eat with us? There’s butter for the toast.”

  He licked his lips. “I-I guess.”

  Brennan moved, ever so slightly, and I only noticed because I was aware of him. His shoulders shrank a little and he slipped down in his chair. Conor saw it too, but he didn’t look at me askance, just stunned me by doing the same thing.

  Then, when Seamus took a seat, I got it. And I wouldn’t lie, my heart melted a little bit.

  They’d made themselves smaller.

  I mean, there was only so much they could do to achieve that, for God’s sake. They were both big guys, and Seamus was big for his age too, but I appreciated the gesture. More than they’d ever know, because it gave me hope. Hope that they’d be a good influence and not just a bad one. That they’d be family first, and Irish Mob second where my kid was concerned.

  I’d thought they might backhand him for being cheeky, yet here they were, hunkering down to make him more at ease… the relief was real.

  Seamus was quiet over breakfast, and I let him get away with it, didn’t bother to chivvy him into talking because I wasn’t about to force that on him.

  What with everything that had happened, it was a wonder he was still functioning. Period. But he was resilient—I’d done that.

  I gave myself kudos for it too.

  When, an hour later, we’d finished eating and talking about nothing in particular which, somehow, hadn’t been as painful as I might have imagined, I told Seamus to pack up his things. He slid off and a little while later, I heard the shower rumble on in his room.

  As I gathered my belongings too, I waited for the inquisition, knowing it was coming.

  Only, it didn’t.

  They didn’t say a word.

  Not until my bags were packed on the bed, and each of them moved over to grab one a piece, did Conor say, “You’ve got a good kid there, Aela.”

  Brennan nodded. “He does you proud.”

  The tears were stupid, but they prickled my eyes anyway. I ducked my head between my shoulders and muttered, “Thanks, guys.”

  Their approval shouldn’t mean anything, but it did.

  It really did.

  I just had to hope that Seamus’s father agreed with them, and knowing him as well as I had back then… I didn’t hold out much hope.

  AELA

  BEFORE

  “Why do you let him treat you like that?” I whispered in a soft hush, not wanting to upset Mom, but also needing to understand it.

  I wanted to think that I’d never let Declan treat me like that, but heck, who was I to judge? I was his side piece. The woman he was cheating on his girlfriend with.

  I was lower than the low.

  A dog turd.

  The betrayal was real, and no matter how many times I thought that, no matter how many times I felt that way and promised myself I’d break it off, he’d look at me with those eyes and I’d fall.

  He was lonely.

  Alone.

  Lost.

  This world wasn’t his world, but he had no choice. No alternative.

  He was stuck in this chaos just like I was. A rook in a game of chess that he didn’t want to play.

  Inside, I felt sure he was screaming. On the outside, he was cool and calm. He looked like the bruiser his family was making him, but I knew, deep in his soul, he was my sweet Declan.

  A man who loved the arts. Who could wander around a museum for hours on end.

  I mean, I loved museums. Loved wandering around them too, and my visits always fired me up for when I was home and able to draw or paint, but Declan’s appreciation went so much deeper than mine.

  It was like he was transported to an alternate world where he wasn’t a Five Pointer. Where he was just a man.

  Whenever we sneaked away to museums, the only place we were safe from prying eyes because not many people in the Five Points were likely to go there, I’d cling to his hand and walk with him. Past when my legs started to ache and I grew tired, when I wanted to sit and draw, I’d carry on with him, knowing that I, and that time in the museum, was his vacation.

  His break from it all.

  How could I leave him when he needed me?

  When I was his respite?

  Because I was.

  If the museums fascinated him, I knew I did too. The way he looked at me, it was like an artist who’d found his muse.

  But if Declan was an artist, he’d never be allowed to follow it through. I’d tried to encourage him to sketch with me, but he wouldn’t. Like it was forbidden fruit or something, he’d eyed the pencil I’d proffered him like it was a snake.

  I thought he’d have preferred it if it was.

  Within the time we’d been secretly together, he’d begun changing. I knew why too. Even my dad was talking about how good Declan was at getting blood out of a stone, which I knew meant he was acting as Aidan O’Donnelly’s fists.

  Wet work.

  I found it hard to believe that Declan was capable of it.

  My soulful lover wasn’t born to spill blood. He clung to our private time with a desperation I felt and wished I could ease, but there was no easing his path.

  I closed my eyes at the thought, then was jerked back to reality when Mom whispered, “He doesn’t mean to hurt me.”

  Thinking about that, I wondered if she knew what she was saying or if she was aware she was lying to herself.

  Maybe she was delusional. She was rattling with how many pills she took, so I didn’t see why not.

  Carefully, I reached over and patted her hand. It was their sixteenth wedding anniversary, and he was late for the dinner she’d spent hours making.

  Just like he always was.

  Not just for this meal, but for every other.

  She spent hours in the kitchen making him meals to please him, spent hours working out, spent hours making herself look good… to what aim? A disinterested husband who barely knew she, or her daughter, were alive.

  Because I didn’t want to hurt her, not when he hurt her enough, I got to my feet and leaned over her. Kissing her temple, I murmured, “Happy anniversary, Mom.”

  She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you, pumpkin.”

  I wanted to tell her that she could leave him, that he wasn’t her reason for being, but what was the point? To her, he was, and I
wasn’t going to change that.

  As much as I loved Declan, I refused to let him mean that much to me. He wasn’t my reason for getting up in the morning, and I had physical proof of how that worked. Nothing had been said, but it didn’t take much more than a simple calculation to figure out that I was the reason Dad had proposed.

  Loaded shotguns in the arms of Declan’s father had a habit of making things nice and copacetic, erasing any and all signs of sin.

  But the aftermath of that sin, the repercussions, were a different matter entirely. They were something he didn’t have to live with, but his men did.

  I’d never liked Aidan Sr. Not that I had a say in it or anything. But I’d never liked him, and learning more about him through Declan didn’t make me appreciate him any more.

  I thought he was a jackass who demoralized his wonderful son, who was turning him into a shitkicker when his soul was made for creation, not destruction.

  But that was Declan’s path. I knew he felt certain it had been set in stone from the very beginning, and no amount of me telling him otherwise would change what he saw as his future.

  I squeezed Mom and muttered, “I love you.”

  “Love you too, pumpkin.” Her fingers tightened around my hand. “You go off and have fun. You’re hanging out with Deirdre and the girls, aren’t you? Such good people to know, sweetie. Do your father proud.”

  Wanting to gag because I’d never aspired to make my dad proud, I just hummed and headed out of the kitchen. We had this really archaic way of eating. I would eat in the kitchen, and she and Dad would eat in the dining room together. On the nights he was home, that is.

  Just in case he did come home soon, I rushed into my room and changed into a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a tee. I couldn’t look too fancy, because it might raise eyebrows, but somehow, with Declan, I always felt fancy. I always felt like I was wearing designer stuff when I was just in regular gear.

  I headed out of the apartment with a quick farewell that saw me dipping my head into the kitchen, but when I saw her drinking a large glass of wine, I sighed and disappeared.