14. Kieran
Chapter 14
Kieran
T he drive back to Boston is slick, snowy roads glistening under the streetlights, and I fight my car as it pulls toward several snowdrifts. My hands tightly grip the wheel of my Audi, eyes straining to see through the flurries falling on the icy pavement.
I hadn’t planned on coming back to Boston for another two days, but when Allie messaged me saying Aoife was sick and that she, too, was coming down with something, I knew I had to leave.
Meeting with Luka was necessary, but that still doesn’t stop the guilt gnawing at my insides.
When I pull into the driveway, I notice all three security men on patrol, and I nod at them as the black gate glides open and I pull my car in and around to park. Then, I jog to the back door, leaving my duffel in the car.
The door’s unlocked which is odd, but I plow through it anyway, halting at Cormac eating a piece of pie at the island.
“Hey, Boss.”
I shut the door, pulling my sleeve up to check the time. 11:00 p.m. “What the hell are ye doing here?”
He chuckles. “I think the better question is what is she doing here?” He uses his spoon to point to the ceiling.
My heart thunders against my ribs and an odd buzzing fills my ears. I look up. “Who?”
“Go see for yerself.”
“Where’s Allie?” I ask, glancing at the pristine kitchen Cormac is currently mucking up with the pie crust crumbs falling out of his mouth.
“Sleeping. She’s got it rough.”
I rip off my coat and stride out of the kitchen as Cormac mumbles, “Ye’re a lucky lad.”
At the stairs, I notice Allie’s suite door is shut all the way, and I avoid knocking in favor of darting up the stairs.
Aoife’s door, however, is open and when I walk through my head snaps back at who’s in bed with my daughter.
Summer Smith.
What the?—
I step forward. Aoife’s bedside light bounces off both of them asleep in bed. Summer’s half slumped with her back propped on the headboard while cradling Aoife to her chest. Her face is relaxed, lips curved into a faint, almost peaceful smile.
Aoife nestles close to her, one of her small hands resting on Summer’s pink sweater that seems to ride up over her lower stomach just enough to make me yank my gaze away before the weight of desire is too great. I rub my palm over the ache in my chest and swallow hard, pulling a fist to my mouth and blowing out air. Why does seeing her hold my daughter do something to me?
The yearning turns into a sour tang in my mouth. She’s my daughter’s preschool teacher and too young to be involved with someone like me. A single father, tied to the Irish Mob; what would she assume about someone in my position? It’d probably add to her already growing list of criticisms.
As quickly as those thoughts come, so does a mirage of others. Why is she here? What is going on? Do I wake her up?
Ultimately, I decide on yes. Needing to get to the bottom of things, and I stride over and regret my decision to get so close. The scent of spices—thyme and rosemary—hit me when I lean down, masking a more artificial floral scent.
I let my gaze linger, fighting the urge to move the short piece of hair hanging over her dainty nose. Instead, I tuck both hands into my pants pockets.
“Miss Smith,” I whisper.
Her eyes dart open and slowly track up to where I’m standing over her. Then they widen before shifting toward Aoife. She pushes back on her hands to sit up but not before laying a hand over Aoife’s forehead.
I swallow the emotion clogging my throat.
Summer carefully slides out of bed, coming face-to-face with me. I open my mouth to say something, but she places a hand on my chest and shakes her head. Realizing she’s touching me, she recoils, pointing toward the hallway before bolting from the room. I’m left to follow, scrubbing at the spot where her hand had been.
Once in the hall, I shut the door.
“Mr. O’Donnell?—”
“What is going on?”
We both speak at the same time, and I gesture with my hand for her to continue.
She chews the inside of her cheek. “I was asked to gather some work for Aoife since she was out sick. When I was on my way out of the school this afternoon, I’d noticed it hadn’t been picked up, so I decided to come drop it off.”
One of my eyebrows creeps up as a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth—I can’t help the hint of amusement. “I must tell Green he isn’t paying ye nearly enough if ye’re willing to make house calls to sick preschoolers.”
Her face reddens, and instead of the witty quip I’m bracing for, tears spring to her eyes, pooling enough to be noticeable. She swipes at them before they fall with a slight tremble in her hands.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Donnell. I overstepped. I just hated the idea of Aoife being sick alongside her nanny without anyone else home.” She sniffles, then narrows her eyes at me. “Without you home.”
There she is. Quick to judge about why I wasn’t home. Although this time, when she says it, she gets a far off look in her eye, and part of me wonders if she’s talking about me.
I want to ask her about it. Maybe set the record straight the best I can, but she’s already speed walking down the hall and to the stairs before I can say anything else. The front door opens and closes about thirty seconds later.
Instead of going back downstairs to kick Cormac out of my house, I march into my room and slam the door shut, wincing at my behavior and praying I didn’t just wake up two sick people.
I glance out the three windows overlooking the driveway and pull back the heavy curtain. Below, Summer strides toward the gate. She stops beside one of my security men, exchanges a few words, and the gate slides open. But just as she steps through, she hesitates at the edge of the driveway. Something glows in the palm of her hand—her phone.
Is she waiting for a car? She didn’t drive here?
I continue to watch her as she paces to the end of the cobblestone several times before I call down to the guard station.
“Boss?” Licon answers.
“Watch her until her car comes.”
“Aye, sir.”
I hang up, letting the curtain fall back into place. Before I walk away, I hesitate. Knowing Licon is there to keep her safe while she waits should be enough, but a small part of me still wants to linger by the window, just to be sure she’s okay.
I have more important things to do than sit here.
This woman.
I pull at my shirt, the fabric too restricting.
What the hell is wrong with me?
* * *
The next day, Allie is already in the kitchen when I come downstairs.
“Feeling better?” She must be. I’m not sure there was ever a time I remember Allie being down for the count like Cormac described.
She sniffs. “Yes, sir. My fever finally broke. I took Aoife’s temperature, too and hers is normal. I’ll keep her home from school the next two days to be sure.”
I nod. “I saw Miss Smith last night. She left around midnight.”
Allie worries with her lip. “She was very helpful. Made us soup and watched over Aoife while I was able to rest.”
“I heard. Cormac wouldn’t shut up about how good the soup was.”
She smiles. “She’s very sweet. Aoife seems to really take to her.”
I grunt, annoyed. Yes, yes. Everyone likes Summer Smith
“She’d be a great?—”
“She’s too young for me, Allie.”
Her eyebrows raise. “I was going to say,” she continues, “she’d be a great hostess at one of the restaurants. Didn’t you say you were looking for someone?”
Yeah. Like two months ago and the position has since been filled. Allie has the memory of a?—
Wait.
She smirks at me, and I gather my tea she’s left in the travel mug on the island.
“I’ll be at O’Brien’s. Call if you need me.”
I leave the house. The short drive to the pub isn’t enough time to rid my mind of Summer Smith and prepare to address my men about the recent developments with Riku. But I shift the mask as best I can.
“Mr. O’Donnell.”
A voice slithers to my ears the moment I enter O’Brien’s, and I inwardly groan. What the hell is he doing here at seven in the morning?
“What do ye want, Marco?” The pub is quiet, and only a few of my men are here stationed as security. Sitting on a barstool in front of the bar, I can see the top of Marco’s head through the chairs flipped over on the tables.
“When the leader of the Yakuza is shot dead by his son looking to take over the organization, you better believe I’m going to show up. Came a week ago but Cormac said you were out of town.”
I nod, moving through the tables and making my way to the back hall toward my office. Without invitation, Marco follows me.
“You went to see Luka, didn’t you?” he continues, footsteps treading closer behind me.
I roll my eyes, keying in the code on the pad near my office door. When it opens, I inhale the stagnant air. After a little over a week of not being here, the smell is unique to say the least.
I click on the light and move to my desk, while Marco hovers in the doorway.
“Riku wants to call the shots in the ring.” I offer this tidbit of information to Marco. You see, this business is a dance, one I have zero intention to misstep.
Marco doesn’t have the numbers to be of use to me, hence my trip to New York. While the Bratva and Irish aren’t formally aligned, there isn’t a world where Luka Morozov doesn’t help me.
Several years ago, when a particular nasty secret society ravaged New York, I was there for the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra. Luka owes me a favor.
“You see Salvatore?” Marco asks with an air of nonchalance, but I know better. The clasping of his hands as he rubs them together, the way he clears his throat just after he says his name—Marco’s former boss still has a hold over him.
Part of me wonders what Marco wouldn’t do to be in Salvatore Buscetta’s good graces. I always wondered if the faction that broke off opposed to the alliance with the Bratva would regret it. The strained muscles in Marco’s face make me think he does.
“Aye,” I finally answer. His gaze flits around my office, annoying the piss out of me.
“So … we still fighting Wednesday? Even after Yuki and Riku?”
“Aye. Nothing changes. It’s me ring. Riku doesn’t get to dictate things. I’ve made sure of it.”
He shrugs. “I’ve got two men in the ring. I want to know Riku hasn’t gotten to you.”
I grunt. “Get the hell outta me office.”
He chuckles and turns to leave as Cormac enters my office. I can’t catch a break. I have a week’s worth of work to catch up on. Actual work, for the ten plus restaurants that I own and need to make a substantial profit on.
“What’s he want?” Cormac sits in the chair across from where I’m at my desk, poring over paperwork.
“He’s like a dog with no master. The Italian’s numbers are dwindling by the week. They won’t have a presence here unless they go crawling back to the Cosa Nostra.”
“Good luck with that,” Cormac says, twirling his signet ring around his thumb.
I grunt, looking back down at the overly expensive top-shelf liquor Lizzy and Oliver have been ordering.
When Cormac doesn’t get up to leave, I raise my head to look at him. He’s staring at me. Examining me.
“What?”
“Are ye and the teacher?—”
I slam my fist on the desk. “Get out!”
He smirks and shrugs his shoulders before bolting from the room.
Chest heaving, I stand, kicking my chair so it rolls to hit the nearly dead plant. I can’t deal with this. Why is this the question on everyone’s minds? We have bigger things to worry about. I have bigger things to worry about than some preschool teacher who wouldn’t last an hour in my world.
She’s my daughter’s teacher. She’s too young, too innocent. Too good. I could never have her.
The mental picture of Aoife and Summer sleeping peacefully burns vividly in my mind. Snatching the purchase orders off my desk, I crumple them in a ball.
Better double this order. I’m going to need all the top-shelf liquor I can get.