Broken Blood Ties

1. Kieran

Chapter 1

Kieran

Present Day

B lood speckles my shoes. Not the vivid, bright kind that indicates life, but the dark currant red that leaches from the many stab wounds inflicted on the man in front of me.

He lets out a moan of agony. It echoes along the sea of rusted metal lockers lining the storage room floor, and I roll my eyes. Gallons of cleaner, some tipped over and leaking, offer an almost unbearable chemical smell, but it’s not enough to mask the scent of piss and sweat fuming from the man strapped in the chair. Frankly, I’d say he’s being a bit dramatic.

Finn moves to the side, backing away from the cut I swipe across the man’s thigh. Blood splatters against the wall, and another hiss turns into a sob, rattling from his congested chest.

“Please. Just kill me,” the man pleads.

I grin. “Oh, I plan on it, lad. I just need a wee bit of information first.”

Finn startles into a rolling mop bucket that looks like it may have been yellow at one point, and the stiff, crusted mop sitting with it topples to the floor.

I glare at him. He’s young and a novice, but he was also the one who discovered this weasel in my bar tonight with an unwilling companion.

“Did ye think ye could grope an underage lass in me bar and get away it?”

Technically, I own over ten bars across Boston, but O’Brien’s—it’s where I house my operations. It’s also where my office is. So when Finn knocked on my door this evening at 10:00 p.m. telling me some man was flaunting a petrified sixteen-year-old girl—well, we’re going to sort it out.

“I figured I was safe here, man. The Italians usually don’t care.”

I spit, the wad landing on the man’s lap with a plop. “Aye, but we aren’t the bloody Italians, are we?”

The Italians here aren’t Cosa Nostra, not anymore. Currently, the Cosa Nostra operates out of New York City. Allied with the Bratva for several years, both organizations stay out of our city. That didn’t stop the few opposed to the alliance from seeking to establish here.

Marco. He was the most vocal about the alliance and has since relocated his group—to my city. Yes, while we share the heart of Boston with some of the Japanese Yakuza, we’re the largest force established here. Their leaders know better than to mess with me.

Our numbers aren’t anywhere near the Bratva, though. Which is why Marco and his men have secured their modest slice of my city. Some disgusting practices from a secret society have infiltrated his men here, and the scum in this town gravitate toward it, feed off it.

So no, we aren’t them. We’re the bloody Irish Mob.

Funny, I knew I’d grow up to be the leader after my Da, but I’m not sure any amount of training prepares you for the calculated menace coupled with an almost business-like efficiency. Deals aren’t struck; they’re dictated. There are no bribes or suggestions; only transactions with invisible strings and arse kissing tighter than any contract. Manipulation isn’t boisterous; it’s subtle. Weaknesses, debts, dreams, money—each holds power.

I enjoyed my role until about four years ago, when it all shifted.

I raise my fist to the man and rip across his face. More blood sloshes from his nose.

This isn’t like me. Dragging out a man’s torture isn’t my style, and I rarely have cause for it. But tonight, I see red.

When I left my office to find out for myself what Finn was going on about, all I could think was, what if this was Aoife in another twelve years? There’d be no mercy.

A fist pounds the supply room door.

“What?” I call out.

“We’re down a fighter for tomorrow, Boss. Cormac told me to come tell ye.”

“I’m busy.” I let the tip of my blade hover right above the man’s crotch. His whole lap trembles, the dark wash of his jeans stained with sweat.

I’m about to tell Callum, who so rudely interrupted me, to bug off when I glance back at the man in the chair. Yes, that’s the perfect solution.

“Cal. Tell Cormac I have a stand-in for tomorrow night.”

The two taps on the door mean he’s heard me, and I move in front of the man. My shadow blocks the light from the hanging pendant overhead and it darkens the man’s face, but I don’t miss the terror in his expression when I tell him. “Aye, lad. Ye’re going to be the star of the show.”

He trembles while Callum comes in to haul him up and escort our newest guest underground while I get Finn to clean up the supply closet I ruined.

Cormac is waiting for me when I exit. “Probably not the best idea with it being a full house tonight?”

Raised voices grow louder as we move back toward the packed bar. A group of Celtics fans shout at the numerous TVs playing the basketball game. No matter where you’re seated in the bar, you can see it. Cormac made sure of that. I never cared too much for the sport myself.

Glasses clink and growlers of beer plop against the wooden tabletops—all signs the bar is packed tonight. When I finally turn the corner from the back, it’s confirmed.

Patrons have commandeered all the seating along the sprawling walnut bar while more people push into the spaces between the high-back barstools. Tufted and square, the light brown leather chairs swivel as customers slide in beckoning for Lizzy and Oliver’s attention.

They’re the full-time bartenders I keep at this location. Cormac has been on my arse to hire another part-time for the weekends, but it’s not as simple as placing an ad online. We have to vet all our employees.

Opposite the wall sporting the bar is our limited restaurant seating. O’Brien’s has the fewest booths, the pub focusing on the bar and bar food. But our cook, Maggie, makes some of the best Irish stew on the East Coast, and having a handful of booths and tables, if solely for that dish, is worth it.

The dark green benches butt against the wooden walls, and while the leather is worn, the rich shade reminds me of pine tops in a forest at twilight.

Nestled between the bar and the booths are sturdy round dining tables, bearing the marks of countless meals and the ever-common bar fight. Every table is occupied tonight, plates of food crowding the surfaces as servers parade them from the kitchen.

I spot several of my men positioned around the bar, keeping a well-trained eye on the chaos and fun. Soon the kitchen will close and leave only those content to nurse drinks at the bar. Few are stupid enough to stick around for what goes on underground.

I wave at Lizzy as she pops several tops of imports for a group of men at the bar. Her bright, vibrant copper hair bounces as she hurries to Cormac and me.

She smiles. “Isn’t past your bedtime, old man?”

Cormac snorts out a laugh, but she levels him with a fiery wink as well. “Not sure why you’re laughing, Cormac. Pretty sure I saw your stash of little blue pills in the back locker room the other day.”

“I’ll show ye just how wrong ye are about that, Liz,” Cormac responds, and I don’t miss the darkening of his pupils as he takes in Lizzy’s well-fitting white button-down and jeans.

I used to have my female bartenders wear less clothing, but after Aoife. Well … I don’t prefer to know someone’s daughter is prancing around half naked. Lizzy is no exception either.

Two years ago, she showed up at my doorstep claiming to be the daughter of my father from an affair long ago. Twenty-two years ago, to be exact. All I knew was being an only child, and like any self-respecting mob man, I didn’t believe her. Threatened to kill her for the implication about my father.

When it came down to it, he was a loving husband, a fearless mob leader, and an engaging father who found time to take me fishing and teach me how to be a man. That perfect picture I’ve had since childhood shattered the moment she claimed our bloodline.

She doesn’t want money, though. Won’t let me set her up in a townhouse close to my brownstone or let me replace the beater minivan she’s still driving. I spent hours monitoring the surveillance we had on her, trying to figure out her motives for inserting herself into our family. Even convinced myself she was an undercover cop or something.

That was until a simple DNA test proved she was, in fact, my half-sister.

I remember staring at those results, confused and pissed. “Run it again,” I’d said. I didn’t want to trust it—not yet. Something had to be wrong. The man I’d respected more than anyone else in the world couldn’t have stepped out on my mother. She devoted her life to him. Propped him up so he could succeed, so he could lead. She gave him an heir, me, to mold and shape into the next generation of a made mob man. He wouldn’t throw that in her face.

When I got the second results back and they confirmed the first, I drove to the cemetery that day and spit on his grave for my mother resting beside him.

Lizzy wasn’t shocked one bit. Claimed she only wanted family and a place to work since her mother passed away in a car accident. Setting her up here at O’Brien’s was the best way to keep an eye on her and get to know her. So far, she’s kept this bar running and takes her loyalty seriously. She’d rather earn her way rather than ride the benefits of being an O’Donnell. Besides Aoife, she’s one of the best people I know, and I’m grateful for the role model she is for her. Despite her conception.

“Just ye wait, Lizzy. Ye’ll be thirty-eight before ye know it,” I say.

She scrunches her nose like the very thought of being my age someday downright offends her. “Whatever, grandpa. What can I get you two to drink?”

“The black stuff,” Cormac whips out.

“Macallan, on the rocks, please.”

Lizzy nods and scoots past Oliver, knocking off his rounded glasses. His gray hair is tied back in a ponytail, and I can’t help but think at least I’m not as old as him. The old man is sixty-two and has been a mob man for as long as I can remember.

Although I don’t feel it, a nagging worry about my age lingers in the back of my mind. I don’t have a son to pass this legacy down to, and Aoife … there’s no way I want this life for her, especially as a female.

Cormac would call me a big softy, and I probably am. I’ve heard it before.

Lizzy returns to slide both our drinks in front of us, and I raise my glass to her before she bounces off to keep the bar running with Oliver. Those two are like a well-oiled machine.

Cormac takes several audible gulps of his beer. Add in the rowdy noise from what appears to be a bachelor party, who’ve practically rearranged the bar with how they’ve moved all the tables together, and I’m out.

Fisting my glass, the confetti-like lacerations across my knuckles from our guest stretch and pull in a dull ache. There’s a phone call I need to make so I turn, sauntering back down the hallway for the fiftieth time today.

“Oye. I thought ye were going home.” Cormac yells after me as I carry my drink to my office.

“I will. I’ll be gone in five minutes,” I yell back, still moving forward.

“Ye’re fill’a shite,” Cormac laughs. “Don’t go gettin’ in that ring.”

It wasn’t in my plans for the night, but as I reach my office and key in via the pin pad, I peer at the blood on my shoes.

What’s a little more?

* * *

Winter in Boston sucks. Winter in Beacon Hill, Boston is bleeding awful.

The cobblestone streets—more like hills—are charming in the other three seasons of the year, but throw in winter and they become death traps.

I used to live downtown, near the nightlife and some of my other businesses. But after Aoife, I needed a change.

Close to the waterfront, for easy access to my yacht, our Federal-style brownstone stands surrounded by the scenic views of Charles River Park.

With O’Brien’s only a couple of blocks away, I get away with walking most of the time. Cormac says it’s risky, but I’m not one of those fancy mob bosses or mafia leaders requiring a driver and an entourage at my beck and call.

No.

We’re a simple organization founded on family, loyalty, and grit.

The snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk home. It’s not the fluffy stuff. It’s the mentally taxing squeaky crunch that makes your skin shiver. The gas lamp streetlights illuminate the sidewalks, and I cringe thinking about how she enjoyed the quaint feel here.

Two more blocks of quiet, brisk walking, and a couple of sloshy snow puddles later, I key into the iron gate. Licon is on duty in the guard box. He nods when I enter before moving back to study the monitors in front of him.

There are sixty-five cameras on this property, and he scans them all every three minutes, like clockwork. The lads like to poke fun at me for how I’ll move around this city alone without protection, yet I keep my home a fortress. None of them know, though, what it’s like to have your heart walk around outside your body. I’d do anything to protect her. Aoife’s safety is all that matters.

When I looked at the property in Beacon Hill several years ago, renovation was the best option. This Asher Benjamin house rests in the heart of the neighborhood and is a Federal-style brownstone with triple-hung windows that scream more family man than Mob.

I took the nine months waiting on Aoife to renovate it and spared no expense. Gated and secure, the property is my safe place for her.

Passing the two-car detached garage and the empty planter boxes Allie typically keeps brimming with greenery during the warmer months, I key into the back with the ever-changing code and biometric scanner.

When the door finally opens, I plow into the back mudroom and run smack into a purple and pink tricycle.

Shite.

When I finally get the door closed, the lights flick on, and I grit my teeth. There, Allie stands in the doorway to the butler’s kitchen.

Separate from the main dining room off the front door, the butler’s kitchen was a massive undertaking, with its commercial-sized appliances and oversized white granite island. Most of Aoife’s and my meals take place seated here, as opposed to the formality of the dining area. If I use the room, it’s to entertain some of Boston’s wealthiest businessmen or other mafia leaders. And I don’t allow Aoife present for those. Period.

There will never be a time I expose her to the viciousness of this world. I don’t care what Cormac mutters behind my back about not having an heir—a son. That’s not the point. Let the blood ties end with me; let someone else’s line lead if it keeps her safe.

“Late night?” Allie says, floating over to the stove. She pulls out a saucepan to set on one of the ten burners. With two clicks, it lights and the flames roar to life. I stare at them, all to avoid looking at her.

I don’t owe her an explanation. She works for me. But I turn back toward the door just the same, contemplating a hasty exit. My gaze scans past the smooth stone retaining wall encasing most of the property around the house and lands back on the main security gate. Maybe Licon needs some company in the guard shack.

“Mr. O’Donnell?” Allie’s voice softens, and instead of yanking the door back open, I kick off both my shoes and bend down to grab them.

“These will need cleanin’.” I gesture to the bloodstained suede shoes in my right hand, and Allie’s face falls.

Her obvious disapproval comes through for only a second before she steels her face and nods once. “Yes, sir.”

I can’t help but internally groan and look aside. I’ve told her not to call me sir while it’s just the two of us speaking, but she does it anyway. Perhaps that’s a testament to her professionalism.

Allie was the most important hire I’ve ever made.

When the rug was snatched out from under me, I knew I needed help. It took five months of interviews and hiring numerous private investigators before finding the right person to entrust with the most important part of my life.

It wasn’t about the qualifications on paper—it was the feeling they gave me personally.

Allie had come to Boston after nannying a little boy for a wealthy family in Vermont. She was used to the security, the drivers, and the precautions. I wanted someone who could be warm, yet firm. Someone to guide Aoife in the ways I couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to. A person who would be patient and understanding of my schedule, and someone willing to work for a crime family. I had to trust she’d keep her nose out of mob business while making my daughter her number one priority.

Allie was just that.

At fifty-five and never married, she didn’t have any kids of her own to impact her job. She’s proven to be a tremendous housekeeper, nanny, and cook. Allie is everything she could’ve been and is all Aoife has ever known. The guys like to joke about Aoife not having a strong Irish accent, but it’s because Allie is the one who practically raises her. Between her and Aoife’s time at school, you wouldn’t know she’s mine from talking with her, and that knowledge painfully twists something in my chest.

“Do you want milk in your tea?”

Allie’s soft voice interrupts my thoughts. She stands over at the fridge, her plump figure scanning the shelves for the oat milk she already knows I prefer. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, is pulled tightly back into a low ponytail. A white robe is tied securely around her rounded waist, and I find myself appreciative that she made the effort, like most nights, to get up at 1:00 a.m. to make my needed tea. I can’t fall asleep without it.

“Aye,” I say.

She takes out the boxed milk and smiles at me. Wrinkles bunch in the corner of her mouth and it’s a smile that reaches her tawny eyes.

I move to pull out one of the backless barstools around the island, and Allie slides the mug of hot chamomile and valerian root tea in front of me. Then she moves to clean up the stove and wash the single pot in the sink.

Allie is meticulous about her cleaning, and I often wonder how she can get everything done and still have plenty of time for Aoife.

“She missed you at dinner,” Allie says, not facing me. She gazes out the window over the white porcelain sink as her hands work to lather the pan.

Guilt gnaws at me, and despite the scalding beverage, I sip it anyway, grimacing.

“I left a folder of some papers you need to sign before she goes back to school tomorrow. They’re on your desk in the office.”

“Okay.” I blow on my tea and take another drink. Allie turns the water off and places a hand on her hip.

“Maybe you’ll be here for dinner tomorrow?”

“Aye. Maybe.”

Her lips form a tight line, and she gives me a clipped nod before saying good night and walking through the glass French doors that lead into the rest of the house.

It’s the same every night. I miss dinner due to work or the bars, and when I come home Allie asks if I’ll make dinner work the next night. It’s the same answer each time. Maybe.

Truth is, I want to be here. But I don’t know how.

Pushing back, I take my empty cup to the sink and wash it out. Allie already does enough for me. Leaving dirty dishes in the sink for her to wake up to doesn’t seem fair. After drying it, I place the mug back in the glass cabinet and stride out the doors into the long main hallway. My office and the formal dining room are both on the left, and I bypass each room, heading for the wooden staircase on the opposite side.

Rows of Irish family photos hang on the wall as I ascend the steps. It’s like a mini history lesson of the Irish Mob. My great-grand da, grand da, and da are in all the photos with their wives and children. The O’Donnell family has been the leaders of the Mob for generations.

However, at the top of the stairs, the lineage of males breaks. In its place is a photo of me holding Aoife. She’s but a wee thing—six months at most. You can hardly tell she’s a girl, except for the tiny pink bow clipped into the few strands of hair she had at that age.

It’s only us, though. No wife. No siblings. Just Aoife and me.

I want more for her, and selfishly for myself. But it took months and months to vet a nanny. How do I find someone I can trust to come into this family? A mob family. How do I explain that to someone?

I allow myself to linger at the old photo before continuing on. The second floor of the house isn’t anything riveting. To the left is my bedroom and bathroom. To the right is the rest of the level—two guest rooms, Aoife’s room, and her bathroom. Allie has her own suite downstairs.

The old cherry wood flooring squeaks as I move right. Despite the high security, each night I methodically check each guest room. They’re identical copies. Queen beds with fresh white linens and a deep forest green armchair in the corner by the windows overlooking the front shrubs and narrow street.

I sling open the closets, ruffle the cream curtains, and glance under the bed by plastering myself on the rough hand-woven rug with a disgusting floral pattern. Aoife fell in love with them at a fundraiser auction. I bought one for each room.

Satisfied with the empty occupancy of both rooms, I shuffle to Aoife’s room. Hand on the knob, I hover there, chest tight. My shoulders slump, and my chin dips to my chest as I will myself to go in.

Get your shite together.

Gently, I turn the knob, pushing the door open. It’s dark aside from the rabbit star light on her nightstand that looks like a cartoon bunny filled with helium. A twin bed sits in the middle of the wall farthest from the door, her petite frame lying scrunched into a ball. Steady breathing moves the pink floral quilt up and down.

Her favorite books fill the floating bookshelves lining the wall close to the floor. The pink puff beanbag sitting in the corner has a recent imprint of her body and several books are tossed on the floor next to it.

Aoife’s room is simple, too simple for a four-year-old if you ask me, but Allie claims the neutral tones promote a calming environment after a stimulating day at school, and I never want to be the one to add more stress to her life.

Stepping in, I pick up the six books and place them back on the shelves before moving to stare at the biggest shake-up my life has ever had.

Her rounded face has blonde hair tangled around it, and her wide cerulean eyes hide from the world. I get sick to my stomach thinking I prefer it this way. They’re the same as her mother’s. As well as her hair and natural charisma, with an effortless ability to draw others in with magnetic energy.

Her mother was a one-night stand turned five weeks of pure bliss. She was the blonde bombshell who wandered into my bar late one evening with her friends for a girls’ night out. She was young and full of life in her third year at Harvard. Her parents were some high-rolling business folk from Connecticut, and she was addicting. Flirtatious and coming on strong, she ended up in my bed that night and almost every night after that. On the weekends when she wasn’t studying for exams, I took her out on the yacht. I wined and dined her.

It was more than the young, hot blonde that Cormac berated me about. She was high on life and offered joy after some of the more depressing days in my position. For the first time in my life, I felt optimistic about spending my life with someone. I was infatuated.

Then, she found out she was pregnant.

Over five weeks into our trysts, she chucked a pregnancy test at me from the bathroom door, blaming me for her ruined life. In tears, she ran down the steps of my old downtown condo, telling me she had to take care of it. She couldn’t be burdened with a child during her last year of law school before she moved on to medical school.

I begged her, pleaded with her to reconsider because in that moment a neon sign flashed in my head. Your child. Your legacy.

She ran out the door, leaving me in a puddle of brokenness on the floor. I’m not sure why I was so emotional. Maybe it was because my good friend and leader of the Bratva just had his second child, and at thirty-four I felt I was falling behind. Or maybe it was because those five joy-filled weeks had just blown up in my face, making me feel like I was a pit stop for Laura on her way to something better.

Either way, I lay there until she came back several hours later telling me she couldn’t go through with it. She didn’t want her parents to find out, so I paid for all her appointments out of pocket. Once my daughter was born, Laura wanted nothing to do with her or me. Two days later, she terminated her parental rights and asked for zero contact.

I had no clue what I was doing, but I knew this little life needed me. Holding her for the first time in the hospital, it was like everything else faded away. Nothing else mattered. She was pure innocence in my harsh world, and I knew I’d never be the same.

I named her Aoife after my late grandmother.

Sighing, I bend down to kiss my little love on her cheek. She smells like peaches and summertime, her favorite season. I grin before the heaviness of my tea settles over my eyelids.

I move back toward the door.

“Daddy?”

I breathe out a sigh before I turn around to see her sitting up in bed. Mr. Cuddles, an unstuffed bear, is nestled into the crook of her arm. Her eyes are so round, they almost always look surprised. She blinks several times before saying again, “Daddy?”

“Hey, little love. I’m sorry I woke ye. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s Mr. Cuddles’s birthday tomorrow, Daddy. Can we make him a cake?” It’s my turn to double blink. Leave it to Aoife to be concerned about her toy bear’s birthday in the middle of the night.

“I’m sure ye can. Ask Allie in the mornin’, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight. I love ye.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” Aoife says, as she slinks back down into her feathered bed.

When I’ve shut the door and tiptoed back down the hallway to my room, I shower and brush my teeth, feeling each second I’m not in bed before my 5:00 a.m. alarm. I swipe the steam from the mirror, noticing the gash above my eyebrow I didn’t realize was there. The typical vibrant color of my eyes is now an exhausted, dull earthy green. I’m barely able to keep them open, so I pad over to my bed and tumble in.

Thoughts of Aoife swim around my tired mind, and I recall I was supposed to do something in my office, but I can’t seem to place it. In pure opposition to being awake one second longer, I roll over, burying my head beneath the pillows. I play my movements from tonight over and over, as is my nightly ritual. One, one, two, five, two, three …