3. Kieran
Chapter 3
Kieran
I groan into the training room floor, swiping my tongue over my upper lip. The coppery tang of blood plus the sting of my freshly split lip causes me to let out a hiss.
“Bleeding hell!” Cormac says from outside the ring. “Ye can’t stay out of it, can ye. Oye! What the hell is wrong with you fightin’ the Boss in the ring …” His voice trails off as he yells at Oscar, who’s one of the main event fighters here. He’s the best and the fighter everyone puts their money on in the boxing ring. He’s the only one who refuses to go easy on me as the owner.
I smirk as Cormac rips Oscar a new one, and I reach up unfastening my gloves with my teeth. Blood smears over the white hook and loop closure and I smile. Landing a successful punch, dodging my opponent’s attacks, or winning one of the nights in the ring all causes the same heart-pounding euphoria coursing through my veins.
For many boxers, it’s the boost from the crowd—the roaring cheers and chants fueling their adrenaline. But not for me. My rush comes from the exertion, the pain, and—every once in a while—the shadowy figure of a woman I can’t quite see.
I’ve probably taken too many knocks to the head. But the surge of anticipation when I see her behind my closed eyelids trumps any impactful punch or burn of fatigue eating away at my muscles. Her petite figure and short hair are all I can make out in her shadow form, but I chase it anyway.
I should have my head checked. I’ve thought about it—going to the doctor—ever since I started seeing her about a year ago. It’s in the ring that I see or feel her. It’s why I’m here so much. I can’t describe it, and if I told someone they may have me institutionalized. But each punch to the side of my head blooms the outlined image of her in my mind.
It’s a different feeling than it was with Laura. It’s bone rattling how much this fictional woman occupies my thoughts. How much I crave someone to know me so well it’s like they live inside my head.
I spit the bloody mess in my mouth to the floor and move to the bench, where I drag my shirt back over my head and reach down for my towel. My phone clangs to the floor, and I forgot I’d put it there.
When I pick it up, I notice I have a voicemail from Ardenbrook Academy.
“Aoife,” I mutter to myself and quickly swipe to listen, worried something has gone wrong. I would’ve heard from Allie, wouldn’t I? I bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello, Mr. O’Donnell. My name is Summer Smith.” I snicker at the unoriginal name. “I’m Aoife’s preschool teacher at Ardenbrook Academy. We had field trip permission slips due today and Aoife did not submit hers. I know she’s looking forward to the Boston Aquarium, and since we have a policy about nannies ”— she emphasizes the word with a hint of disdain— “signing said forms, it would be great if you could please take the time to look at her home folder this evening so she can return the form by Monday.” She rattles off her personal cell number in case I have any “questions” followed by “ have a nice weekend” then hangs up.
I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it. What the hell? This woman’s voice is seductively annoying and add to the fact I’m pretty sure she just insulted me about not paying enough attention to my daughter. Who does this woman think she is?
I’m on the damn board for crying out loud. I could have her fired with one phone call.
Something propels me to listen to it again, and this time I know the words, so I listen to her voice. It’s raw but smooth, and I can’t help the liquid heat rushing to my belly at her displeased attitude wrapped in her sultry young tone.
I fling the phone down in favor of my water bottle that I fist too hard. Water squirts in my eye and I snarl.
“Aye, what has ye in a foul mood?” Cormac runs over. “Looks like ye were doing well in there.”
He thinks I’m upset about being knocked down by Oscar in the ring, but no. That’s not it. My pride keeps me from telling him I was guilt-tripped by my daughter’s preschool teacher over voicemail.
“Aye,” I say. I roll my shoulders craving a shower and hot meal. I wonder what Allie has made for dinner. It’s Friday, so usually we do some sort of fish, much to Aoife’s dismay. That little lady could eat pizza and chicken nuggets for every meal.
Fight days are on Wednesday and Saturday nights. I made a point when Aoife was born to move from three fights a week to two. Most nights I’m here at the office late, then Saturday nights are fight nights. Fridays are my time with Aoife.
It needs to be more. It should be more.
Ye need to do better.
Miss Smith’s tantalizing yet condescending voice, riddled with judgment, sizzles in the back of my mind the entire walk to my office and then continues on my brisk walk home.
The more I think about it, the more I’m not sure I can let this young teacher off the hook. Did she call all the parents with the same attitude?
It’s later—after a salmon dinner which Aoife refused to eat, bath time, seven books, and twenty questions—that I’m in my office staring at the permission slip for Summer Smith’s pre-K4 class’s field trip to the Boston Aquarium.
I’m certain that Allie has taken Aoife before, so it’s not like she’s never been. But the fact I’m not one hundred percent sure grates on my nerves and irks me further. I snatch the permission slip then fall into my leather chair. It makes a sound as if it’s huffing out an exhausted breath from me planting my ass in it.
It’s not a fancy leather chair like you’d see in Hollywood movies depicting mafia men. Or an expensive one that sits in a billion-dollar penthouse looking like it’s never been sat in. Mine doesn’t shine, it’s glaring. With rustic green and brown patches, a botched attempt to mend the worn holes from three generations of O’Donnell arses.
It’s similar to my office.
The whole house is immaculate and designed, but my office is a different story. Its tattered vibe and sapped energy pulse is indicative of how often I’m in here. Which is often. Even on Friday nights—my supposed nights off—I’m here. Until 2:00 a.m. at the earliest.
I run legitimate businesses, so there’s never a shortage of work to be done. However, I also run the underground fighting here in Boston, which brings in a lot of dirty money. Luckily, the bar flushes out most of it and I can integrate it into the bar that takes in a lot of cash.
I stare out over my desk at the stately grandfather clock to the left of the entrance. Two chairs sit across from my desk, though they’re rarely occupied by anyone. Because of my daughter, I conduct most of my business at the office in O’Brien’s.
I sit taller, glaring at the permission slip and nearly crumple it in my hand. Pulling open my laptop, I bring up a fresh email addressed to Principal Green and cc a few of the board members on it as well. The sinking feeling that I’m being petty with this young teacher occurs, but it’s outweighed by the insecurity she may be right. And that’s a sucker punch to my pride.
I knew there was something I didn’t do the other night. Allie mentioned it. I’m slipping and Aoife is suffering. Regardless of whether there’s any truth to her assumption, she shouldn’t be demeaning parents over the phone.
My fingers pound across the keyboard with my demand for a meeting, and as I tilt my laptop closed, the door to the office creaks. Glancing up, two sky-blue eyes peer at me.
“Aoife? Everything okay?” I shift, trying to get a better look at her.
She nods, shouldering the door open a little more. Her rainbow mermaid pajamas are bunched up and cricked at her hips. She snuggles Mr. Cuddles in her arms close to her face, which appears heavy and tired.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She nods again and then turns toward the repurposed wicker basket beside my desk.
I lean forward, placing my elbows on my desk, and offer her a smile. “Go ahead. Grab one.”
She grins and darts over to the basket, falling to her knees. Her tiny hands comb through the collection of her favorite books we keep in here. It started when she was little. On those sleepless nights when I could do nothing to settle the little newborn in my arms. I’d bring her to my office and read to her. It wasn’t fancy children’s books at first. More like contracts, emails, and fight statistics. As she got older, I began to collect books for her.
Now, when she can’t sleep, she sneaks downstairs to my office for story time.
“This one,” she says, holding up a torn copy of Goodnight Moon . The spine is broken, and the edges turn upward. But it’s been her favorite since she was eighteen months old. I have it memorized, although she refuses to let me tell her the story without the pictures.
“All right. Come on up.”
She scurries to my chair, all innocent and focused on peering up at me with a pouty lip. Unable to resist, I reach down and pull her onto my lap. She’s growing so fast. Too quickly. This world isn’t kind to young women, especially those in the Mafia. I’ve known too many girls married off or confined to our world with zero regard for their own interests. I can’t … won’t let that happen to Aoife. I’ll do all I can to protect her.
Aoife leans back, head nuzzled on my chest while her blonde hair splays over my black long-sleeve button up. Opening the book, I begin. “In the great green room …”
She giggles, and I squeeze her tighter to me because it’s the best sound in the world.
* * *
Traffic is insane. It would be that I got stuck behind a Duck Tour vehicle on the way to my meeting with Principal Green.
Ten minutes behind schedule, I whip into the visitor parking at Ardenbrook Academy. It’s been weeks since I’ve driven my Audi, and I nearly take out the visitor parking sign with its turbo.
Ducking from the car, I stride through the metal iron gate that opens into a brick courtyard. The building, also faced with brick, has three framed archways each housing a set of double wooden doors that groan when I open them.
A SNAP garners my attention, and I freeze, the door partially open. The sound is reminiscent of a quick jab to the cheek in the ring. But it’s only the flutter of the three school flags, each dipped in the school colors and bearing the lion emblem, standing tall in the center of the drive and whipping in the wind.
I inhale a deep breath. The cold air tingles in my nose, and it’s stimulating.
Rolling my shoulders, I continue to Mr. Green’s office after checking in with the main office personnel. His door is one of those older wooden ones, three-quarters frosted glass with a bronze nameplate.
“Come in,” he says, after I knock twice.
“Mr. Green,” I say, entering and turning to shut the door.
I stiffen at a petite figure sitting in a chair across from his obviously grand desk. From behind, I can’t see her face, but her muddy brown hair is cut short to her shoulders.
My lips curl at Principal Green, irritated because I was under the impression we were to meet alone. I don’t need his secretary here to take notes.
Several file cabinets flank his desk and the pristine windows they’re in front of. Looking around, I can barely contain my scoff at the mini putting green strip he has set up off to the side.
“Mr. O’Donnell.” Green stands, extending his hand. As I move forward, I can’t help but to side-eye the woman in the chair.
I do a double take.
This woman is familiar. Or, at least, I seem to think I’ve seen her before. Tan, olive skin, dark eyes, and high cheekbones. I scour my memory for this woman—there’s no way I’d forget a woman as beautiful as this.
She tilts her head to the side, and her full puffy lips that look as though she’s been thoroughly kissed tuck inward between her teeth. I avert my gaze and focus on the forty-five-year-old married man in front of me.
Could she and him …
No. She’s way too young. Can’t be more have twenty-one from the look of her. She’s probably freshly graduated from school and eager to find a place at the best private school in Boston.
I swallow, fighting the urge to mess with the tie I never wear.
“Thank ye for meeting with me,” I say. “Did ye enjoy yer weekend?”
Principal Green smiles at me, ignoring the woman seated in the chair. “I sure did. Played a few rounds of golf and took the boys fishing. What about you?”
I chance a look back at the woman in the chair.
Where have I seen her before?
She squints at me, folding her arms over her small chest and bunching the cream turtleneck sweater she has on up in front of her. I irritate her? I almost find that comical.
Raising my chin, I answer while still looking at her. “Aye. Ye did have a good weekend then. I had some business to attend to this weekend with me restaurants, but it was grand.”
My mouth twitches when the woman seems to study my mouth and accent. I’m too immersed in the Irish lineage to temper the brogue.
“I received your email.” Green moves to smooth his ironically green tie several times with each of his hands while he sits back. “I apologize you felt attacked.”
I huff. Me? Attacked? Hardly. More annoyed enough that it made it worth my time to type something out.
“This teacher of Aoife’s. Miss Smith?—”
“Yes.” He gestures to the woman in the chair, and I blink.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?”
She snorts, and then quickly covers her mouth. Wiping her palms on her black dress pants, she stands, holding out a hand. “I’m Summer Smith. Your daughter’s teacher.”
I study her. Surely, I’d know my daughter’s teacher. Pretty sure I went to the Academy’s open house with Aoife. I remember her being so scared a year ago about going to school. There’s no way I wouldn’t make exploring her classroom for the first time and meeting her teacher an experience I shared with her.
Mr. Green clears his throat, and I realize her hand is still extended toward me—I haven’t yet taken it. I tilt my head, scanning the room’s corners for hidden cameras. My thought is to have Cormac pull the footage from today and run facial recognition. Disappointed to find none—and slightly unnerved at the fact—I turn back to an annoyed Miss Smith and take her hand.
Shite .
Her hand is soft. The opposite of her demeanor right about now.
“Mr. O’Donnell?—”
“Please, call me Kieran.” I grin. Wait, what?
“Mr. O’Donnell,” she tries again, and a growl slips past my lips at her defiance. “I apologize for the tone of my voicemail. I sincerely didn’t mean for it to come across as condescending. I simply wanted Aoife to be able to enjoy our field trip with the class and not feel left out because she couldn’t go.”
I take a gander at Principal Green, who nods along in time with her clipped words. But when I glance back at Miss Smith, she plasters a pained, perhaps fake, smile across her enticing lips.
Yeah. She didn’t mean that apology at all.