Chapter 15 Maeve
MAEVE
The following weekend brings a challenge that I hadn’t anticipated, though after years of being in the mafia’s social circle, I probably should have.
Dinner parties and charity galas are a thing that the mafia elites and the families allied with them often have to attend.
All mafia families have legal interests and legitimate businesses that cover up the more criminal aspects of our wealth, and charities, real estate, and other deals are an excellent way to wash that money clean.
The thing is… I’ve almost never attended any of these.
When Siobhan was alive, I didn’t need to. She sucked up all the air in every room, leaving no space for me, and with her making the socialite route, my presence wasn’t necessary. I was always just fine with that.
After her death, our family was in mourning. And everything else fell apart too quickly for me to need to take my older sister’s place in attending functions. But now…
Now I’m a married woman. The wife of Sean Flannery, the man who now controls all the wealth and connections of what used to be the Connelly empire. And so, both of our attendance is required at the next function where all of the Boston elite will be in attendance.
Three hours before we’re supposed to be there, I find myself staring at the dress hanging in front of my closet.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever worn before—a rich sapphire blue, with a drop-waist bodice, a full skirt, and thin straps at the shoulders.
It’s not overly sexy, but it’s fancier than anything I usually wear, and I can’t quite picture myself with it on.
When I slip into it, my reflection looks entirely foreign to me.
The addition of sapphire jewelry that used to belong to my mother, a pair of high heels, and light makeup only makes me feel even more unlike myself.
I’ve managed to pull my ginger-red hair up in an elegant twist, secured with the same pearl-tipped pins I used at my wedding, and I look like someone who belongs at a gala with Boston's elite.
I don't feel like that person at all.
I glance at the clock, seeing that I’m supposed to meet Sean downstairs in a few minutes. My heart beats rabbit-fast against my ribs, and even though the dress is perfectly fitted and not too tight at all, I feel a little as if I’m having trouble breathing.
The last thing I want is to go out in public with Sean, smile and make small talk and pretend to eat dinner, dance with him and act as if everything is fine. Despite the last week of what feels like a truce between us, everything is not fine.
When we’re not in the gym or at the range, he still ignores me. He keeps his distance, talks to me only when necessary, and avoids me at what seems like all costs. When we’re training, he’s close to me, touching me… and I can feel, every time, that it affects him.
It’s affecting me, too. But I can’t say anything, because I know what his answer will be.
He’s all wrong for me, he’ll say. Too rough. Too violent. And he’s right.
But I’m also not so sure that I want to be a virgin bride any longer. Or at least… my body is clamoring for that to change, even if my mind and heart are unsure of what I want.
All I know is that I have no idea how we’re going to go on like this forever.
And I’m going to have to spend all of this evening out with him in public.
I grab the beaded clutch that I dug out of a drawer for this and head downstairs. When I’m almost to the landing leading to the entryway, I see Sean standing there waiting for me, talking quietly with Flynn, and my breath catches in my throat.
He's wearing a tuxedo, the black fabric fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean waist. His dark hair is swept back, his jaw clean-shaven, and if I didn't know better, I'd think he was just another wealthy businessman instead of the Wolf of Dublin.
He looks devastating. Dangerous and sophisticated all at once.
Both he and Flynn look up at the same moment, hearing the click of my heels on the marble. Flynn’s face holds the normal appreciation for a woman he finds beautiful—nothing dark or heated, just a casual appraisal that has a clear hint of approval on his chiseled features. But Sean…
Sean looks as if he’s trying, and failing, to keep himself from crossing the space between us and dragging me into his arms.
His jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching. "You look beautiful," he says, his voice rough.
Heat floods my cheeks. "Thank you," I manage. "You look... nice, too."
Nice. What an inadequate word for how he looks. But I don't have the vocabulary to describe how my stomach flips when I see him like this.
Sean's jaw tightens, and he looks away. "The car's waiting. Some of the security have already gone ahead to scout the venue." He glances at Flynn. “Take the other car, with Jack. Make sure there are no errors tonight.”
Flynn nods and heads out. Sean looks at me for a moment more and I’m suddenly, painfully aware that we’re alone.
“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, and I feel a lurch in my chest. Does he realize how nervous I am? How unprepared for this I feel? Something in his face almost looks as if he cares, and it’s throwing me off-balance. I’ve never known Sean to care about my feelings.
I swallow hard and nod. “All part of the job, right?” I say as breezily as I can manage, forcing brightness into my tone.
Sean’s jaw works, but he nods, too. He opens the door for me, helps me into my coat, and walks out with me into the frigid Boston cold, opening the door of the SUV for me to climb in. All perfectly gentlemanly, as if his hands shouldn’t be stained red with all the blood he’s spilled.
The drive to the gala is silent. Sean sits beside me in the back of the car, his thigh inches from mine, staring out the window. I can feel the tension radiating off him.
"What is this event for?" I finally ask. "You never told me."
"Cancer research fundraiser," Sean says shortly. "The O’Malleys are hosting it. Our absence would be noted." The tone of his voice clearly says that, much like me, he’d rather be absent. We have that in common at least, I think with bitter humor.
We're going in order to maintain appearances. To play the role of the newly married couple, happy and in love, when in reality we're barely speaking to each other outside of training sessions.
When we barely know each other at all.
The venue is at a museum, lit up like something from a fairy tale. Expensive cars line the circular drive in front, depositing women in glittering gowns and men in tuxedos. I feel my anxiety spike as Sean helps me out of the car, his hand warm and steady on my arm.
"Just stay close to me," he murmurs as we approach the entrance. "If you need to leave, tell me."
I nod, grateful for the reassurance even as my heart pounds.
I haven't been to anything like this since I was sixteen.
The last gala I attended was with my father, Siobhan, and Desmond, all of us dressed up and playing the part of the perfect Irish-American family.
That was years ago. A lifetime ago, it feels like.
Inside, the gala is stunning—the interior fitted with crystal chandeliers, the floor gleaming marble, waiters circulating with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Everywhere I look, there are beautiful people in expensive clothes, laughing and talking and belonging in a way I never have.
Sean's hand finds the small of my back, and I'm grateful for the anchor. Without it, I think I might float away, might disappear entirely into the overwhelming crowd.
"Sean!" A man in his fifties approaches, hand extended. "Good to see you. And this must be your bride. Congratulations on the marriage."
"Thank you," Sean says smoothly, shaking the man's hand. His voice is hard, but crisp, a professional quality to it that seems different than his normal tone. "Maeve, this is Robert Fitzgerald. He works with the Council in Dublin.”
I shake Mr. Fitzgerald's hand and smile, falling into the role I learned growing up. The polite daughter, the perfect accessory. It comes back easier than I expected, muscle memory from years of lessons on social graces, even if I rarely appeared in public to use them.
But it feels hollow. Fake. Like I'm wearing someone else's skin.
More people approach. Sean introduces me over and over—his wife, Maeve.
Some of them knew my father, and they offer condolences with canned sympathy.
Some ask about how we met, and Sean gives them the flat answer that the Council arranged our marriage in the wake of my losses.
Some just assess me with calculating eyes, probably wondering what the Wolf of Dublin is doing with someone like me.
Through it all, Sean keeps his hand on my back or my arm, maintaining physical contact.
To anyone watching, we probably look like happy newlyweds.
Not that it should matter, I think bitterly.
We have to look happy because it’s expected not to air out our problems in public, but everyone here knows this isn’t a love match.
The fact that we have to pretend, I think, is stupid.
I spot Flynn across the room, looking completely at ease in his tuxedo. He's talking to a stunning woman with long dark hair and an expensive-looking champagne evening gown. She's laughing at something he said, touching his arm, and Flynn is eating it up.
"That's Gia Moretti," I say quietly, seeing Sean looking at them. "Her family is Italian mafia-adjacent. She’s a socialite who’s been looking for a husband for over a year now. She was a candidate for Ronan before Siobhan won that match.”
“She seems to like Flynn,” Sean says. “Not that he’d ever be appropriate for her.”
There's something in his tone I can't quite read. Maybe... relief? Like he's glad Flynn's attention is elsewhere?
"She's beautiful," I murmur.
"So are you."