15. Saoirse
Saoirse
Permission Slipped
Iwant to attend Eamon’s funeral. There’s a million questions in my mind, mostly to do with why no one’s curious how the last two O’Sheas died within days of each other.
Yeah, it’s tragic that bad luck and trouble snuffed out an Irish American family that was once so powerful. And I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned there.
But wringing my hands isn’t going to bring me closure.
It’s all too…wrapped up in a neat little bow. And it’s suspicious as fuck the way it went down.
The balance of power between the three most powerful Brooklyn families was structured like a pyramid.
The O’Sheas represented the working class with the unions and gambling, imports and exports, pubs and muscle for hire.
The Byrnes protected the middle class by funneling money into property, construction, and developments.
And Declan Maguire bolstered the elites by working with the politicians and NGOs, getting all those permits and beneficial zoning laws passed.
Everyone was happy. It might have looked like the base of the pyramid wasn’t needed, that it would’ve been easier to go on without it.
It took less than six years for the wheels to start falling off. I was the first to report it.
Property rates and prices were spiking. Utility services kept going offline. Construction workers were untrained and lazy.
One of the main reasons why Patrick wanted me to marry Declan was to bring us closer to power. My dear old Da moved up to the elite class once the ring was on my finger.
I noticed it first when Patrick started wearing suits instead of leather jackets. The gold sovereign ring disappeared off his hand, replaced with a Rolex.
You can’t move up a class and forget your roots, or else what’s left to feel superior about?
In their biased eyes, I would’ve been lowering myself if I’d married an O’Shea. And that’s not taking all the payback and bodies into account either.
But with the O’Sheas gone, it lowered the Byrne status, it didn’t lift it up. I see evidence of that all around me. Boys who were fine being Patrick’s underlings are now fighting to work for Declan instead.
The old family home in Woodside sits neglected, a monument to fallen grand expectations. I’ve stopped visiting; the memories of my little sister cut too deep.
It feels weird for me to be the lynchpin that keeps the kingdom ticking over. I never wanted prestige or power. Being Finn O’Shea’s wife was enough for me.
I believed those feelings would last yesterday, today, and tomorrow when I had them. Whenever love crosses my mind now, all I tell it is “Fuck off”.
As for love crossing my heart, don’t make me laugh.
That’s why I can’t come straight out and say I want to attend Eamon’s memorial service. I need to create a reason first.
I’m used to getting my own way, because I know how to go about getting it.
A quick shower and then I’m off to Morag’s gaff. She lives on the property after I got the pool house converted.
The soldiers use Morag for massages and haircuts. Declan comes here too after using the sauna or swimming in the pool.
We all swear she’s got the healing touch, but it’s got more to do with her ability to lend a friendly ear when we want to share our troubles.
“Morning, Morag. Got time to give me the works?”
Morag smiles. She functions like the in-house shrink, always ready to listen, but she never gives advice.
“Good morning, love. I’m glad you came by. I’ve taken on an apprentice, don’t you know.” Morag hollers. “Maureen! Come and meet the boss’s wife!”
A pretty redhead woman comes into the massage room. She’s a plump bint, what we call a cozy armful round these parts. Her pale blue eyes goggle at me, before blinking.
She doesn’t lower her eyes, but watches me undress.
Morag prompts Maureen. “Go on. Say hello.”
Morag probably feels embarrassed for her apprentice’s blank stare. “She’s a dozy hen. But the soldiers like her massages, so it’s all good.”
I give Maureen the nod and then ignore her. If the soldiers are queuing up for Maureen’s massages, that means she’s giving them a happy ending if they ask for it.
Good for her and more strength to her right arm.
I get a three-sixty degree view of my body in the mirrors. My arse looks like a peach parked at the top of my long, slim legs. My breasts give a small bounce when I move, but there’s no droop or cleavage.
When I lift my arms to tie up my waist-length hair, the stretch nearly makes my breasts disappear, leaving only tightly puckered nipples behind.
I wrap the towel around and lie down.
“You don’t look twenty-seven. You’re so skinny.” Maureen must be talking to me, because Morag’s in her fifties.
My reply comes out muffled. I’ve already got my face in the massage table hole.
“I’m old in sin.”
Morag sputters. “Ha! Good one. Bugger off, Maureen, dear. Massages are all about peace and quiet.”
I check that we’re alone before asking Morag. “D’you hear the last O’Shea’s gone for his tea?”
Morag sighs. “Ah, they were fine men in their prime. All us girls used to watch them sauntering by and hide our blushes. It’s a shame what Connor did to his two lads.”
I’m intrigued. “Tell me.”
“After his wife died, Connor sent his two sons to the old country. Only Finn came back, but by then he was as wild as a gypsy traveler.” Morag sighs with sympathy. “No schooling. Put into the ring to fight at the age of ten and even then, he was knocking out lads twice his size. A feral child.”
“What happened to the other boy?” Finn never mentioned a brother to me.
“No one ever dared ask. Connor had big plans once, and his boys were part of it. Who knows what fate holds for any of us at the end of the day.”
I’m pummeled and waxed, oiled and plucked, courtesy of Morag’s skilled hands. The only thing I have left from girlhood are my thick black lashes.
My heavy eyebrows are long gone, shaped into submission by Morag’s expert hands. My skin smells deliciously fragrant with a blend of jasmine and roses.
I pat tinted balm on my lips and dot it on my cheek apples to add color. I’ve never needed to use mascara or line my eyes. If I did, it would be the same as over icing a cake.
Back in my walk-in closet, I feel sleek and super-confident. It’s one of those gorgeous days and I need a fancy dress to go with it.
Vintage. Boho. White lace. Long, bell-shaped sleeves. Short hem.
I’m talking short. Not mid-thigh. Higher.
Declan’s in the conference room. All the men in suits and wing-tips. Somehow, I manage to smother my smile at them playing elite dress-up.
“Dec, please can I make a pass at Eamon’s funeral?”
My husband’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull when he clocks my diaphanous lace dress. Every man in the room is gaping.
Declan has to clear his throat before speaking. His voice is strangled and hoarse with lust. “It’s a coat you’d better be wearing over that dress, Saoirse.”
“Yes, but please can I go.” I press my body so close to his chair that he can see the dark outline of my nipples through the white lace.
When I look down, I see a fierce erection pushing against his pant zipper.
“Sure. Get one of the lads to call a driving service for you.”
I leave triumphant. I’ve learned how to get my own way as a woman. I know how to manipulate and coerce with a pout and a flutter of my eyelashes.
And I know how to keep a steady flow of information coming by listening to gossip from the women around me.
“And would you look at that? He didn’t even ask me why I wanted to visit Eamon O’Shea’s graveside.” I smirk at my reflection for a beat and then go find a soldier to call me a cab.
My phone is twinned to Declan’s, so he can track where I go and who I contact. He’s not worried about me cheating on him. All he cares about is that I don’t betray him.
Feargal is on duty and gives me the nod. He steps forward to open the car door for me, smiles, and jerks his head toward the house.
One glance over my shoulder shows me that Declan’s standing by the French doors of the conference room. He’s checking to see that I’m wearing a coat, which I am.
I give him a cheery wave, but buzz down the car window before beckoning Feargal to come closer.
“You’re Liam’s cousin, aren’t you.”
Liam was my link to Finn back when I was crazed with adoration for the handsome O’Shea boy.
“Sure, Saoirse, that I am… Or was. Sorry, but I’m no fecking good at grammar. Declan gave me a job here when I got out of the slammer.”
Liam disappeared without a trace—which means being dead in the Five Boroughs—after Patrick found out that Liam was on the take.
Death is the only possible result after a double-cross. ‘Tis written in our stars.
“I’m a Maguire now, Feargal, so no hard feelings, yeah?”
He gives me the nod and steps back.
I’m not dangerous, but I know what danger looks like. If Feargal holds a grudge against Patrick for Cousin Liam’s death, then my Da should be checking over his shoulder.
Declan’s still standing at the French doors, so I give him another wave.
He’s all business as usual. Declan thinks that emotions cost money, because emotions make a man weak.
It’s old school philosophy. A dinosaur way of thinking.
When a man’s heart is full of emotion he fights stronger, lifts heavier, and dies harder.
Without love, life feels icy cold.
And I should know.
I’m on my way to say farewell to the last O’Shea standing.
And that’s why I’m dressed like this.
So that I can dance on his grave.