“It’s been three years of fighting, Paddy. Did you really think they were going to just give up that easily?” I ask over my shoulder from the opposite side of the bar, tipping up the mouth of the bottle so I don’t spill a drop of my favorite Irish whiskey.

  “Of course not, but I’m really fecking tired of getting shot.”

  “Stop being such a pussy,” Nathan snipes from the overstuffed sofa. He takes a sip of the drink he’d poured himself.

  Paddy sends him a rude gesture, hisses in pain, and curses again. The doctor doesn’t even pause in his ministrations. I finish filling my own rocks glass, glance over at the doc as he places the first stitch in the wound, and join Nathan.

  I collapse in an exhausted heap next to him—careful not to spill my drink—and tip my head back. My eyes close on a deep sigh. Tonight has been a rough one. We went on yet another raid in Polish territory, searching for the women they’ve trafficked, but the bastards had been waiting for us. We had a single casualty, and Paddy had been shot. Thankfully, it’s a superficial wound, but still, it makes me nervous they got so close.

  “Has anyone talked to Da?” I ask and raise my head for a long swallow. The fire of the whiskey burns my throat and settles with a warm heat in the pit of my stomach.

  Nathan nods solemnly. “I called him on the way home. Gave him a status update. He’s going to notify Niall’s wife.”

  I’ve lost count of the number of my father’s—formerly my grandfather’s—men the Polish have killed since our war with them began three years ago. The only consolation is we’ve taken out just as many, if not more, of them.

  It’s moments like these—when I want to forget about the death and fighting—that the taste of buttercream frosting and the faint scent of lemons tease my memory. I clutch the glass tighter, my nails turning white from the pressure, and attempt to ignore the lingering sensation of soft curves beneath my fingertips. I force my grip to loosen.

  I do my best to push it all away. No matter how many attempts I make, I can never quite let go of the vision of her sad brown eyes.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The bellowed curse brings me back to the present.

  “Keep antibacterial ointment on the incision and make sure the bandage stays dry. I’ll leave you extras and be back in a week to remove the stitches,” the doctor instructs as he packs up the remaining items and stows them in his black bag. He disposes of all the bloodied waste in a special red bag and leaves it on top of the bar. We know what to do with it. Nathan rises from his seat to escort the man to the front door.

  “Thank you, Dr. Byrne,” I tell him before they walk out of the den.

  Paddy gets up off the stool, grabs the bag, and tosses it onto the floor in the corner to get rid of later. Then, he snatches up the second drink Nathan had poured him before the doctor began working, throws it back in a single swallow, and refills it once more. He crosses to the overstuffed chair near where I sit and drops into it.

  Nathan returns, and again settles on the other end of the couch. None of us speak for several minutes. We nurse our drinks instead. It’s always like this after we come back from a fight. Especially if we lose someone. I hate the silence, but force myself not to fill it. At least until I can’t take the heaviness of it any longer.

  “Do you think Grand-da is rolling in his grave that we’ve spent this many years trying to rescue women from the Polish?” I ask.

  “Nah. He’s too busy causing trouble down in hell to pay attention to what we’re doing up here,” Nathan answers. “Although it does give me a certain sense of satisfaction knowing that he would be furious. His face always turned beet red when he got pissed.”

  Paddy snorts, and I chuckle. He isn’t wrong. Grand-da had been a hateful old man.

  “And that vein throbbed at his temple,” Padraig adds, raising his glass-holding hand and pointing at the spot on his own head. “It’s no wonder the bastard had a stroke.”

  There are times I feel guilty for being glad he’s dead and buried, but they’re few and far between. Our father is a much better leader. He’s fair and well-liked. He may not be as ruthless as Grand-da was, but he’s just as smart.

  “How did they know we were coming?” I ask.

  Nathan lifts a shoulder. “Probably the same way we occasionally know their plans. They paid someone for the information.”

  I pause, my glass hovering in front of my lips, before I lower it slightly. “Do you think we have a traitor?”

  “While it’s always possible, I don’t think so,” Paddy says with a shake of his head. “There hasn’t been any indication that someone is selling our secrets. I think it was just bad fecking luck tonight.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “We’ll just have to wait it out a bit and try again. Casimir Wójcik will make a mistake sooner or later. When he does, we’ll be ready,” I vow.

  “Ready for what?” a feminine voice rings out, and all three of us whip our heads in its direction.

  Nathan and I groan in unison. Paddy, on the other hand, curses. “For Christ’s sake, Caitlín. How did you get in here?”

  Our sister stands in the doorway of the den with a smirk on her face and hands on her hips. She raises one of them. Keys dangle from her fingertips. Who the hell gave those to her?

  Caitlín strides fully into the room, her gaze taking us all in. “I volunteered to come and make sure you guys were still alive. Mother was worried,” she answers.

  I plan on having a word with our dear sweet mother the next time I see her.

  “As you can tell, we’re fine.” I get to my feet and hold out my hand, gesturing for her to give the keys to me.

  Completely ignoring me, Caitlín pockets them instead and plops down in the chair next to Paddy. Before he can stop her, she pokes his bandaged wound. He jerks his arm out of her range with a hiss and glares at her. “The fuck?”

  “Doesn’t look like everyone’s fine,” she says with a smug expression.

  Our sister is many things, but altruistic isn’t one of them. She loves us, but coming all this way just to make sure we’re okay? I don’t buy it.

  “Why are you really here, Caitlín?” I bite out, taking my seat again. All I wanted to do is finish my drink in peace and crawl into bed.

  “Fine,” she huffs and then leans forward on her forearms to stare at me. “I want to go with you on your next raid.”

  “Not happening,” I say, shaking my head, while my brothers curse.

  Caitlín straightens in her chair. “Jack—”

  “No,” I snap, my voice echoing sharply throughout the room, and slam my glass on the coffee table. “A man died and your brother was shot tonight. You’re an eighteen-year-old girl, not a soldier. It’s not going to happen. Not now. Not ever. I’m not arguing with you about this.”

  Feeling far older than my thirty years, I walk heavily out of the room, ignoring Caitlín’s sputtered protests. I’ll let her argue with Paddy and Nathan, both of whom have raised their voices, but which soon fade to nothing as I make my way through the main living area and up the stairs to my second-floor bedroom.

  I close the door with a soft snick and heavy sigh and lean against it for several minutes with my eyes closed. Finally, I move sluggishly across the room, into the attached bath, peel off my dried blood-spattered clothes, and toss them into the basket in the corner. Standing only in my boxer briefs, I lean onto my palms on the countertop and stare at my reflection.

  Several round, flat scars dot my flesh, including one on each arm and two along my torso. Being a member of Brooklyn’s Irish mob comes with its dangers. I learned to accept that over ten years ago—the first time I’d taken a bullet. There’s nothing soft about this life.

  I remember Aisling being soft. Sometimes, I wish for that. For softness. For the comfort of someone when I come home from nights like this. When I’m feeling weary. Tired of fighting a seemingly endless war. Even if it’s for a good cause.

  Cursing myself for my fanciful thinking, I head back into the bedroom, flipping the light off behind me. My bed beckons, and I crawl beneath the thick, winter duvet. I fold my hands under my head and stare at the ceiling, replaying the raid over and over again. What went wrong?

  No answers come to me. Instead, I reach over to the nightstand and click off the bedside lamp bringing darkness. Only a pale sliver of light manages its way between the crack in the shutters. I stare at it for several beats before flopping onto my side, praying for a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Aurora

  * * *

  I suck in a pained breath and squeeze my eyes tightly closed. Tears escape despite my best effort to hold them inside. This is the worst it’s ever been. I’m not sure how much more I’ll survive. My grip around the vanity chair I’m straddling tightens, and I press my cheek harder against the solid wood frame. The pain in my face is a distraction from the agony of my back.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the housekeeper says as she gently washes away the warm blood dripping down my skin.

  Irene has said ‘sorry’ countless times over the last three years. It’s useless. A mere platitude. I want to tell her not to apologize anymore, but the words get stuck in my throat. More often than not, it’s better for me to say nothing at all. One of the many lessons I’ve learned the hard way.

  The silence grows, broken only by the occasional catches of my breath, until at last, Irene finishes cleaning and bandaging my wounds. The adhesive pulls my skin, but I won’t complain. It’s the least of my pains.

  I stand, gingerly, and make my way to the closet to find a clean shirt—one that buttons down the front. I’ll have to go without a bra, again. My fingers trace across the fabric of each piece of clothing lining the wall of the large walk-in closet, until I pause. “This one will do.”

  Irene pulls it from the hanger and helps me slide into it. Each movement makes me grit my teeth. My jaw clenches against the shooting pain in my back.

  All my clothes are in shades of gray or black, as though I’m in mourning, which is fitting. I’ve been in a constant state of grief for so long, I can barely remember any other emotion. Except once in a while, in those quiet moments, right before sleep claims me. Then, they sneak up and cause my heart to pinch with regret. The feel of strong hands lightly gripping my waist. The scent of earthy cologne. I should have enjoyed the fleeting kiss more.

  Far too often, reality intrudes, though, leaving my throat thick with unshed tears.

  “Thank you, Irene. I believe I’m going to rest for a bit,” I tell her, trying not to appear impatient to be alone. A state I’ve become quite used to. Except when he comes to visit.

  She dips her head, unable to hide the pitying expression that never seems to leave her face, and walks out of my bedroom. The second the door closes behind her, my body sags. It’s exhausting trying to maintain a composed façade.

  This is all your fault, the hated voice whispers with malice in my ear. I’ve almost started to believe it.

  My cell phone rings, and I flinch. Nervous flutters invade my belly. Only one person ever calls. The one person I want to talk to more than anybody. Except, it hurts every time she does. I pick it up off my nightstand, clear my throat, and swallow before answering. “Hello.”

  “Aurora, my love, how are you?” Lucia asks.

  The truth is a bitter flavor on my tongue. Lies flow more smoothly. “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Staying busy at the museum. We recently got in a few new Roman artifacts from one of the latest archeology digs out in North Yorkshire. The finds have been some of the best we’ve seen in years. Most of it seems to be grooming items, like combs with mostly missing teeth and even what looks to be part of a bronze razor. I’ve been cataloging each of the pieces as they come in and working on ideas for the display to showcase them. Although, we’re still a ways off from that.” Lucia pauses. “Sorry, I get a little excited and forget that most people are only politely interested in what I do.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I love how passionate you are about your work. I’m glad you’re doing something you enjoy so much.” I really am, even if I’m also insanely envious.

  She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You know, you haven’t answered the last few times I’ve called. Are you sure everything is okay?” Lucia asks quietly.

  I lower myself to the corner of the bed. I want to confide in her. To spill all the gory details. To ask for help. I don’t dare, though. It’ll only make him furious, and I’ll pay the price. Besides, there’s nothing she can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.

  “Why wouldn’t it be? Now, was there something else you needed?” I quickly change the subject, wincing at how rude the question comes out. I pray Lucia doesn’t press the issue. She sighs on the other end.

  “I called to see if you and Alessandro were going to the christening on Saturday?” she finally asks.

  Of course we will be, if for no other reason than for him to continue trying to ingratiate himself to Mr. Ricci. Alessandro is nothing if not a sycophant.

  “Yes, we’ll be there.”

  “Good,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”

  I close my eyes, and a vise tightens around my heart. I swallow hard and open them again. “I miss you, too.” More than I thought possible.

  “I’m worried about you,” Lucia admits. “You don’t sound like the Aurora I know. And haven’t for a long time. I hate that I’m not there and only get to see you at family occasions.”

  “Everything’s fine. No need to worry.” I try to invoke a smile in my tone, but when you’re miserable and have forgotten how, it’s nearly impossible.

  “Aurora…”

  “Please, Lucia,” I nearly beg, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll let it go.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “For now,” she adds. “I’m flying into JFK on Thursday morning, and my girlfriend is picking me up. But once I’m settled into my hotel, you and I are going to meet for coffee and talk. No excuses. Understand?”

  That gives me two days to pull myself together. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “None of that ma’am bullshit, Aurora. I may be your aunt, but I’m only eight years older than you. Don’t put me in the octogenarian crowd just yet,” Lucia groans.

  I can’t help but huff out a short chuckle. She always gets snippy when I act like she’s far older than her thirty-one years. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “All right, I’ll stop pestering you, but don’t forget. We’re going to have a long discussion on Thursday. I’ll text you when I get in town and we’ll figure out where to go then,” she states. “I love you. You know that, right?”

  “I know. I love you, too,” I tell her softly and disconnect the call.

  Once again, I deflate, my whole body sagging. I set my phone back on the nightstand and fold my hands in my lap. Lucia is tenacious. She also knows me better than anyone. I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep my secrets from her.

  Tears drip off my chin, and I reach up to wipe the useless things away. This is my life, such that it is. I gently lower myself onto my side, careful not to jostle my body too hard or fast, and pillow my hands under my cheek. My eyes close. A full picture forms behind them. Shaggy, brown hair with just the slightest hint of red brought out by the sun shining down on it. A flirtatious smile only eclipsed by the brightest blue eyes.

  Jack Donnelly.

  I can still hear his voice if I concentrate. The smooth seductiveness of it. I touch my fingertips to my lips as if to hold on to the feeling of his against them. I wince, remembering how I left him. Bowled over in pain. It had been a reflex. A jerk reaction. I hadn’t meant to hurt him. He probably hates me.

  A self-deprecating laugh spills from my lips. Jack probably doesn’t even remember who I am. I’m sure I was nothing more than another woman he tried to charm. He no doubt forgot about me once he recovered. I only wish I could forget him. He was the last good thing that happened to me before Alessandro.

  Hatred fills every inch of my heart. My devoutly Catholic mother is probably rolling in her grave that I have so much hatred for another person. She’s, no doubt, tossing and turning with despair, fearful for my eternal soul, that I’m bound for hell. Maybe I am. But every day, I pray that Alessandro gets there long before I do.

  Chapter 4

  Jack

  * * *

  For at least the tenth time, I tug at the tie wrapped around my collar like it’s a noose and roll my neck trying to loosen the damn thing. Previously, I thought these monkey suits were only meant for weddings and funerals. But apparently, they’re also meant for christenings.

  I take a final glance at my reflection and adjust the damn thing one more time before turning away. It’s time to go, so I hope Paddy and Nathan are ready. Brenna will kill us if we show up late. I jog down the stairs to find both my brothers standing in the living room.

  “Finally,” Padraig complains, looking down at his watch.

  I give him the finger and snatch my keys off the side table at the entrance to the hallway. They follow me as I head down the narrow passage and out the front door. I climb behind the steering wheel while the two of them argue like a couple of teenage boys over who gets to sit in the front. Nathan wins and slides in next to me. Paddy flops in behind us and glares. I roll my eyes and pull away from the curb.

  “Can you believe we’re uncles again?” Nathan muses, shaking his head with a look of wonder on his face.

  “Two kids under the age of three? No fecking thank you,” Paddy says. “Although I’ve never seen our sister happier.”

  It’s true. Brenna and Emilio’s marriage had started out as an alliance between our two families, something neither was happy about. But it’s hard not to love Brenna. Emilio never stood a chance.

  Before long, I pull up to the Ricci family church. The last time I stepped foot in this place was for Saoirse’s christening. As with then, cars fill the parking lot, and people walk across the cement and disappear into the Neo-Gothic building. I’m slowly driving down an aisle, looking for an empty parking spot, and do a double-take.