The Monster: A Mafia Romance (Boston Belles Book 3)
The Monster: A Mafia Romance: Chapter 3

“Do not let this spin out of control,” Troy warned the following day while we were sitting in my office in Badlands, enjoying a hot toddy—heavy on the whiskey—and the blissful sound of my workers running around in the hallway, fulfilling my orders.

He rifled through the stack of call logs between Catalina and Gerald from decades ago that I handed him a few minutes before. His fingers were still tinted blue from the outdoor cold, his pale face tinged pink by Boston’s winter’s bite.

“How did you even replace this prehistoric piece of evidence?”

“I’m a very resourceful man,” I drawled.

“No shit.”

The first thing I did when I got to Boston was dig deeper into the Cat/Gerald affair and replace out more about their relationship. From the calls they’d made to each other, the two had begun bumping uglies when I was four years old and ended on the cusp of her leaving when I was nine.

It was unbelievable and yet completely logical that the first and only time Catalina had said the truth was also the time she confessed to something as appalling as an affair with the man who paid me thirty million dollars annually to make his problems go away—and to never touch his daughter.

Catalina was a fucking headache, even after her death, but Gerald was the real villain of the story because his drug wasn’t crack cocaine. It was pussy, and he should have known better.

“Remember your sister is married to Gerald’s son. We’re family.” Troy smoothed a hand over his blazer, his expression loaded with hostility. Everything about him was cocked and ready to detonate like a loaded pistol.

We sat across from each other, me and my adoptive father, looking like a mirror image of one another. Same black Armani slacks, tailor-made for our gigantic size. Same Sicilian handmade loafers. Same black dress shirt—or navy blue, or dark gray, but never white; pale colors were highly impractical when part of your job description was drawing blood by the gallons.

Even our mannerism was comparable. He had an oral fixation he soothed with a toothpick that he stuck to the side of his mouth, and I used cigarettes.

But what it boiled down to was this: Troy and I weren’t blood-related.

He had frosty, alabaster blue eyes. Mine were gray, like Brock Greystone’s.

His hair was jet-black, peppered with gray at the temples and his widow’s peak. Mine was toffee-brown.

He was pale. I was tan.

He was built like a rugby player. I was built like a rugby field.

And he was born into money, while I’d had to adapt to it.

The phrase ‘eat the rich’ always amused me. I’d learned from a young age that it is the rich who eat you. That was why people hated them so much.

If you can’t beat them, join them.

I was never going to be poor again, which was why touching Aisling Fitzpatrick was unwise. The Fitzpatricks made me richer. A whole fucking lot richer than I was when I started out with this gig, breaking legs for congressmen and stashing mistresses on exotic islands.

“This is not going to touch Sailor, Hunter, Rooney, or Xander,” I assured him, referring to my sister, her husband, and her children. I flipped my Zippo back and forth between my fingers, losing interest in the conversation.

“Hunter’s gonna blow a gasket,” Troy noted.

“Hunter’s too busy creating his own family to give a fuck about the one who turned their back on him when he was in boarding school,” I snapped, baring my teeth.

It wasn’t like the Fitzpatricks were winning any Brady Bunch awards anytime soon. If anything, they gave the Lannisters a run for their money.

“I’m not going to spare the feelings of every motherfucker I’ve ever had a beer with. Hunter’ll survive. Gerald has earned my wrath.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Gerald can get your wrath, too. I have no dog in this fight, Sam.” Troy’s nostrils flared, and I could tell he was measuring his words carefully. He’d oftentimes tried to diffuse situations I’d stormed into, mainly because he knew the potential of my exploding was high to almost fucking certain. I liked breaking things and watching them shatter. Call me nostalgic, but chaos reminded me of my childhood. And I was always ready for a bloodbath.

“I just want to make sure you don’t do anything too impulsive. I know you, son. You’ve always been trigger-happy.”

“Not as happy as I’d like to be.” I dropped the Zippo, fingering my St. Anthony charm tied to my neck by a leather string. “Which brings us to the next topic. I caught the Russians smuggling a hundred and thirty pounds of hashish into one of their delis. Whatever Vasily Mikhailov sold—and it was not fucking pastrami—he didn’t hand over a cut from the earnings.”

So I cut his face. An eye for an eye and all that.

Perhaps cutting the Bratva boss’ face wasn’t the most calculated thing I’d ever done, but it sure brought me pleasure to see him screaming in pain as he writhed beneath me.

Troy snarled. “Don’t get me started about the Russians. You had no business taking over their territory in the first place. Back to Gerald Fitzpatrick.” He spun his index finger in the air, rewinding the topic. “I want you to sit on this information until we confirm it. I know it looks bad—”

“It’s airtight,” I lashed out. “I have proof. Hard facts.” I slapped the papers between us.

Not everything Cat had said was true, but most of it was. Enough to warrant my need to wring Gerald dry. The guy murdered my baby brother. My only biological family in this world. Brock was gone. Cat was gone. I could have had something. I could have had a person to take care of.

“And still…” he slammed his fist over the desk between us “…you know something he thinks you don’t know. You have the upper hand now. Operate within the scope of your role, but don’t turn this into the Red fucking Wedding. I know you, Sam. You enjoy delivering slow deaths much more than fast killings. Torture him, but don’t finish him completely.”

He had a point. Why go to Gerald with this information and give him the opportunity to defend himself when I could milk it out of him the good old-fashioned way, by making his life a living hell?

If revenge and punishment were forms of art, my work would be all over the Louvre. I could pluck Gerald’s soul out with a fucking spoon and feast on it, all without upsetting my sister and her gigolo-looking husband.

“Fine,” I drawled, lounging lazily on my leather chair. “I suppose I could torture him a little. But I will go for the throat eventually.”

“Eventually is still at least a few months away, and I hope I can stumble across some information that will make you change your mind between now and then.” Troy stood up, buttoning his blazer, his gaze cold and yet somehow approving.

More than he hated that he’d created a monster, he loathed that he loved it.

My ruthlessness, rough edges, and appetite for blood came from him.

I surpassed him in all of the above.

Troy was an honorable mafia boss in his own backward way. He was well-versed in destruction but only inflicted it on those who had crossed him.

Me, I was corrupt to the bone. Nothing was beneath me. Well, other than rape, pedophilia, beating women and children … you know, the usual subhuman crap.

Any adult man was fair game, and if they wronged me they were done.

It gave me a certain advantage.

“You good?” He stopped by the door, frowning at me.

I lit a cigarette. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

“Cat—”

“Was, like her namesake, just another pussy. I don’t consider her death an event worth mentioning. The awful apple pie I had to endure from her nagging neighbor next door caused me more discomfort than knowing she had been left to rot in her apartment for a week before people found out.”

“Arright …” His eyes flicked to mine, still searching for a flash of emotion. “Don’t get too wild with your revenge plot against Gerald, ah? Remember, the matter is still under investigation.”

No point in mentioning I’d already dug a grave with his name on it in the forest where Troy killed Brock.

I could’ve had a brother.

I could’ve had an unconditional someone.

“Sure.” I smiled.

Sure.

Aisling

Flipping through a medical chart, I smiled tightly as my phone danced inside the front pocket of my scrubs. I ignored the vibration against my thigh.

“The tests came back, Mrs. Martinez, and I thought we could go through them together and talk about what they mean for you and what I recommend you do next.” I regarded the woman sitting in front of me in my office.

She blinked steadily, back straight, fingers laced together on my desk, bracing herself for more. Outside, snow came down in sideways sheets. You could barely make it out through the narrow, thick-glassed windows lining the walls.

I fell to the seat in front of her. My phone buzzed again.

“Well. Okay. Let’s see, shall we?” I started flipping through her charts, my eyes burning with emotion as I took in her blood tests. “What do we have here? It says here that … oh, excuse me. Just one moment.” I lifted my forefinger, plucking my phone out of my scrubs’ pocket, internally groaning. Someone better had died. My family knew not to interrupt me while I was at work.

I had three missed calls from Hunter.

One from Mother.

Worst of all, a text message from Hunter.

Years ago, when we were all still youngsters, thrown into different academic establishments and internships around the world, my two siblings and I made a pact. Since we had been raised to believe our phones might be tracked because of who we were, we couldn’t simply write something as straightforward as “Quick, there was an explosion in one of our refineries, Da’s fault.” So we decided that if something was truly urgent, we’d text each other a secret code: Clover.

An ironic take on the Irish belief that a four-leaf clover brought good luck. Hunter’s text was in all capitals.

Hunter: CLOVERCLOVERMOTHERFUCKINGCLOVERRRRRR.

“I have to take this. I’m sorry.” I shot up from my seat, hurrying out of the office, hustling onto the main clinic’s floor, my phone glued to my ear. Hunter answered before the dial tone started.

“Ash. You have to come home. It’s Da.”

“Is he okay? Is he hurt?” I sucked in a breath, realizing I was already clutching the key to my sensible Prius in my hand, leaving Mrs. Martinez and my responsibilities behind as I darted out the door.

“Physically? He is fine. For now, anyway. There’s no way of knowing what Mom is gonna do to his ass in the next few hours. Listen, Ash, there’s a scandal. Someone leaked some photos and text messages of Da with … uh …” He stopped, and I could tell he was trying to replace the right words that would inflict as little pain on me as possible.

That was Hunter. Brutally beautiful and heart-shatteringly soft.

“Just spit it out, Hunt. I know Mom and Dad aren’t giving Romeo and Juliet a run for their money. I’ve lived under their roof my whole life, for goodness’ sake.” I slipped into my car, flooring it on my way to Avebury Court Manor. “What’d he do?”

“It’s a sex scandal,” he blurted out. “Not shocking, I know, but this time there are some pretty graphic pictures on the internet. Da called me as soon as they surfaced. Devon is working to take them down as we speak.”

Devon Whitehall was the family lawyer and one of my father’s closest allies. A British aristocrat with a mysterious past. Hunter, the natural-born charmer among us three, was in charge of everything PR and media related at Royal Pipelines, my family’s oil company. It made sense he was the first phone call Da made.

“Wow.” I tried to disguise the hurt in my voice, mainly because I knew I wasn’t the one who should be hurt. Mother was the wronged one. My eyes burned with unshed tears.

Merde, Mother is going to have a heart attack.

“That’s … ironic,” I managed to cough out.

“Ya think?” Hunter deadpanned, snorting.

Once upon a very long time, Da or Athair (meaning father in Gaelic), as we children referred to him, had dragged Hunter from his school in California all the way back to Boston because a sex tape of Hunter had hit the internet. It made the rounds and provided some very unfavorable headlines for the family. Athair went to extreme lengths to punish Hunter for the national embarrassment he’d caused the Fitzpatrick clan. So this was definitely irony at its best … and worst.

Not that we didn’t know my father cheated on my mother, but he always kept it under wraps and never, ever let it leak. He had the reputation of a flawless family man, and whoever managed to bring him down must be gloating right now.

“Where are you? How is Mother?” I took sharp turns and stole yellow lights whenever I could, ignoring the persistent snowflakes falling down from the sky as I zipped my way through the Back Bay.

“I’m just getting into Avebury Court right now. Sail and the kids are with me. Cillian, Persy, and Sam are already there. Mom is …” Hunter paused, drawing a breath. “I don’t know how she is, Ash. She hasn’t picked up the phone. Hurry. You’re the only one who could ever get through to her.”

I’m the only who makes the effort, I thought bitterly.

“All right, love you.”

“Love you, too, sis.”

With that, he hung up.

My knee bounced against the steering wheel the entire drive home.

Mother. Fragile, vulnerable Jane Fitzpatrick.

Who drowned her sorrow in shopping sprees, cried every time I opted to go out with friends and not stay with her, and always had a ready-made request on the tip of her lips to make me serve her in some way.

Growing up, I’d thought I was just like her.

Meek, shy, and elegant. I’d tried so hard to become what people expected me to be. The fragileness of Jane Fitzpatrick, from her bony structure to her dainty beauty, drew a lot of admirers and the envy and ire of women over the years. But as time passed, I realized I was stronger than my mother, much stronger, and more independent, too.

Which implied I looked like my mom but had the same characteristics as my dad.

That was something I was too grossed out to explore right this moment.

Jane Fitzpatrick slipped in and out of depression like it was her favorite gown, and my father, although he was now retired and dabbled with the family business only a couple hours a day, did very little to try to help her.

Which was why I’d decided to stay at home as long as I could before I’d eventually get married and start my own family.

People always silently judged me for my decision to remain home.

They always assumed I stayed because I wanted to be coddled.

No one had suspected I stayed because I was the one doing the coddling.

But I did just that, flipping the tables and becoming her parent. Her first real depression happened when I was eighteen; I hadn’t slept, spending all my time filling her baths, brushing her hair, giving her daily pep talks, and taking her to doctors.

Since then, I’d helped nurse her through her ups and downs three more times. So having my father so carelessly ruin all my work felt like a stab in the back.

I parked in front of the house with a screech then threw the double doors to our mansion open, ignoring the pitter-patter of my heart at the sight of Sam’s Porsche, which was parked next to Cillian’s Aston Martin and Hunter’s G-Class Mercedes.

Finding everyone was hardly a task. I followed the shrieks and hysterical cries of my mother, all the way from the foyer to the second dining room. Her wails bounced across the high ceilings, ricocheting against marble statues and family paintings.

I came to a halt when I reached the dining area. Mother and Athair were standing at the center, the gardens and heavy burgundy drapes their backdrop as they engaged in a screaming match from Hell.

Mother was so red I thought she was going to explode. Da tried the inconsistent method of apologizing profusely one moment and heatedly defending himself the next. Behind them, I spotted Cillian sneering down at them distastefully, one of his arms draped tenderly over his fair-haired wife, Persephone, who held their son, Astor, close to her chest.

Hunter, Sailor, and their children were there, too. Standing at a safe distance in case Mother started throwing sharp objects, which wasn’t unlikely.

Cillian snapped his fingers once, and two maids rushed inside, wordlessly scooping up the toddlers, who had no business seeing their grandparents like this.

Devon, our family lawyer, was not in the room. I could see him behind the French doors leading to the gardens, talking heatedly on the phone, trying to defuse the situation with the media, no doubt. His footsteps dented the otherwise pristine, untouched snow.

Then there was Sam. He lounged against the wall in the corner of the room, his fists shoved into the pockets of his slacks, a slight, cunning smirk on his lips, all devastating beauty and casual destruction.

I squared my shoulders, feeling my nostrils flare with fresh hot anger.

It had been a week since I’d seen Sam. Since we shared a romp. Since I convinced myself I could worm my way into his heart.

The next day, I’d come to his club, just like we’d arranged, only to replace out he was out of the state.

“Sorry, love, but Boss is on more important business than a casual fuck. Guess your two minutes of being Brennan’s mistress are up,” one of his soldiers had said as he laughed in my face when I demanded to go inside.

My ears pinked in shame when I thought about that night. Sam hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone and make a call. Text me. Anything to let me know that our plans had changed.

Time had grown thick and sticky since I’d last seen him, each minute lasting forever, like it had moved against a current. Now that he was in front of me, and I couldn’t even give him the scolding he deserved because we were in my family’s company.

My eyes shifted from Sam back to my parents.

“No one asked you to be faithful, Gerald!” Mother flung her arms in the air, exclaiming loudly. “That would be too much for you, wouldn’t it, dear? But why couldn’t you be discreet about it? How much do you think I can tolerate? I am a walking, talking joke! Look at these pictures. Just look at them!” My mother tossed a newspaper in the air, slapping it against my father’s meaty chest.

From my spot by the door, I could see it was a picture of my father titty-grabbing a busty blonde who was giggling at the camera. It was obvious he was butt naked as was she. She was sitting in his lap, and it was also obvious that they were doing it.

“To make matters worse, she is twenty-five! Younger than your own daughter. What were you thinking? Aisling, there you are!” Mother turned to look at me, momentarily forgetting she was in the middle of publicly humiliating my father. “Be a darling and ask someone to give me my special tea with honey and ginger and see to it that my hot bath will be ready soon.”

Everyone’s eyes turned in my direction, surprised and puzzled that I’d been asked to do the task of a butler’s. They shouldn’t be. If they looked closely, they’d see I’d been the help in this house all along.

“Of course, Mother.” I smiled tightly, gliding out of the room with as much elegance and nonchalance that I could muster, delivering requests to the maids to ensure she would be taken care of while I was gone. I returned back to the dining hall just in time to see Mother throwing her wedding band at my father.

Deciding he’d had his fair share of dark entertainment for one evening, Cillian stepped between them.

“Enough. Who do you think could’ve leaked this?” Cillian demanded. “It’s not the woman in the pictures. She is married now, with a child on the way, and is horrified by this coming out. Hunter spoke to her earlier. She claims someone hacked into her old phone and stole the images illegally.”

“And by her hiccups and hysterical crying, she said the truth, too,” Hunter added from the corner of the room.

“I’ll bet! I never would’ve given her the time of the day otherwise! I’ve been careful. I swear.” Athair shook his fist in the air, his chin wobbling in unison. “This is a setup. You know I’d never do you wrong, Jane my dear.”

My mother took another step back from my father, staring at him like he was a complete stranger. Her striking beauty highlighted how tragically lacking he was in the looks department.

Gerald Fitzpatrick’s skin was pasty, splotchy, and marred pink. He was a heavy man with beady black eyes and thinning white hair.

All of us siblings looked like variations of our mother, despite having different coloring, with Hunter being the most aesthetically pleasing out of us.

“Shut up,” Cillian barked at Da, scanning the room impatiently. “Any idea who could have done this?”

“If we start counting our enemies, we won’t leave here until next year, and we have a vacation booked in the Maldives next summer.” Hunter checked his Rolex, cocking a sarcastic brow.

“I’ll take care of this.” Sam stepped forward to the center of the room.

He clapped a hand over my father’s shoulder. “Come on, Gerry. Let’s get to the bottom of this mess. Privacy, please.” He snapped his fingers in our general direction, signaling all of us to go out. “Jane, you too.”

Everyone trickled out of the room slowly. Everyone other than Mother. I had to take her hand and yank her out while she protested with huffs and puffs.

“It’s not fair! I want to know what they are saying.” She clutched my arm a bit too tightly as I steered her toward the kitchen, where the servants could watch her. “Oh, Aisling, be a darling and go eavesdrop on them. You know I’m no good at not being seen. You can slip in undetected, I am sure.”

“Mother,” I groaned, feeling a looming headache blossoming behind my eyes. “Brennan wanted them to have privacy.”

“Brennan is a brute and a beast. Who cares what he wants?”

She had a point, and I was feeling especially inclined to ignore any instructions Sam had given me after the past week.

I took the bait.

After wrapping Mother’s bony fingers around a steaming cup of tea in the kitchen and asking one of the housekeepers to keep an eye on her, I discreetly slipped into the adjoined sunroom to investigate what Sam and Da were talking about.

The voices from the dining room could carry to the sunroom easily; years of listening to my brothers and father drinking port and discussing business and women crassly had taught me that.

I pressed my ear to the wall, listening intently.

“Let’s take it a step back. Tell me about your former lovers, any potential bastard children who might be lurking around looking for a nice check.” Sam’s voice was smooth and hard as marble behind the oak doors.

“Jesus Christ, Brennan, talk about a loaded question. Well, in the last decade, I had Bonnie, Sheila, Christie, Ulrika, Ruthie—”

“Start with the first year of your marriage and move your way up,” Sam cut him off briskly. “We need to be thorough.”

“That could take days!” my father protested.

There was a black hole in the pit of my stomach, and it was full of dark feelings. The extent of the betrayal robbed me off my breath. He was so careless. So selfish …

I heard something snap, and when I looked down, I realized I dug my fingernail so deep into my palm, it broke.

I always knew both of my parents enjoyed the odd affair—but this was too much. I felt dirty sharing my DNA with the man.

“Days,” Sam mumbled impatiently, just as disgusted as I was. As if he had a right. As if he wasn’t known for his conquests between the sheets. “Fucking charming. Let’s try to narrow it down. Think of someone with the potential to seek revenge. Anyone you knocked up? Someone you might have hurt personally? Those would be the people most likely to dig through the dirt and harm you. No one wants to come out as the mistress, but people will have no qualms compromising someone else to take you down. It’s possible one of your other mistresses hacked into your latest one’s cloud to shed light as to what she considers foul play on your end.”

“I don’t do foul play,” Da roared, his face rattling the leaves on the plants in the sunroom. “I take care of my mistresses and provide them with money and jewelry and expensive cars.”

I felt lightheaded. No wonder my mother was so messed up. This man was inhumane. He treated women like prized horses. And growing up he was the person I looked to for compassion.

“I’m sure you make them feel like fucking rock stars, Gerry. But accidents happen, and you’re a virile man. Any chance you have any bastards lying around? Maybe women who had to get hush-hush abortions?”

Sam always called my dad Gerry. He was the only person to do so. Despite and especially because it drove Da mad.

“No. No bastard children. And I’m not that virile. As you are well aware, not all of my children are biologically mine.”

I winced, knowing exactly who he was referring to and blocking this piece of information from my consciousness. To me that person was still my beloved brother. But it was an important reminder Mother, too, dabbled in romancing people outside her marriage—and was less than discreet about it.

“You’re not really giving me much to work with here,” Sam growled. Something about the way he said that, with a tang of obvious frustration, made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

True, Sam was hotheaded, but he was also pragmatic. Detached and cold when it came to business. He was only explosive and unpredictable when it came to his personal life. Like when Sparrow or Sailor was in trouble or he and Troy had disagreements.

“Make me a fucking list, Gerry. Of every single woman you stuck your dick into. If I can’t be thorough, I can’t be helpful. No use in paying me a small fortune for sitting around and babysitting your two fully grown sons.”

“I’m also paying you to keep away from my daughter,” my father reminded him. I winced, pressing my ear harder against the door.

“Yeah.” Sam chuckled. “Some challenge that is. Make the list.” He rapped his knuckles against the dining table.

I knew the conversation was over, so I scurried out of the sunroom as quietly as possible, hurrying toward the kitchen to Mother to fill her in on their conversation.

I crashed headfirst into a wall.

No, not a wall. Worse. Sam’s granite chest.

“Ow.” I scowled, stumbling back as I rubbed at my forehead.

Turning around to make a beeline in the other direction and avoid Sam, I got snatched right back to his side. Sam, with his killer instincts, caught me by the hem of my blue scrubs and pulled me into an alcove between the dining room and the sunroom, his smoky, minty breath colliding with my face. Hot and fresh and intoxicatingly sexy.

“If it isn’t my favorite tight hole. Been eavesdropping, Nix?”

His casual sexism would have fazed me had I not known it was a front. I’d seen Sam handling his sister and adoptive mother and knew that for all his crass words, he was capable of adoring women.

There was little point in denying the allegation, especially since we got out of the adjoining rooms at the same time. I tilted my nose up and squeezed my shoulder blades together, like she had taught me, her French accent reminding me inwardly, Better die on your feet than live on your knees. Show courage, mon cheri!

“It’s my house, Brennan. I can do whatever I want, including, but not limited to, spending time in my sunroom.”

“You are many things, Aisling, including the daughter of two of the most pathetic creatures I’ve ever encountered and a champagne socialist, but you are no idiot. So don’t act like one. What were you doing in there?”

If he wanted me to bring up the fact he stood me up, tell him how much it hurt me, he had another thing coming.

I was in love, not a doormat. There was still a slight distinction between the two.

“Admiring the plants.” I smiled sweetly.

“Bullshit.”

“Prove it.”

He scowled at me. We both knew he couldn’t.

“Well, then. Nice talk, Brennan. Are you done now?” I brushed his touch off, sneering at him like my mother would at the help.

“Not quite,” he answered, mimicking my upper-class drawl, the one my mother had taught me to use whenever we were in well-bred company. “I’m glad I caught you here. I have an update about our situation.”

“Our situation?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Our fucking arrangement,” he spat out, exposing his white fangs with an unpleasant chilling smile. “It’s canceled. I’m not interested anymore. You were a great sport. Five out of five stars. Would highly recommend. Unfortunately, I have some pressing issues right now and no time for complicated pussy.”

The crassness of his words almost robbed me of my breath. How dare he? How dare he try to hurt and belittle me every step of the way, when I hadn’t done anything remotely unfair to him the entire decade we’d known each other?

All I did was seek his company, be nice to him, and give him myself on his terms. And each time, he found new and creative ways to show me that he wasn’t interested, and the one time that he was interested, he deemed it a lapse in judgment.

I smiled a chilly, unfriendly smile that made my bones go cold.

“We had plans together? Sorry, I don’t recall. Either way, thanks for giving me an update about a date I had no plan attending. Now, don’t you have to go do some work for my father?” I tapped my chin. Behind his hard gaze, I could tell he was mildly confused by the brand-new backbone I’d decided to exhibit.

“Chop chop now!” I clapped my hands, my tone a cheery singsong. “As you pointed out earlier, my father pays you a small fortune, and not for your intellectual skills—which, by the way, I replace lacking. Let us know when you have more information for us about the leaker.” I turned around and walked briskly, leaving him in the foyer without as much as a second glance.

I went to the kitchen, scooped my mother up like she was no more than a child, and took her to her room, where a hot bath had been waiting for her. I washed her hair, telling her all the things she wanted to hear.

That she was pretty, and loved, and powerful. That my father would crawl back with jewelry, vintage bags, and vacations. That if she wanted to, she could push him around with some legal papers that would scare the bejesus out of him.

“Oh, Aisling, I won’t be able to sleep at all tonight. Mind stroking my hair until I do?” Mother moaned, when after hours of tending to her, I’d said I needed to hop into the shower.

I smiled tightly, sitting myself back on the edge of her bed. “Yes. Of course.”

I stroked her hair for hours. When she finally fell asleep—by that time, my fingers were numb—I retired to my own room, took a quick shower, slipped into my bed, and started crying.

Crying for Mom, for all the suffering she had to endure in her marriage.

Crying for Mrs. Martinez, whom I’d left in the middle of an important meeting to try to extinguish another Fitzpatrick fire created by my selfish, self-centered parents.

And crying for myself, because I wasn’t like my brothers or their wives.

I didn’t have my happily-ever-after. My destiny was to fall in love with the monster in my story, the character most likely to be slain.

But most of all, I cried because of Sam.

Because he was the only man who could break my heart.

And because he chose to do it. Often.