Chapter 39
Ciara
“Left before I was old enough to remember her,”
“Wow. Selfish, bitch,” he mutters, and I shoot him a reprimanding glare. I can bitch about her; no one else can.
“I used to think so,” I say carefully. “But knowing what I know, I understand it now. I also know that if she had taken me, stolen me out from under Donal’s nose, he wouldn’t have stopped looking for us. She wanted out, so she went.”
“But still, to leave you behind…”
I shrug. “I did used to wonder what it would be like to be normal, not a commodity to be traded or sold. After James violated me that day, I cried for weeks for my mother, but I knew she was never coming back, and I had to toughen up. I was Donal’s daughter, and my duty to my family would always come first.”
“No girl should have to come to that conclusion,” he says, even though he sees the sexism in it. I don’t berate him for it.
“True, but that’s the life we are born into. No one gets to choose.”
He links his fingers with mine. “I choose you.”
“I was chosen for you.”
“Yes, but that makes no difference. I choose you.”
His words hang in the air, heavier than the silence, heavier than the gun I tucked away earlier. I choose you. It’s a rebellion against everything we were raised to believe—that duty supersedes desire, that alliances matter more than affection.
“I choose you, too. Sometimes I think about her. What she’s doing, where she is. But I no longer want to be with her, looking over my shoulder. I prefer a direct kind of manipulation.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” he sighs. “My mother died a few years ago. She would never have allowed me to mask my pain with the booze. She was a hard-core mafia wife.”
He says it with affection, and I smile.
“Catholic to her core. A proper Irish Catholic mother. She used to threaten to beat us with her slipper if we fell out of line. Liam never tested her. I always did.”
“And did she give you a slipper beating?”
He snorts. “Yes. One night, when I was sneaking a drink from Connor’s study. She came in and battered the bejesus out of me. I was about fifteen. I was humbled.”
“I bet you were. How did she die?”
“Heart attack. It was sudden. A shock to everyone.”
“Is that when you…”
“Yeah,” he says grimly. “I’m not using it as an excuse, but it didn’t help.”
“Of course it didn’t, Sean. It was grief,” I say softly, tightening my hold on him. “Grief has a way of hollowing you out until you try to fill the void with whatever is closest.” I run my fingers over the tattoos on his arm, tracing the ink as if I can rewrite the history etched there.
“She would have loved you,” he says suddenly, his voice thick. “She respected grit. She would have seen past the O’Byrne name and seen the steel you carry in your spine.”
My throat tightens. “Maybe she would have taken a slipper to me for dragging you into a war.”
He chuckles, a low rumble against my side. “No. She would have handed you the ammunition.”
I smile, but the mention of war pulls the edges of our sanctuary down. The bubble we’ve created is thin, and the air outside is toxic. We can’t stay on this sofa forever, pretending that Ryan O’Sullivan isn’t out there.
But for now, it’s just us, half-watching some old movie in black and white.
I feel my lids drop and then warmth as Sean pulls a blanket over me.
I burrow deeper into the cushion, letting the steady rhythm of Sean’s breathing lull me into a state of suspended animation. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to sleep with one eye open. He’s watching for both of us.
When I drift back to consciousness, the light in the penthouse has shifted to afternoon. The TV is off. The room is silent, save for the distant hum of the city below.
I shift, my muscles protesting the movement. My shoulder throbs, but it’s a manageable pain. I blink my eyes open to find Sean staring at his phone, the screen’s glow illuminating the hard angles of his face. He isn’t spiraling. He looks focused. Lethal.
“You’re brooding,” I croak, sitting up and wincing as the blanket falls away.
He doesn’t look up. “I’m planning.”
“Planning how to kill O’Sullivan?”
“Planning how to make sure he never gets close enough to breathe the same air as you again.” He reaches out, his hand warm against the nape of my neck, pulling me in for a quick, hard kiss.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No,” he says. “But we’ll find him. Tomorrow, next week, next year. Doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, I’d rather it wasn’t next year, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
We exchange a smile.
“I have feelers out. He will turn up.”
“He will. Now. How about some of that delicious stew Mille made in the slow cooker?”
“Stew it is,” he agrees, standing up and offering me a hand. His grip is firm, steadying me as I rise.
We move to the kitchen, the rich aroma of beef and vegetables filling the space.
It smells like home, which is ironic considering this place has felt like a prison cell or a bachelor pad for most of the time I’ve known it.
Now, with Sean moving efficiently around the island, ladling stew into bowls, to warm through in the microwave, it feels like something else entirely. Something real.
“Millie deserves a raise,” I murmur, hopping up onto a stool.
“She does,” Sean agrees, sliding a steaming bowl across the marble island toward me. “Though knowing Connor, she probably gets paid more than some of his lieutenants.”
He leans against the counter, blowing on a spoonful of the thick stew before taking a bite. I watch him closely. His hand is steady. There’s a tightness around his eyes, a phantom tension where the craving usually lives, but he isn’t white-knuckling the spoon. He’s winning.
“It’s good,” he murmurs, catching my stare. “Eat, Ciara. You lost blood yesterday.”
I pick up my spoon. “Yes, Dad.”
He shoots me a dark look that has no heat behind it, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “Watch it, or I’ll put you over my knee.”
“You wish,” I scoff, though the heat pooling low in my belly suggests I might not mind that particular punishment.
We eat in a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with noise.
“This is weird,” I say after a few minutes. “I’m used to non-stop action with you.”
“You think this is weird for you? I’m used to non-stop drinking.”
He says it with a wry twist of his lips, but the reality of those lost years hangs heavy in the kitchen air. The silence isn’t just a lack of noise for Sean; it’s a void he’s spent a decade drowning. Now, he has to sit in it, sober and raw.
“Well,” I say, leaning my elbows on the marble counter to close the distance between us. “I prefer this version. The one that eats stew and remembers my name in the morning.”
He sets his spoon down, the clatter sharp in the quiet room. “Low bar, Ciara. It feels loud. My head is usually swimming, but now everything is sharp. The taste of the beef, the hum of the fridge, the way you look sitting there in my shirt.”
“Is sharp bad?”
“No,” he says, his gaze locking onto mine, intense and blue. “Sharp is terrifying. But it’s real. I haven’t been real in a long time.”
I reach across the marble island, covering his hand with mine. His skin is warm, the tremor barely perceptible now. “Real looks good on you, Sean.”
He turns his hand over, interlacing our fingers, squeezing tight. It’s a lifeline. “I’m holding onto it. Onto you.”
We finish the meal in a comfortable rhythm, the kind of domestic normalcy I used to scoff at when I saw it in movies.
I always thought it looked boring, a trap for women who settled.
But looking at Sean, seeing the way his shoulders have dropped an inch, the way he eats with a hunger that has nothing to do with addiction, I realize I was wrong.
This isn’t settling. This is the calm eye of the hurricane, and I’m going to guard it with everything I have.
“So,” he says, pushing his empty bowl away. “What do normal married couples do after dinner?”
I smirk, sliding off the stool to stand between his knees. “They usually do the dishes. But since we’re not normal...”
“Bed?” he suggests, a wicked glint returning to his eyes, his hands settling on my hips.
“Bed,” I agree.