by Dee, Cara
I couldn’t dispute that.
“But here we are now.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll never be a good man. That’s a fact. Those who love me choose to do so knowing what I’m capable of. This isn’t one of those ‘but I can save him’ tales.” He was warning me of a future he didn’t believe would exist. That, regardless of what happened between him and me, this was what he did. It wouldn’t change. “In Italy, I promised you that I wouldn’t hurt the driver.” Oh God. “I shot him in the head.”
Oh God.
“Now you know,” he said quietly. “I have the blood of others on my hands too, and with this in mind, constantly thinking about it when I met you, made it so easy to lie. I knew—I knew—there was no other way but to pretend I was someone better.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s also the sole reason I’ve done everything in my power to trap you. I lied about your mother—I didn’t tell you she’s alive. And… And I didn’t let our contract, a piece of paper, or your free will, stand in my way.” He dug something out of his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table. Holy sh— “I switched out your birth control. You’ve been taking placebos for the past three months. Luckily for you, that failed too.”
I felt like my entire world was crumbling before me.
All air left my lungs. My energy, my physical strength, just drained out of me.
I stared unseeingly at the blister pack of pills on the table, a sight that rapidly blurred as my eyes welled up. Light-headed and nauseated, I merely sat there. Tears dripped down my cheeks. The onslaught of emotions—I couldn’t begin to grasp it, much less describe it.
“I can’t apologize for making you mine, Emilia,” Finnegan murmured. “But I’ll live with plenty of regrets. I’ll spend the rest of my life ashamed and knowing I fucked up the best thing that ever happened to me—that I hurt the love of my life to the point where I lost her. For that, I am sorrier than I can put into words.”
His words went in one ear and out the other and still managed to reverberate through my skull over and fucking over.
Nothing stuck. Nothing lingered. I lost track of time, and all I could do was absorb the quick stabs of conflicting emotions and frantic fragments of thoughts, memories, and warning bells. One second, I wanted to scream in rage. The next, I wanted to sob my eyes out in grief. The hurt was crippling, as was the sense of loss.
Goddamn him.
I whimpered.
He’d left at some point. I was alone in the living room. The despair swept me away into the darkest corners of my mind, and I covered my face with my hands.
I hated him so much, even as my body cried out for him. My heart broke into pieces and begged to be put back together…by him.
That rotten bastard, that murdering mobster, that deceiving fucking asshole was the love of my life too.
And the kicker? I wasn’t so sure anymore it was my sobfests and anger that made me throw up in the morning.
Jesus Christ, it could be morning sickness.
“I married a mobster,” I whispered to myself. Completely wrung-out, disoriented, and overwhelmed beyond words, I lay on my back in the bed I’d shared with my mobster husband. “Mobster, mobster, mobster.”
That mobster was holding a meeting with his fellow mobster buddies across the hall.
Safe to say, I wasn’t in any shape or form fit to join.
Part of me felt drunk. Like I’d finally snapped and gone crazy.
I didn’t feel nauseated at the moment, which was nice. Perhaps throwing up twice had granted me some relief for the rest of the day. Okay, that was optimistic of me. Maybe an hour or two? One could hope.
Thank fuck, I was alone. Anyone who saw me now would send me straight to the nearest psych ward.
“I’ve lost my mind,” I whispered.
Tears trickled down my temples, creating wet spots on my pillow. The downy pillow Finnegan had bought for me when the first ones we’d ordered were too firm.
I made a bubble face, trapping a breath of air in my cheeks, then released it slowly.
Finnegan had become my life. He was everywhere. Rat bastard! “Ugh.” I became weepy again, and I turned over and buried my face in the pillow. Why had he become everything? I couldn’t conjure a goddamn thought without him in it. His voice… That clear yet rough, masculine voice. His deadly and charming grins. Cocky smirks. How he wrinkled his nose and smiled when I acted like an utter moron. He’d call me goofball when I clowned around in the kitchen. Sassafras when I gave him attitude or challenged him. Princess…
I sobbed.
Never before had I experienced such heartache.
I heard him every now and then across the hall. He raised his voice and told Colm to shut the fuck up and listen to Eric. Another moment later, both he and Liam argued with Pat and…someone…about transportation.
I knew Luna was here. She’d knocked and asked if I was okay before Finnegan had told her to give me space.
A bunch of fucking mobsters…
What was I going to do?
How did I categorize every lie and sort them into piles of what I could forgive and not?
Finnegan had spoken with resignation lacing every word. According to him, we were over and done with, and here I was, the person he’d hurt so much, unable to go that far. It was too painful.
There were too many gray areas. Not to mention, he was right about one thing. If he hadn’t lied in the beginning, I never would’ve ended up with him—and how the hell could I ever regret that? My heart wasn’t mine, goddammit. He’d stolen it, the worthless prick. Thief. Killer. Robber.
“I married a mobster,” I wept.
As the day gave way to darkness, dimming the light in the bedroom, I slipped under the duvet and curled into a ball.
Exhaustion fended off the sharpest pains.
The apartment was quieter now. Most had left, though not all.
I didn’t know what I was facing tomorrow.
A new reality, that was for sure. The blinders were off, the sugarcoating gone.
I felt stupid. Luna had already relayed Finnegan’s rant on how naïve we’d been for thinking revenge was any different. Sure, it would ease a bad conscience to know that the target was rotten to the core, but then there were the innocent people who got caught in the middle. Like that driver in Italy.
My husband had killed him in cold blood.
Shame cloaked me in the darkness, shame because I still wanted to be a part of things.
How could I? What kind of person was I?
I wasn’t sure the idea of accepting Finnegan was the one I worried about. It was the idea of accepting myself. Because it took a particular type of person to stand by and let all this happen. Or worse, participate.
I clutched my stomach and screwed my eyes shut.
My God, bringing a child into this world when…
I cursed the sliver of joy that wanted so badly to be acknowledged. I didn’t even know if I actually was pregnant. Though, when I put the pieces together… Random outbursts, the sickness in the morning, the emotional roller coaster—all of which also could be explained by having a lying sack of shit for a husband. One whom I desperately wanted to hug me right now.
Then I’d cut off his dick.
Good lord, I was absolutely losing it.
Finnegan and I had only had a serious discussion about starting a family one time. He liked to joke about it, and knowing him—somewhat—I knew there was truth to it. He’d wanted children right away. The hopelessly-in-love fool I was kinda did too, but I’d let my brain take the wheel there. And when we’d talked about it in Washington, we’d agreed that a year from now, possibly two, would be more appropriate.
We were so young—me, in particular—and although we’d already been through a lot together, the fact was we’d only known each other since last spring.
Whirlwind didn’t come close to describing the reality of my life since the day I saw Finnegan outside my house.
16
Emil
ia O’Shea
I never got my period…
It all made sense now, why I’d gotten my period the last few months, and I’d expected it to arrive last week again. I’d had some cramps. But so far, nothing. What I had instead was a daily date with my head stuck down the toilet. And now, once I’d flushed and brushed my teeth, I stood there in front of the mirror and felt my boobs.
My nipples were tender and sensitive. I wasn’t imagining it.
I grinned quickly, only to be overwhelmed by hurt and anger. The story of my life these days. A laugh bubbled up, and I slapped a hand over my mouth, embarrassed and confused. I was giving myself whiplash, and I wanted to get off the emotional roller coaster already.
First things first, I had to take a pregnancy test.
Because your husband actually switched out your birth control.
I sighed and scrubbed my hands over my face.
It’d been a brilliant move by Finnegan to lay it all out there on the table at once, because I could only get so angry. There was a cap to how much I could handle, a limit to how furious I could be. Not that I believed he’d planned it that way, but nevertheless. Here I was. I knew who Finnegan was. I was still insanely in love with the asshole, and the fury ebbed in slow waves, replacing the hurt with bouts of numbness.
I had to talk to someone.
As close as Luna and I had grown, I wanted someone with an outside perspective, and that was forbidden, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like I could see a therapist.
Father O’Malley.
My gaze flashed to the mirror, and I chewed on my bottom lip. He would be perfect. Surely Finnegan wouldn’t deny me if I wanted to call Father O’Malley.
Only one way to find out.
I wasn’t missing any work-related stuff today, so I got dressed to fit in. Formfitting slacks, nice shoes, and a snug button-down. I still had that weird aversion to having anything near my neck, hence the top underneath so I could leave a few buttons on my shirt undone.
It would be interesting to see how I’d buy a pregnancy test without anyone noticing. Colm was usually the one driving me around, and he tended to come in the stores with me, no matter how much it bored him. Conn was easier. He stayed in the car.
Perhaps I should just tell Finnegan, and he could step out. Big, armed, mobster men didn’t need an escort.
Or I could ask him to drive me.
As I left my room, I noticed how quiet the apartment was. Finnegan was on the couch in the living room, dressed for work too, and he had the paper laid out on the coffee table. Speaking of, I could smell freshly brewed coffee, and that gave me pause. Was coffee okay if I was pregnant? It smelled so good…
A quick Google search on my phone had the answer.
Sometimes.
I could drink coffee sometimes.
Phew.
I stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. Hell, it was spotless. Finnegan must’ve cleaned it.
In fact… I turned toward the living room again. Spotless too. The tree was lit up once more.
It caused my heart to clench with longing. I could admit, I’d gone all out with Christmas decorations. Tasteful, classy, in my favorite holiday colors, for what was supposed to be my best Christmas ever. The first one I didn’t spend alone in my room with a bowl of mac and cheese or a takeout container from the diner.
“Thank you for cleaning,” I said.
Finnegan looked up from the paper and furrowed his brow. “It’s a shared responsibility. I was spoiled before, but I’ll help out more now.”
All right… Not knowing quite what to say, and absolutely hating how awkward it suddenly was between us, I merely nodded once and disappeared into the kitchen.
I poured a mug of coffee and popped a bagel into the toaster.
But at the first sip of what smelled so amazing, my stomach turned, and my mouth flooded with saliva. Oh God, fucking revolting. The nausea was so acute, I nearly lost my footing.
Holy shit, I was pregnant.
I forced myself to move and managed to get the small window above the sink open. Fresh air, gimme. Then I dumped the coffee into the sink, despite its lovely smell, and pouted. I wasn’t a huge coffee drinker, but a cup here and there was damn near divine.
“Finnegan?” I croaked.
Perhaps he heard the urgency in my voice, because he appeared in the kitchen two seconds later. “Something wrong?”
“Depends on how you look at it, I guess,” I mumbled. Heat colored my cheeks for some reason, and I wrung my hands awkwardly. Here goes. “I need you to take me to the closest Boots.” There were two drugstores along Queensway, the main street here in Bayswater, and Boots was one of them. “Unless the guys are coming over soon—”
“Not for another hour,” he replied, his forehead wrinkling in worry. “You look pale. How are you feeling?”
I exhaled a laugh and felt my emotions threatening to spill over. “We can discuss how I’m feeling after we’ve bought a pregnancy test.”
Finnegan’s eyes grew wide, and then he froze.
In that moment, I hated him a bit more. I hated that things had come to this, that this wasn’t a moment of utter joy because I may or may not be carrying our child. It pained me so fucking much, and I couldn’t help but surrender to the grief again.
“Are you serious?” he asked hoarsely.
I nodded jerkily and suppressed a whimper. “I’ve been throwing up every morning, I feel sore, and the taste of coffee just now made me wanna vomit.”
His eyes welled up rapidly, and one tear spilled over before he sniffled quickly and wiped his cheek. “You like coffee, normally.”
The vulnerability in his voice caused the levees to break, and I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle my sob.
Finnegan flew forward, and there was no describing the shiver when his strong arms came around me.
How could I love what I resented?
How could I need what I wanted distance from?
“We’re gonna be parents, princess,” he whispered thickly.
I screwed my eyes shut, assaulted by a million conflicting emotions. “Don’t call me that anymore,” I wept. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Are you kidding?” He eased away and grasped my shoulders, no longer trying to hide his own emotional reaction. “You’ve just given me a new purpose. This changes everything.”
I sniffled and searched his eyes, and I wanted to smack him, kiss him, kick him in the balls, and hug him. The light had returned to his steely gaze. Reacting on instinct and…whatever, I reached up and brushed away a tear trickling down his cheek.
He swallowed hard and let his hands fall to his sides. “I understand if you hate me for this too, but I hope you’ll find happiness with…” He gestured uncertainly at my stomach. “I’m so fucking sorry, Emilia. You weren’t ready. I took that decision away from you.”
Yes, you did.
“Doesn’t matter anymore.” I looked down and placed my hands on my stomach. My heart was already flooding with hope and a new kind of love. Christ, I was messed up. “Let’s go buy a test.”
“Okay.” He nodded firmly and stepped aside so I could pass.
An hour later, Finnegan had postponed the work meeting until this afternoon, and three pregnancy tests had confirmed what I already knew deep down.
I was pregnant.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Finnegan was on his knees before me, hugging me, pressing his face to my stomach, dampening the fabric of my shirt with his tears.
My heart was bleeding.
He was alternating between whispering promises and apologies.
“I’m sorry I ruined everything.”
“Whatever you want, you can have it.”
“I’ll never forgive myself.”
“You and our baby are the reason I breathe.”
Whenever numbness swept over me, I welcomed the break from the internal mayhem I was growing used to.
“I wanna talk to Father O’Malley,” I said, cle
aring my throat. “That’s what I want.”
He drew in a ragged breath and inched back. “All right.” He nodded and wiped at his face, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll have Eric set up a secure line.”
“Thank you.”
Over the next few days, I created a little routine for myself. Father O’Malley was happy to Skype with me, and he proudly told me about the computers Finnegan had donated to the church, with Eric’s assistance, so Father O’Malley and a youth group he ran could video chat with a similar group in Brazil.
“Kids these days, they don’t want regular pen pals,” he’d said with a fond grin.
I’d told him pretty much everything during our first session, not counting incriminating stuff. Finnegan hadn’t given me any instructions or restrictions, but I figured…
Either way, Father O’Malley became my daily journal. He was a breath of fresh air, and I needed his perspective badly. We spoke around noon my time, while he had breakfast and I’d just had lunch.
Afterward, Colm or Conn escorted me to the park, where I walked, processed, and got some mild exercise done. I liked chatting with them too, because they had yet another perspective on things.
Then work. It sucked me in. I couldn’t pretend to deny its draw. I struggled with guilt and the simple term of calling it work. It wasn’t work. It was plans for death and theft, and yet it challenged my mind in a way I was rapidly becoming addicted to. Strategizing, analyzing, creating various scenarios—only to see how many ways we could succeed and fail.
The status reports were also interesting. They gave me a new insight into how Finnegan worked. He had to keep track of so many things. It was a big syndicate in my eyes, though they called themselves a small fish in a big pond. Regardless, there were a million balls in the air at once, and the boss had to be a skilled juggler.
On today’s agenda, we had a status update from Philly and then to finish mapping our route for a future trip to Amsterdam.
“You’re in a hurry,” Finnegan noted.
I wiped my chin and set the bowl in the sink. My morning sickness was getting worse and bled into the afternoon, and I couldn’t keep much down. Except for milk and cereal, toast with jam, and fruit. All things fried, pan or deep, were instant hurl. I couldn’t stomach the smell, much less the taste. Finnegan had been making scrambled eggs yesterday, and it’d sent me running to the bathroom.
