Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Siobhán
M y parents’ house was southwest of downtown just north of Dorchester, but with traffic, even after laying on the horn and cutting off one hot-tempered cabbie, I didn’t start my parking search until twilight darkened their packed, narrow street. Friday was my night to help with supper. To be fair, most nights were my nights to help my parents. God forbid my idiot brother step up and take more than one night a week. No, he was content reinforcing my long-held belief that if I didn’t do something, it wouldn’t get done. Which was the reason I was late in the first place. It was the Friday before my two-week vacation, and I needed to make sure my department heads had their marching orders. My team was solid, but I never left anything open to interpretation.
I slowed to a stop ahead of a space only inches longer than my BMW and shook my head at the irony of parallel parking between a Volvo and a brand-new Rivian. The neighborhood had become a trendy hot spot for young professionals, a far cry from the ’80s and early ’90s when it was one of the most dangerous in the country. I’d spent my entire life trying to get out of Southie, and now people were trying to move in.
Over the past twenty years, most Irish Americans had moved to West Roxbury or Dorchester. Southie was more diverse now, but a good quarter of the residents were still Irish, holdouts like my parents. Until a few years ago, Da still worked at his shop. He didn’t chop for the Shaughnessys anymore—hadn’t in years—but even before he quit, I doubted he’d made any real money. But working on cars made him happy. It gave him purpose, and he refused to leave his shop behind and move with the rest of Mam’s family.
And now? I slammed the door, slung my purse over my shoulder, and darted across the street. Now it was too late. Da’s dementia worsened with each visit, and Mam was convinced that leaving the only home he’d known since moving to America would turn his world upside down. They had a routine, and as long as they stuck to the routine—in their house in their neighborhood—everything would be fine. I was too tired to argue.
How this would all work with a new job was beyond me. I already ran myself ragged between managing Terme and my parents’ household. Not to mention keeping my own life afloat. Add in a longer commute to wherever—if I found a job that wasn’t a step backward in my career—and I had serious doubts I’d ever sleep again.
The old chain-link gate shrieked open, then clattered shut. I hurried up the narrow path between century-old, detached row houses to the back porch. Mam kept the front door dead bolted. It made her feel safe even if that safety was an illusion.
I held the screen door open with my hip and unlocked the back door. It opened into the kitchen where I was immediately accosted by the smell of… garbage.
What. The fuck.
“Ma!”
“We’re in the TV room, Siobhán,” she yelled back, as much as my mother had ever yelled in her life. Soft-spoken was an understatement.
“What is that smell?” I asked, my face twisted in disgust. The rancid stench was no less prominent in the living room than in the kitchen. I dropped my purse next to the potted plant and hung my coat on the back of one of the dining chairs. “And why is the heat on? It’s April!”
I’d just been there Tuesday. How were things already falling apart?
Da sat in his chair, a dirty old thing upholstered in that drab olive color so popular in the ’80s. He refused to get it restuffed or reupholstered, swearing it would ruin his “sitting experience.” He was completely focused on the TV and didn’t spare me a glance. Mam sat on the sofa, crocheting oven mitts. She set her work in her lap and turned her wrinkled face up to give me a smile that landed somewhere between disappointed and resigned.
“It’s the garbage, dear,” she said. “We had corned beef and cabbage a few nights ago for supper. Maureen O’Sullivan brought it over. You know Maureen—from St. Mary’s? I haven’t taken it out yet.”
“Why not?” I snapped, horrified that my parents were living with rotting garbage.
“My hip’s been acting up.” She looked down and lifted her crocheting. “I didn’t want to fall,” she said, barely above a whisper. Mam had gotten her hip replaced after a tumble on an icy patch on the back porch two winters ago. The surgery had been successful, but she hadn’t been the same since.
“Why didn’t Rory take it out last night?”
“Rory didn’t come over last night. He was busy.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled.
“Watch yer tongue,” Da barked from his chair, but his eyes never left the television. “’Tis an Irish-Catholic house. We dinna use the Lard’s name in vain.”
As dementia claimed his mind, history reclaimed Da’s accent. He’d lost the thick Irish brogue after decades of living in Boston, but over the past year it had returned with a vengeance, as though his mind was rewinding to a simpler time.
“Sorry, Da,” I grumbled and went back into the kitchen.
My parents’ declining health had dragged me back to Southie two years ago. Dragged me back kicking and screaming all the way across the Atlantic to where my family—the Shaughnessys—ruled over Irish organized crime. However much I resented coming back, the overflowing garbage and a sink filled with dirty dishes were proof enough that I’d made the right decision. It had been the only decision.
I propped my hands on my hips, closed my eyes, and let my head fall back. I could’ve strangled Rory. Our parents needed us, and I couldn’t trust my own brother to make sure they weren’t living with rotting garbage.
Mam kept the heat on, because the cold made her hip ache, but it was cooking the trash and making the smell worse. I turned off the heat and threw open the windows. She could use one of her eight million crocheted blankets if she was cold. I gathered up the bag, took it out back, and got to work on the dishes.
Rory and I had an arrangement. He had one night, and I had the rest. I didn’t give a flying fuck about his bullshit excuses. I couldn’t do this alone. A new job would likely take me out of Boston. What then? There weren’t many high-end hotels and resorts in the area, and I refused to sacrifice a career I’d busted my ass to build because Rory couldn’t get his shit together.
Not only did Mam refuse to move closer to family or into an assisted living facility, she also refused hired help. My only recourse? Threats. I had to threaten Rory with Ciarán just to take care of his own parents. But to be completely fair, I didn’t trust Ciarán any more than I trusted any other man. The whole situation was a flaming dumpster fire.
I set the last of the dishes in the drying rack, and the back door swung open. A man who could have been my twin walked into the kitchen.
“Speak of the devil,” I grumbled and gave my cousin an irritated glare before opening the fridge.
Ciarán Shaughnessy was six feet and two inches of pure Celtic genetics. He had more gray in his blond hair than I did, but you wouldn’t know it since he buzzed his head. An explosion of freckles covered his arms, but only a sprinkle was visible across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. Just like me. His eyes were the same pale blue as mine, but his laugh lines etched deeper troughs in his face. Made sense given the rough life he led while I was in Ireland. Those differences aside, the resemblance really was uncanny.
“What did I do?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“Do you smell that?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Guess who didn’t show up yesterday?” I pulled salad ingredients out of the fridge and set them on the counter.
“How is that my fault?”
“Rory works for you. I’m assuming his excuse—once he decides to grace us with his presence—will be that you had him driving somewhere or doing something more important than making sure his parents are safe, fed, and not living with rotting garbage.”
I slammed the salad dressing on the counter. My cheeks were hot, and their color no doubt matched the pitch of my voice. The Southie had come out too. The polished accent I worked so hard to curate always fell away in heated moments. Especially when those moments involved my family.
“Everything okay in there?” Mam called in her little voice.
“We’re fine, Aunt Maggie,” Ciarán called back. “Just getting supper ready.”
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked, my words clipped as I prepped my parents’ late meal. A meal I couldn’t even eat. After working an eleven-hour day.
Ciarán leaned against the counter and shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets. The old leather jacket he’d had since high school fell open revealing a Henley covered in grease. He must have come from Da’s shop. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said.
I chopped the half of a cucumber I’d found in the fridge. “About what?”
“About your boss.”
I shook my head. “You’re bahking up the wrong tree, Ciarán,” I said, my accent in full force after that comment.
He raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t asked you a question yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.” An innocent red pepper now received the brunt of my frustration. “I refuse to say anything about Marco to you just like I’d refuse to say anything about you to Marco.” I paused and shot him a heated glare, my irritation with my family pressing against my chest. “At least he has the decency not to ask.” I resumed chopping.
“What the hell, Vahnie?” Ciarán snapped back, using the nickname he gave me when we were kids. He straightened off the counter and pulled his shoulders back. “You’re a Shaughnessy, or have you forgotten?”
I set the knife down and looked him in the eye, exerting as much control as I could so I wouldn’t explode. “No. I haven’t forgotten. My scars remind me of that unfortunate fact every day.”
Ciarán’s lips twisted, fighting a grimace or a frown—I wasn’t sure which and didn’t care. I didn’t care if talking about my scars made him uncomfortable. At least he didn’t have to live with them.
“You know better than to ask, Ciarán. Don’t involve me.”
His shoulders deflated. He rested his forehead in his hand and rubbed his temples.
I drizzled dressing over the salad in each bowl and, happy with my prep, ventured into the living room. I moved the remote off Da’s armrest and notched the volume down to a decibel level appropriate for humans. “Time for supper, Da.”
He tore his eyes away from the TV long enough to give me a blank stare, his eyebrows knotted in confusion. “Who are you?” he asked in an accusatory tone.
Loss and regret punched me in the chest. “It’s Siobhán, Da.”
His condition had worsened over the past six months, and things weren’t going to get any better. But I didn’t have time to mourn. Someone had to keep this ship from sinking. So I pulled out the TV trays and set one in front of each of my parents.
“Thank you, dear,” Mam said and tucked her crocheting into the basket at her feet. “Are you staying for supper, Ciarán?”
Ciarán leaned against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the living room and patted his stomach. “Nah. Thanks, Aunt Maggie, but I already ate.”
I passed him on my way back into the kitchen to retrieve the salads, and he leaned back, looked over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “You’ve been involved. You’ve been working for the DeVitas for two years. Don’t forget, you called me when that shit went down at Vesuvio.”
I stopped in front of him with the salads, forks, and napkins. “For the eight millionth time, I didn’t know who he was when I took the job. It was an amazing career opportunity. And, thanks to you and my idiot brother, I couldn’t walk away just because of his rumored connections. Someone needs to make sure my parents aren’t living with rotting garbage . And for the record, the reason I called you that night was to prevent the two people I love most in the world from killing each other. That’s. It. ”
I marched past him and put the salads in front of my parents.
“Thank you, dear.” Mam made the sign of the cross and folded her hands in her lap.
“I want to know who tried to frame me,” Ciarán demanded.
I held up my hands. “I’m not getting involved.” He stepped into the living room like he was about to launch into an argument, but I cut him off. “And why does it matter? Seriously. Marco knows it wasn’t you. I made sure of that. There won’t be any retaliation. Let it go.”
“You know I can’t let something like that go. If this happened because of Italian in-fighting, some sort of turf war within the Mafia, I need to know.”
“Why?”
“Let’s not talk about such matters in front of your da,” Mam said. She wrung her hands in her lap. “It upsets him.”
It didn’t upset Da; it upset her. It never used to. She’d always had a backbone when it came to mob stuff. Hell, her brother’s death and what happened to me hadn’t fazed her. Just part and parcel of being a Shaughnessy. But Da’s steady decline and her decreased mobility had shaken her foundation and turned her into a nervous wreck.
“Why?” I lowered my voice and closed the distance between myself and Ciarán. “So you can take advantage of it?” I hissed.
He shoved a finger in my face. “Don’t question my motivations or my authority when it comes to the family business, Siobhán.”
I swatted his finger out of my face. “I’ll question whatever the hell I want, Ciarán . You may be the boss of this family, but you are not the boss of me.”
He pressed his lips together.
I grunted in disgust. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, there’s in-fighting. You going to join the party? Put yourself and your crew at risk? Start an all-out war with the Italians?”
“This city would be safer without the Mafia in it.” He bit the words out. “My father should have finished the job he started. I’m not going to make the same mistake.”
Panic rose. The instinct to escape, to get away from my family and this entire mess with Vesuvio made my muscles twitch to bolt out the door, head straight for Logan International Airport, and get on the next plane to Ireland. I’d never be safe if I was caught in the middle of a turf war between my family and the DeVitas.
I glanced over my shoulder. Mam daintily ate her salad, feigning indifference, but the slight shake of her fork told a different story. And Da… Poor Da. Once so strong, he poked at his salad like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. The acid burn of worry for my parents and the frantic need to leave Terme di Boston stabbed at my stomach and made me nauseous. I closed my eyes and released a long, frustrated sigh.
“Look, Vahnie. I know you don’t believe me, but you’re safe. I’ll protect you. I’ve got things in the works—” He clamped his mouth shut and examined me. “There are things in the works I can’t tell you about, deals I’ve put in place to protect our family. You gotta trust me.”
“Cosa Nostra…” Da’s rough voice carried over the TV. Ciarán looked past me, and I glanced over my shoulder. Da stared at his salad. “That’s what they call themselves. There’s somethin’ wrong with those Italians,” he grumbled. “The devil in ’em.” Mam crossed herself. “Paddy seen it. Conor and Liam too. Red eyes. Shot one of ’em point blank. Right in the chest. ’E kept on comin’. Eyes blazin’ red. That’s why ye need the head shot.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “Right ’ere, Paddy said. That’s how ’e got that devil Moretti. Gotta get ’em with a head shot.” He trailed off, and my stomach burned hearing Luca’s name in Da’s paranoid rant.
I took a deep breath. That’s the way it was with Da now. No recognition. No participation in conversation. Then out of the blue, as if suddenly transported into the past, he’d ramble on about one thing or another before going back to staring at the TV and ignoring the present. It was painful to watch.
To make matters worse, this wasn’t the first time I’d heard those ridiculous stories about the Italian Mafia in Boston. It had been a recurring theme growing up. Mam’s family was devout Catholic and superstitious as hell. I don’t know if Uncle Paddy believed the shit he was spouting, or if he was trying to make his rivals seem evil so his crew could be the righteous saviors of Boston while lining their pockets. Either way, he’d never let up with the stories of red-eyed monsters who couldn’t be killed. They became a joke once Ciarán took over, but there were still a handful of superstitious Irish mobsters who thought Italian mafiosos were possessed by the devil.
I shook my head and pushed past Ciarán into the kitchen. “The only person I trust is myself,” I said, returning to our conversation before Da’s interruption. I opened the fridge and took out the leftover meatloaf and mayonnaise. “I don’t want to be involved.” I retrieved the bread from the pantry and two plates from the cabinet and rested my palms on the counter. “But I’m going to give you a piece of advice, because I do love you, and I don’t want this to blow up in your face.”
I looked into my cousin’s eyes, intense wild-blue fire. “Don’t make the same mistakes as your da.” Ciarán hadn’t said outright that he’d made a deal with federal law enforcement, but his vague statements had reeked like the rotting garbage. “Don’t get in bed with people you shouldn’t be sleeping with.”
He pressed his lips together and gave me a short nod.
The back door opened, and my brother walked in. A couple inches shorter than Ciarán, Rory looked more Connelly than Shaughnessy with dark curly hair, a stout build, and a face covered in freckles.
“Look who decided to grace this house with his presence,” I snapped and spread mayonnaise on the bread for my parents’ cold meatloaf sandwiches.
“What’s that smell?” he asked and wrinkled his pug nose. He reached for a piece of meatloaf, and I slammed the mayonnaise-laden knife down on the counter.
“That would be garbage. And it was a hell of a lot worse when I first got here. Do you know why?”
He grimaced, backed up empty-handed, and stood next to Ciarán.
“Because someone didn’t show up yesterday. Because someone decided they had better things to do than take care of their parents. Because someone doesn’t give a rat’s ass that their sister has a full-time job and a life of her own!”
“Ahhh, fuck, Vahnie.” He scrubbed a hand back and forth through his floppy curls. “I was working.” He looked to Ciarán for support. Ciarán’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.” I picked up the knife and pointed it at the living room. “Apologize to them. They’re the ones who had to live with rotting garbage for two days.” I cut the sandwiches in half and placed them on the plates. “You need to get your priorities straight.”
“Hey, now. I got my priorities straight. When Ciarán asks me to do something, I do it. And he had me on a job last night.”
My temper had been simmering since I’d arrived, but my brother’s dismissal turned it up to a rolling boil. “Not if it interferes with your responsibilities to our family!”
I turned my death glare from Rory to Ciarán. He lifted his hands in an I’m-staying-out-of-this gesture.
“You kids get along in there,” Mam called.
I let my head fall back and expelled an exasperated sigh. “I need to know I can rely on you to take care of them when I’m not around,” I said to the ceiling before lifting my head back up. “This is a lot on all of us, and I can’t do it alone. Not this.”
“Christ, Vahnie. I just forgot.”
“No,” I said and walked to the pantry to get the potato chips. “No more excuses. There’s always an excuse, and then I have to clean up the mess. But that’s not going to fly for the next two weeks while I’m on vacation.”
Rory and Ciarán exchanged guilty glances.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, help me,” I mumbled and put a handful of chips onto each plate. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
Ciarán looked at his feet, and Rory eyed the meatloaf on the counter.
I picked up the plates and looked between my cousin and my brother. “As I mentioned—multiple times—I am on vacation for the next two weeks. And as we’ve discussed—multiple times—your schedules, the chores, grocery lists, everything is on the fridge.” I widened my eyes and craned my neck. “Got it?”
“We’re on it, Vahnie,” Ciarán said and stood straighter. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. Just enjoy your vacation.”
I shook my head and turned for the living room. Not worry about a thing. Right. It’d be a goddamn miracle if this place was still standing after two weeks without me.
But I needed to remove myself from the volatile situation between my family and the DeVitas, which meant I needed two weeks off for interviews. I just hoped a new job outside of Boston was enough; I didn’t want to think about leaving my parents’ fate in the hands of my idiot brother if I had to move back to Ireland.
* * *
My heels clicked against the wooden steps up to the second floor of my duplex in Somerville. It wasn’t the flashiest of places, and I could afford more, but it suited me. It was about as far away from Southie as I could get without being inconvenient. I shared the duplex with a lovely Irish couple who’d lived on the first floor for thirty years. The bakery next door was an added bonus. The owners came in super early each morning to bake donuts and cakes fresh for the day. It made the entire house smell like the inside of pastry bag.
The side door at the top of the steps opened into my living room. I hung my purse and jacket on the hook next to the door and kicked off my shoes, wiggling toes that had been cramped inside heels for sixteen hours.
My days were long when I visited my parents. Da’s dementia was getting worse, and Mam’s physical ability seemed to mirror his mental decline. And tonight, Da’s outburst had Mam crossing herself and wringing her hands more than usual. I hated to see them like that, but I hated the thought of them alone and struggling even more. So I’d stayed later than usual after dinner to clean and sit with Mam until her nerves calmed and she went to bed.
I untucked my blouse and pulled it over my head as I walked down the hall to my bedroom.
Ciarán coming over hadn’t helped either. He was as much a brother to me as Rory, but the last thing I needed, or wanted, were his opinions on the Italians or his vague hints about “deals.” I loved my family, but I also loved my found family. I owed as much loyalty to Marco as I did the Shaughnessy name. Ciarán fishing for information and implying he had plans made my stomach clench with anxiety. It also pissed me off, and the confluence of emotions added to the bone-deep weariness that no amount of sleep ever seemed to cure.
I tugged on the chain of the art deco lamp that stood in the corner of my bedroom. A muted orange glow lit up my cozy retreat. I tossed my blouse on the bed, unzipped my skirt, and let it fall to the floor. I’d deal with it later, eager for the soft comfort of leggings, an oversized sweater, and fuzzy socks.
Something rustled in the living room. I paused, one foot into my leggings.
Nothing.
I pulled them on the rest of the way, unclasped the back of my bra, and threw it on the bed. I rifled through the bottom drawer of the dresser for my favorite sweater, pulled it over my head, and pushed up the sleeves. Heaven. I yanked pins out of my hair and dropped them onto my nightstand. I rubbed my scalp, finally free of its bindings, and tied my hair back in a short ponytail.
I spun around, thirsty for a martini to take the day’s edge off, and slammed into a hard body.
I yelped. So much adrenaline poured into my system, my vision went dark. A thick hand clamped over my mouth and muffled my scream. I thrashed and swung my fists. Blood rushed in my ears.
My vision cleared as survival instincts kicked in, and my eyes went wide with disbelief. I stopped flailing mid-swing, and my arms fell to his biceps even as breath came short and frantic through my nostrils.
Luca Moretti wrapped an arm around my waist and held my body flush against his. I stared into the depths of his smoldering eyes and breathed in the unmistakable scent of his cologne.
Luca was alive. He was holding me in my bedroom.
Tears burned my eyes. I searched his face for an answer to my silent question— is it really you?
His hand covering my mouth relaxed, and he dragged his index finger across my parted lips, along the curve of my cheek, and down my neck. He lowered his lips to my ear.
“Did you miss me, Shamrock?”