This Life 1

by Cara Dee

  Uncle John was enamored of Emilia, and I was the last person who could blame him.

  On the other hand, I had finally figured out why she found it so easy to be the perfect hostess, and that was a less pleasant reminder. She’d had eighteen years of practicing servitude before me, eighteen years of bending over backward to please her dad so he wouldn’t get rid of her. She knew hard work and how to put others before her ’cause it was all she’d done.

  The only difference was she did it in high-end designer clothes now.

  It didn’t sit well with me, and I was gonna make sure she knew our home was sacred. This role she was playing was reserved exclusively for business dinners and where she was a reflection and representation of my position.

  For every other hour of the day, I needed her to break my balls. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been the type of man who fell in love with the biggest challenge of his life.

  Aunt Anne guided us through chatter about kids, school districts, and the future. She planned to bring home gossip to her friends in Chicago, so she wanted to know everything about Emilia and me. Or rather, our plans.

  “Your condominiums here are nice and all…” She gestured with her wineglass. “But surely it’s not a place you want to raise your children.”

  I had to hand it to Emilia. She didn’t point out the fact that John and Anne lived in a penthouse in the middle of Chicago, though I could see her sweet smile morphing into one of the fuck-you variety.

  I was highly entertained.

  “Actually, Finn and I were talking about it the other day.” Oh, so Emilia was calling me Finn again. That meant I was on thin ice. She cut a piece of her chicken. “What was the neighborhood you mentioned, honey?”

  I could play along, no problem. “Well, we discussed Gladwyne.” I wasn’t sure Emilia knew of the suburb, but Anne definitely did. She grew up there in an affluent family before Uncle John snatched her up and brought her to Chicago. “But I don’t know. Maybe a bit too quaint for us.”

  The look on my aunt’s face was fucking priceless.

  Uncle John coughed around a chuckle.

  “Quaint,” Anne repeated with a flat expression. “You think Gladwyne is…quaint?”

  “You got a problem with that?” I took a sip of my wine.

  She lowered her gaze and remembered her place. “Of course not, Finn.”

  Good. Don’t shit on my home and expect me not to take a dump on yours.

  I bet it stung to be beneath one of the kids she’d watched grow up.

  “Our lad’s messing with you, darling.” John patted her hand and snuck me a quick look. “I think.”

  I smiled and draped an arm along the back of Emilia’s chair.

  The princess picked up the conversation again by asking how Alec and Nessa had done in school last semester. Anne wasn’t particularly interested in the topic, though she pretended well enough. Summer was here, and she probably banked on the kids going to Ireland soon, as they did most summers. Either they stayed in Dublin, at my house in Killarney, or their place outside of Cork. No matter where they went, they had cousins, aunts, and uncles who loved having them.

  We’d see how this summer panned out. It was possible we would have to send all wives and kids on vacation while we took care of the Italian rat infestation.

  After dinner, John and I walked our women to the car where Conn and Colm waited to take them back to our building. Colm gave me a subtle nod, letting me know our guy was at the bar.

  I shook his hand and got close. “Call my pops and tell him to spread the word.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  It was time our local crews knew what was going on and that I was going to take care of them.

  “Be careful.” Emilia jumped up and kissed my cheek before she got in the car with Aunt Anne.

  Be careful.

  I couldn’t promise her that. I’d been careful…for the past eight fucking years.

  “Drinks are on me, Uncle.” I clapped a hand on John’s back and ushered him back into the restaurant.

  Our table in the back had been cleared from dinner, and a waiter was there asking if we wanted anything to drink.

  “A Jameson for me, cheers.” I took my seat again. From my side of the table, I could see most of the restaurant. John had his back to the place, a spot he sure as fuck wasn’t used to.

  “I think I’ll try that tiramisu,” John said. “Coffee with a splash of whiskey too.”

  The waiter left, and I leaned back in my chair.

  “So.”

  He sighed and fanned out his napkin under the table. “You’re enjoying this too much, Finn.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible, John.” I scratched my eyebrow slowly. “But how about I let you talk first? Tell me what you need from us.”

  The twitch in his eye and the tightness of his features told me how much he hated the position he’d found himself in. For years, he’d had everything handed to him. People came to him. He snapped his fingers, and he got waited upon.

  Those days were over.

  “The Avellino family isn’t solely my problem,” he told me. “You have to realize it’s ours to deal with. If Gio wanted me dead and to be done with it, he would’ve come to Chicago. Instead, he targeted you; he crossed a line and made himself known to your fiancée.”

  I didn’t reply. It was better to watch him dig himself a grave.

  Again, the Italians couldn’t have known they were stopping Emilia. She’d been driving my car. Now, did they know about her? Abso-fucking-lutely. I believed she was a card neither of us knew how to play. With the exception of John, ’cause he didn’t know her background whatsoever.

  “We have to come together for this, Finn,” he said. “We have to show our men—and the Italians—that the Sons of Munster are united, and we have to take the Avellinos out.”

  I smirked a little to myself and shifted in my seat. “Good speech.” Behind him, the waiter was returning with our drinks and John’s dessert. “You don’t mind if I speak plainly, do you?”

  He hid his impatience with a wave of his hand, and he sat back as the waiter put his tiramisu in front of him.

  “Anything else I can get you, gentlemen?” he wondered.

  I shook my head and waited until he was gone.

  Christ, I barely knew where to begin.

  As I swirled the whiskey in my glass, it caught in the glow from the candle on the table and threw amber-colored sparks across my palm. It reminded me of the flecks of bronze in Emilia’s eyes.

  “A few months ago,” I murmured, keeping my eyes on the liquid, “we flushed out a Murray in Pat’s crew. You remember Gary Lindsey, don’t you?” I didn’t wait for his response. “See, I had this feeling someone was watching me, either to make sure I failed and went back to prison or to just keep tabs.”

  “Finnegan,” he said, affronted, “I’m not in the habit of spying on my own syndicate. He couldn’t have been a Murray—or an O’Shea, for that matter—if he betrayed you.”

  “Right.” I grinned and took a swig of my drink. “Just like you would never have my grandfather killed. Or your own pop.”

  His glare was instant.

  I stared right back, no longer intimidated by him. I’d merely voiced what was on the mind of virtually every O’Shea and had been for years now.

  “How dare you,” he whispered furiously. “I came here in peace—”

  “And I piss on that.” Fury unleashed within me, and I returned his glare. “You took an organization our families have built up over generations, and you fucked us all. The reason the Murrays and the O’Sheas have been able to create our fortunes is because we’ve worked together and followed traditions. But you just couldn’t do it, could you? You had to destroy everything—”

  “I did no such thing.” He banged his fist against the table, causing his spoon to rattle on his plate. We’d also gained the attention of a few couples nearby. “Clearly, you are too young to be reasoned with. This was a mistake. I have to speak
to your father instead.”

  “Actually, I’m at the perfect age to handle this. Perfect age to remember how many O’Sheas dropped like flies, perfect age not to be taken for a ride by the smoke you blow up our asses.” I paused to rein in my temper, and I adjusted my tie. “An idiot would sense the rift between our families, John. Why do you think it’s there?”

  He had absolutely no response. He gnashed his teeth together, the vein in his forehead bulging, and turned a shade or two redder.

  “I’ll tell you why it’s there.” I leaned forward and looked him dead in the eye. “It’s because no one in the O’Shea family trusts the management. It’s because we lost brothers, fathers, sons, grandfathers, and husbands back then. It’s because not even a couple women and a four-year-old girl getting caught in the crossfire stopped you.”

  I sat back again and threw back half my drink.

  “We know it was you, John. End of discussion.”

  He breathed deeply and dropped his glare to the table. I could practically see the wheels turning. Because he still needed us.

  He was gonna grasp at straws next, and I was right. He shook his head and claimed, in disbelief, that he wouldn’t be alive if the majority of the O’Sheas thought him a traitor. So I was polite enough to point out he’d had a lot of us locked up, but this didn’t fucking matter. Unlike the Murrays, the O’Sheas stuck together. Any single person who wanted John dead could’ve popped him many times over by now, and then where would we be today?

  John would be six feet under. We wouldn’t have any dealings in Chicago. We’d be a smaller syndicate. We’d be less of a threat. Soon enough, outsiders would challenge our positions. More lives would be lost. Money would be gone. No, John and his but-what-ifs could go to hell.

  “I stand by my innocence,” he said.

  I looked around us. “I don’t see it anywhere.”

  Man, I frustrated him. “Finnegan, I’m sure you would’ve preferred Gio getting the seat back then, but—”

  “I didn’t say that,” I interrupted. “He wouldn’t have gotten the ticket either. Only your pop was gonna give him his vote. The other fourteen would’ve landed on you or that cousin of yours in Galway.” I knew my grandfather never would’ve let a goddamn Italian take over from him.

  “Or that cousin of mine in Galway,” he repeated pointedly. “The Sons barely know him by name, but because he pulled off a few heists here in the eighties, he was praised. What if he’d gotten the seat?”

  “Then he would’ve been boss right now.” I shrugged. “Ronan had no intention of retiring before the new boss had been groomed.” I pointed at him. “You took that away from him because you felt it had to be you.”

  “And I’ve kept our streets clear—”

  “By screwing over half your own syndicate.” I shook my head. “You would’ve had our help and trust—no questions asked—if you’d followed protocol. You shot yourself in the foot, uncle. Now where y’at?” I widened my arms. “You need our help to deal with the Avellinos that you supposedly kept our streets clear from—up until now. We don’t even know how much they’ve learned about us or how long they’ve been here.” Making eye contact with one of my boys at the bar, I jerked my chin at him.

  John took another breath and pushed away his plate. Poor fuck, I’d killed his appetite.

  He flinched when noticing we’d gotten company, and I accepted the tablet from my mate.

  “Cheers, that’d be all.” I pressed the main button and swiped past the screensaver. “This is how it’s gonna be, John.” I showed him the screen, where he could see half a dozen surveillance cameras inside some of his locations and operations. In front of each camera, an O’Shea or two was greeting him. Either by waving, smirking, saluting, or, uh, flipping him off. To be fair, Adam had lost both his brother and father because of John. He wasn’t happy. “The O’Sheas are gonna make a move one way or another. Whether it’s against you or with you is your choice.”

  “Is that—how did they get in?” John was visibly rattled and upset, and I bet he hated swallowing that anger. With his wrists touching the table, he flexed his fingers and said, “Okay, okay. Now we’re here, and we have this problem. Do you suggest we deal with it separately? Do you want us to lose our numbers and split into two clans?”

  That was going to happen sooner or later if the Murrays didn’t agree to some permanent changes, but we weren’t there yet.

  I set the tablet facedown next to my drink. “No. I suggest you tell me what you need, and then I’ll tell you what it’s gonna cost you.”

  He chuckled humorlessly and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Your grandfather groomed you well, boy. When did you figure out he saw you as the next O’Shea in charge?”

  I didn’t miss a beat. “Around the time you had him murdered.” I lifted a shoulder. “Call me a slow learner.”

  In retrospect, I knew my folks had tried to protect me from it for as long as possible. Now, I could think back on certain things and see the plans Ronan had for me.

  Pop had pointed it out a few times lately. He’d known since I was a kid.

  “I didn’t—” John cut himself off. Wise choice. More denial from him, and I might’ve offed him right here. “I’m not ready to retire.”

  Oh good, we were getting somewhere.

  “I’m not ready to be the face of the syndicate yet either,” I replied. “I am ready to call the shots about certain things, though. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

  He didn’t exactly have much of a choice.

  I had to admire the balls he had, however. He thought we’d force him to retire…? Fucking precious. He was lucky to be alive for a bit longer, that was all. I’d wanted this since the day I was sentenced. I wasn’t gonna rush it now.

  Additionally, better he was Gio’s main target instead of me.

  “The Avellinos need to be wiped out,” he said. “My men aren’t trained enough to handle it on their own.”

  I nodded slowly, thinking. “For that to happen, I gotta know every piece of information you have on the Avellino family. Locations, numbers, safe houses, operations, whatever you got. You also gotta send your low-men who are of age to Philly, ’cause fuck if I’m gonna put my own blood on the front line.” There were casualties in every war, but the Murrays were gonna take the biggest hit. “Oh, and the Philly crews don’t give you a cut of their profits anymore, and your bookies and loaners are gonna cut their vigs by five percent to anyone with O’Shea affiliation.”

  My uncle knew he’d been defeated. “Anything else?”

  “You kidding? We’re just getting started.” I smirked and lifted my glass. “By the time we’re done, you’re gonna have to remind yourself I’m still your nephew and that you can’t wait to show up at my wedding with a nice gift. I trust you’ve checked the registry. My princess worked hard on it.”

  Chapter 29

  Emilia Porter

  “I can’t get that freaking song out of my head,” I mumbled, disappearing into our closet. It didn’t help that I’d caught Finnegan whistling it to himself several times since Wednesday. Then tonight, at the rehearsal dinner, he and Patrick had performed it for approximately eighty of their closest family and associates.

  It was one thing if it’d been a cheerful song, but this was some haunting, solemn crap that tightened a knot in my stomach. Everyone who worked with Finnegan and Patrick had stood up and bowed their heads.

  It’d completely thrown me, even though the moment had lasted only two minutes, because I didn’t think it’d been in celebration of the wedding. The rehearsal dinner had been over shortly after, and everyone had seemed eager to shake hands with Finnegan to exchange words.

  “Did you say something, princess?” Finnegan asked from the bedroom.

  “Yeah.” I threw some underwear and pajamas into a bag. “The song you played on the tin whistle tonight, wouldn’t it have been more fitting for a funeral?” Even Patrick had been atypically solemn on his guitar.

  Finn
egan chuckled quietly, and when I exited the closet, I found him lying on the bed, hands underneath his head, suit still on. Tie loosened, shirt untucked, shoes on the floor.

  He’d been…a bit different since his meeting with John. More introspective, yet his spirits seemed to be at their normal high setting. Every time I asked if something had happened—if something was wrong—he shook his head and hugged me close.

  “No…everything is perfect. It’s exactly how it should be.”

  “I don’t want you to go.” He sat up and motioned for me to come to him. “It’s a stupid fucking tradition that the bride and groom don’t spend the last night together.”

  His feet hit the floor by the foot of the bed, and I stepped between his legs and threaded my fingers through his hair. My overnight bag landed on the bed.

  He’d shaved yesterday, but he hadn’t lost an ounce of his chiseled looks. I found myself touching his jaw often, feeling the shadow of his dark stubble.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked softly.

  He shook his head and pressed his face to my stomach. “It’ll hit me tomorrow, I reckon.” His hands came up my thighs and snuck under my dress. “What would I do without you, Emilia?”

  “Find another butt to grope?”

  I felt his smile rather than saw it, and he pinched one of my butt cheeks.

  “Look at me,” I murmured. He looked up, resting his chin on the belt that went around my dress. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I could see he was okay. Perfectly at ease and relaxed. Yet, there was that new air around him.

  “My dreams are coming true. I’m fucking fantastic.”

  “But something did happen with John, didn’t it?” I didn’t know what to make of the Murrays. I freaking adored Alec and Nessa, and I knew both Finnegan and Patrick were close with Liam Murray. Then there were John and Anne. John had been perfectly charming and polite, his accent as noticeable as his kids’. Anne was…colder. Formal. And seemed to have very little interest in the kids she called her own.