by Cara Dee
It was a miracle she hadn’t fallen apart yesterday at the Vigil. No, instead, she’d taken care of everyone else.
“I’ll be right out,” Emilia croaked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I shook my head and tested the doorknob. Locked. Yeah, well. Returning to my side of the bed, I grabbed my wallet and picked out a credit card.
“Ness, can you go upstairs to Pat and make some cocoa for Emilia? We’re out.” It was a lie, but I wanted privacy.
“Yeah, of course,” she said, and I swiped the credit card between the door and the frame. “Or I can go to that place on the corner? It’s open around the clock, and she likes their cocoa.”
“No going out,” I reminded her softly. “Pat’s key is on the table in the entryway.”
“Okay, I’ll be back in a bit. Extra whipped cream, I remember.”
In the second attempt, I got the latch up, and I entered the bathroom, finding my girl on the floor of the shower. She was hugging her knees to her chest, a sight that broke my fucking heart.
I grabbed a big towel and headed straight for her. I shut off the water, then squatted down in front of her. “Come here, my love.” I wrapped the towel around her, and she gave up on trying to hold it together. More sobs broke free as I carried her out to the bedroom. “I’ve got you.”
“They’re not supposed to be dead,” she wept.
“I know, baby.” My eyes stung, and I sat down on the edge of our bed with her sideways across my lap. “It’s my turn to take care of you now.”
She shook her head minutely. “I’ll get better, I just—”
“Quiet, you stubborn girl.” I kissed her wet hair and yanked our duvet around her. “Have I told you how proud I am of you? How fucking honored I am to be your husband? You’ve done so much already. Now you’re gonna let me be there for you.”
My phone vibrated behind me, and I ignored it for now. Five a.m. sharp meant I was getting the report of how the night had been. With twenty men in and around this building alone, I trusted we were safe. Hell, we even had protection from the Feds at the moment, which was both a blessing and a curse. ’Cause they were protecting as much as they were watching.
The fine men in blue had lost their territory when an alleged crime boss named John Murray was kidnapped in Chicago. Now it was the FBI’s jurisdiction, and they had more files on us.
Overnight, Philly had become the seat for the Sons of Munster. Pop and I had called in every crew from Chicago, and securing this city was our main priority. We had men working all hours of the day to fish out any of the Italians and make sure we’d never be sitting ducks again.
“I wouldn’t be proud of me,” Emilia whispered tearfully. “I keep having these thoughts—about the people who did this. I want them to suffer, Finnegan.”
I hummed and kissed her hair again. “Kinda talking to the wrong man for that.”
“I’m serious.” She shivered and wiped her cheeks, and she looked at me with so much confliction. I saw the despair and the sheer hatred. “I want them dead.”
I swallowed and cradled her face, dead serious. “Don’t say that to me unless you mean it,” I whispered.
Her bottom lip quivered. “But I do mean it,” she whimpered. “I can’t help it.”
It was probably fucked up that I drew relief from her words. “Then I can be honest with you. I’m going to fucking kill them. Each and every one of them.”
“Okay,” she whispered, lowering her gaze. A fresh round of tears streamed down her cheeks. “You were planning on doing that no matter what, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
She smiled sadly and let me wipe my thumbs across her cheeks. “We’re a bunch of liars, but we love fiercely, and we’re loyal to a fault.” At my curious look, she clarified. “Your mother told me that the first time we met. Which wasn’t in church. She came here the day before.”
I got mushy, though I managed a chuckle too. My mother…Christ. “I’m gonna miss her so fucking much, princess.” I closed my eyes and rested my forehead to Emilia’s.
The hurt slashed through me, and I thanked God I had Emilia with me now. There was no way I’d pull through this with my sanity intact if she weren’t here.
In that moment, I knew I could go through pretty much anything as long as I had my wife.
Less than a week ago, I got married in this church. Now I was here to bury my mother.
I was supposed to be on my honeymoon.
I stayed numb throughout most of the service, focusing on Emilia next to me. She and Aunt Viv had done a beautiful job planning the whole thing, from the prayers yesterday at the Vigil to Ma’s favorite flowers in the church today. Emilia had chosen a great picture of my mother that stood next to the casket too, one where she flashed a mischievous smile not everyone had been privy to. It bordered on a smirk, though it was cloaked in enough softness that no one would find it inappropriate.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners.
White and purple flowers had been put together in arrangements around the altar and where the choir stood.
Ma would’ve approved of everything except for everyone in the packed church wearing black.
Father O’Malley recited the last prayer, and Emilia fidgeted nervously.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“Aunt Viv and I picked a song for when you carry out the casket,” she whispered back. “I’m afraid Shan won’t like it.”
I was sure it’d be the last thing on Pop’s mind.
“Amen,” I echoed quietly and crossed myself.
Father O’Malley paused and gestured at the front pews. “Carrying our dear Grace to her final resting place are her loving husband, three sons, brother-in-law, and nephew.”
It wasn’t the first time Kellan had been referred to as Ma’s son; she’d kinda taken him in whether he wanted it or not when his own folks ostracized him for being into dudes.
Pop, Patrick, Uncle Thomas, his kid Max, Kellan, and I rose from our seats. I dipped down and kissed Emilia’s temple, then joined the men at the casket. It wasn’t my first rodeo as a pallbearer, and it wouldn’t be my last; I wore suspenders under my suit. Because there was this one time…
Pat and I exchanged a grief-laden smile, probably thinking about the same memory.
Ma had been so fucking pissed. I didn’t remember who’d died; I wasn’t sure anyone did. On the other hand, everyone remembered the time Pat’s pants fell down.
“Waist or shoulder?” Max asked nervously.
“Shoulder. We’re Irish.” I eyed the scrawny sixteen-year-old and positioned myself behind him instead. He’d need the help, and there was no way I would agree to Colm or Conn doing this. I needed them to stay with Emilia.
As the first notes to a painfully familiar song began, not only did I understand Emilia’s trepidation, it also exhausted me emotionally. The small choir filed in, singing the opening lyrics to “The Parting Glass,” and Pop clenched his jaw and looked down.
He’d played it for Ma before he was deployed way back when they’d been newlyweds and she’d been pregnant with Patrick. Since then, it’d become a departure song in our family.
As excruciating as it was, no other song would’ve fit better, and he knew it.
On cue, the six of us lifted the heavy casket to our shoulders, and I did everything I could not to think I was carrying my dead mom.
It was made impossible by our family and friends. We walked down the aisle in measured steps, and everyone around us was crying. Seeing Aunt Viv, Alec, and Nessa probably hurt the most.
It was the only time I didn’t seek out Emilia. I was shattering enough from seeing silent tears roll down Pop’s face.
Tomorrow we’d be doing it all over again for Ian.
Halfway toward the entrance, the doors opened, and I spotted six men with bagpipes a couple seconds before they began playing.
“Jesus Christ.” Patrick sniffled and cleared his throat.
The hearse wa
ited for us outside the church, and the sun shone brilliantly, almost mocking us. Then again, my mother had never liked the rain.
With a few grunts, we slid the casket into the hearse. I kissed my fingers and placed them on the casket for a second, before the funeral director interrupted to let us know our car was ready. Against my wishes, we went separately to the cemetery. It was a ten-minute drive, just long enough to get my shit together and text Colm three times.
I was gonna have to shake the nightmares where I lost Emilia. They physically hurt, and they were turning me into an obsessing, fretting motherfucker.
“Finn.” Patrick nodded out the window on his side, and I leaned closer.
We’d reached the cemetery where the presence of the FBI was less subtle. Fewer ways for them to blend in. I spotted a handful of vans, and I doubted all the guys raking leaves were part of some maintenance service.
Today, I didn’t care. Every social gathering of our syndicate made us a target, so they could call in more Feds for all I cared.
The taxpayers were footing the bill.
The driver parked next to the hearse, and we stepped out into the sun. This part of the funeral was more work than…well, I wouldn’t call the alternative pleasure, but it was no longer about my mother. Now was when crew bosses came to pay their respects in person, shake hands, and exchange words with no one listening nearby.
Limos arrived shortly after with our immediate family as well as the higher-ups in the syndicate.
I lit up a smoke, watching Colm escort Emilia out of a car with Sarah, Aunt Viv, and the twins. Aunt Anne hadn’t even bothered trying to keep her family together, eh? It was disappointing as hell.
Patrick joined me at my side, eyeing our uncle’s wife too. “Could she at least pretend she’s worried about her husband?”
I guess not. The only defense I had for her was that I knew she hadn’t been given loyalty by Uncle John. Even so, she’d reaped the benefits of being his wife. She had a responsibility to shoulder.
We knew too little about his disappearance, leaving the whole syndicate in disorder. On the morning he was taken, our communication had failed, and it’d taken hours before we got ahold of one of his advisers who could confirm the kidnapping. A note had been sent to his office with the word Addio and Gio Avellino’s signature. My Italian was rusty at best, but I knew a final goodbye when I saw it, and if Gio thought he’d seen the last of us, he was sorely mistaken.
When everyone had arrived, we carried the casket to the O’Shea family plot. It was a fairly large section of graves, and the last two we’d buried here were my grandfather and a cousin of my father’s.
Ma wasn’t supposed to be here for another thirty or forty years.
Emilia took her spot next to me and slipped her hand into mine, and I kissed her fingers. For some confusing reason, Pop and Uncle Thomas stood to the side. I frowned at Pop; was it too much? He looked more put together now. He belonged between Pat and me.
Father O’Malley joined us. I wasn’t sure many paid attention to the final prayers. My mother wasn’t here anymore. The casket was slowly lowered into the ground, but everything felt empty. Her soul had departed already. She wouldn’t stick around for this shit.
The twenty or so of us who remained for the graveside service participated on autopilot. Aunt Viv and Uncle Thomas’s toddler was getting fussy. Even Alec and Nessa were struggling to stand still.
For the last part, Father O’Malley blessed the casket, and I reluctantly threw some dirt into the grave with the others. Pop was beyond ready to get back to his guest room at Patrick’s place. Unless he was ready to face the flat Ma had decorated for the weekends they’d stay in the city, and I didn’t think he was.
“Thank you for everything, Father.” I stepped up and shook our priest’s hand, seeing as Pop was evidently taking a back seat. “You meant a lot to her.”
“And you boys were her world, son.” He nodded at me, Pat, and Kellan. “I realize things are changing, but don’t be strangers, ya hear?” Even he knew our next step. “We stick together around here.”
“Understood, sir.” Patrick shook his hand too.
I cleared my throat, side-eying Emilia hesitantly, unsure of how to tell her—
“Oh, please.” She reached up and kissed my cheek and adjusted my tie. “I know this is where I go tend to the kids. I’ll have Colm with me.”
She just knew. I let out a chuckle in relief and hugged her to me before she trailed off with Alec and Ness.
Then it began. Only, rather than speaking to Pop, the men from Chicago paid attention to me. And it took me a minute to realize my father had positioned himself to the side on purpose. It wasn’t at all related to Ma. This was him giving me his vote.
Nerves tightened my gut, though I kept my face composed. This was what I’d worked toward, albeit under very different circumstances, and the highest seat wasn’t mine just yet.
“Again, very sorry for your loss, Finn.” Brennan, a stocky man who’d sell his daughter if someone paid enough, was part of John’s inner circle. I shook his hand and remained polite, but he’d be the first to go when the O’Sheas took over. “Your mother was an angel, then and now.”
“She was.” I nodded with a dip of my chin.
“I take it we’re proceeding soon so we can get John home?” he questioned. “If he’s still with us, God willing.”
“Once Philly’s cleared,” I confirmed.
That satisfied him, and he moved on.
Next was Joel, a guy I’d have to pay more attention to. He dealt in heroin for the most part, and Liam vouched for him. We shook hands, and he was quick to tell me he had his crew awaiting orders. Given his connections overseas, I’d keep him closer. He would be useful.
“I appreciate that,” I replied.
Another guy my cousin had vouched for was Seán, who took care of Liam’s crew while he was in prison. I’d worked with Seán a couple times, and we hung out a bit when we were younger.
“I’m sorry for your loss, mate. I’ll never forget when she chased Liam and me around as kids. We gave her too much hell.” He seemed genuinely distraught.
“The way she preferred it,” I answered. “No one shut it down like she did.”
“Aye, that’s true,” he chuckled. “I, uh—mind if I ask when we’re shaking the Feds?”
“A couple of weeks’ time,” I said. “Eric Bell will be in touch with the details, but we go underground once the city’s clear and our wives and children have gone on vacation.”
We were still crunching the numbers because we’d suddenly gone from making plans for a dozen smaller Philly crews to now including the entire SoM. Everyone would be involved in what would be the biggest disappearing act I’d heard of.
It was the only way we could ensure our safety while reclaiming the upper hand and eventually reappearing on Avellino soil with the element of surprise in our pocket.
I caught Emilia glancing over at me a few times, and I wondered what she saw.
I wanted her to see the man she’d married, the clown she sometimes called Irish boy, the musician she’d started calling Whistler.
Not the Sons of Munster’s unofficial new boss, whose first act was a declaration of war.
Finnegan and Emilia are back in This Life II
More from Cara Dee
If you enjoyed this book, you might like the following.
Path of Destruction (M/F) A gritty rock-star romance with sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, and incarceration.
Uncomplicated Choices (M/M) A sweet, funny romance that starts with a dubious kidnapping. Well, Ellis borrows a yacht and is completely unaware that Casey is asleep below deck.
Breaking Free (M/F) Tennyson Wright, a well-known director in Hollywood, gets pushed into a fake romance in order to gain publicity for his next film. His new girlfriend? The spoiled, much younger actress Sophie Pierce.
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About the Author
I’m often awkwardly silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story—while a huge draw and constantly present—is secondary for me, because there’s so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex. There’s a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly. Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance—passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions—and to let them evolve. Additionally, I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.
Wait…this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.
I'm a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, and geeking. There’s time for hockey and cupcakes, too. But mostly, I just love to write.
~Cara.
