Chapter 6
Weekly dinners with Una are always a toss-up between an interrogation and a punishment. Usually a tortuous blend of both that would drive even a saint to drink.
She likes to pretend they're tradition, something sacred between mother and son, but the only thing sacred about them is how efficiently she can mine me for information without ever lifting a perfectly manicured finger. Half the time, I’m not even sure Una Quinn sees me as her son anymore, just an information source and her claim to the O’Malley name.
The same name she lost after being a two timing whore. But that's neither here nor there.
She’s already seated when I arrive at the private section of O’Neill’s, her silhouette backlit by soft candlelight and the shimmer of silver cutlery.
Regal, polished, inflexible. Not a single strand of icy blonde hair out of place beneath the glossy perfection of her blowout.
Nails blood red and razor sharp. The diamonds at her throat catch every flicker of light like tiny, expensive knives.
Despite her messy divorce from my Da, she still acts the role of Mafia wife to perfection.
“Darling,” she purrs, barely tilting her cheek as I lean down to kiss it. “How lovely to see you.”
“Mother,” I drawl, sliding into the chair across from her just as the waitress arrives with our usual drinks—a glass of red wine for her and a shot of vodka for me, leaving the bottle behind.
Nodding my thanks, I down my first shot while Una sips her wine, and I mentally brace for whatever this week’s attack will be.
“I heard Ciaran invited Antonio Salvatore to your birthday dinner.” A spike of heat flashes through me at her words.
Not just because of the mention of Salvatore—though thinking about the contract hanging over my head is definitely enough to have me forcing myself to remain calm.
But because the moment she says it, my mind drags me back like a hooked fish to the other parts of that night.
Jen’s voice, sharp enough to cut flesh. The scent of cloying perfume and expensive scorn.
And Lily, fuck—Lily—standing in that stupid pink dress that was clearly the wrong size, stiff as a doll.
Eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights on the side of the road.
Shoulders curled in, like she was trying to collapse into herself and disappear.
The ring she gifted me, pressing it into my palm like a secret only we know.
The same ring I haven’t taken off in the weeks since.
She looked like a child playing dress-up in a world built to devour her, and every part of me wanted to drag her out of there before the starter was even served.
But I couldn’t. Da’s watchful gaze made sure of that, and the unspoken weight of making a good impression kept my feet planted like roots. For now, anyway.
My jaw tenses until it aches just thinking about it.
I pour another shot and knock it back, savouring the burn before forcing myself to meet Una’s expectant gaze.
“He sure did,” I drawl, offering her nothing more than the bare minimum. Over the years since my parents split, I’ve learnt less is more when it comes to what I share with each of them about the other.
The silence stretches long enough for my phone to buzz on the table. I don’t look at it, never mind pick it up. If I so much as glance at it, Una will pounce and sink her teeth into whatever she thinks it might mean. She always does.
Her gaze skims the vibrating phone, but she doesn’t say a word, just sips her wine again, looking at me through lowered lashes, a calculating look hidden behind her carefully curated facade.
She can taste blood in the air, and we both know it isn’t hers.
She lets the silence settle between us, and I know better than to fill it.
The more I talk, the more chance there is for me to slip and give her something to latch onto.
But I’ve been playing this game with her long enough to know how to get through these dinners without giving her anything, while seemingly giving her everything.
So I sit back and pretend to listen as she launches into a story about the dancers at Alibi—one of the Four Points clubs she still oversees.
The divorce may have stripped her of the O’Malley name, but Da insisted she keep her position as manager.
Said continuity mattered, that the club needed stability, and that no son of his would grow up isolated from his mother.
Hell, that’s why these bastard dinners exist in the first place.
He’s a better man than me. If I’d been the one she cheated on—and then tried to paint as the villain—the last thing I’d be doing is keeping her on the payroll.
She’s halfway through listing which girls might need replacing when she stops, narrowed eyes flicking to my phone.
“Are you going to answer that?” she snaps when it buzzes for what feels like the tenth time.
I shrug, tossing back more vodka. “You know how it is. Business never sleeps.”
Her eyes narrow, the blue gone icy. “Business or your father?”
“Same difference,” I mutter, swirling the ice in my glass.
Una leans forward, lowering her voice. “Tell me something, Matthew. Is the little Davis girl still sniffing around? Or has she finally realised she’s not up to the standards of an O’Malley?”
I freeze, ice clinking sharply against the rim of my glass.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, voice flat as stone.
“Oh, but darling, you do.” Her smile curves like a knife. “You think I don’t hear things? Try again.”
My jaw locks so tightly my teeth ache.
My phone rattles across the table again, and Una shoots it a look like it’s something foul stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
“Honestly, Matthew, whoever that is clearly wants your attention. So I’ll ask again; is it business… or pleasure?”
I snatch my phone off the table and shove it into my jacket pocket. “Don’t worry about it.”
She lets out a thin, humourless laugh. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’d advise you to remember where your loyalties lie. You should be focusing on your future, not some distraction.”
“Thanks for the tip, Mother.”
The starters arrive—a seafood bisque for her, Caesar salad for me. Una dabs delicately at her lips, eyes still flicking every so often toward my pocket, as though she can sniff out the truth in my silences.
“Has your father spoken to you about Jonathan’s plans to handle this sex trafficking business?” she asks abruptly, catching me off guard.
“I’m not his secretary.”
“No. But you’re his son. His heir.” Her voice sharpens. “It’s time you acted like it.”
I spear another piece of lettuce, hoping the vodka will finally start to numb me.
By dessert—a tiramisu for her, Irish coffee for me—the conversation dissolves into civility. Una lifts her bag and disappears in a cloud of expensive perfume, and I finally feel like I can breathe.
“Same time next week,” she calls over her shoulder. “And think about what I said.”
I watch her go, the echo of her heels still ringing in my skull.
Once she’s gone, I grab my phone and my stomach drops.
Twelve unread messages. All from Lily.
Instantly, I’m stone cold sober as a vice clenches around my chest. Lily’s been spiralling lately, but in between being there for Owen as threats come at Cora from every angle and shadowing my Da down in the Pit, I haven’t had a second.
I scrub a hand down my face, fighting the urge to slam my phone into the table as I scroll through her messages again. I should answer her. Tell her to stay where she is. Tell her I’m coming. Tell her anything. Instead, my thumb flicks over to her Instagram.
Call it habit or obsession, I don’t give a fuck. Someone needs to be looking out for her since it's damn clear her own mother doesn't.
Her name’s right at the top of my feed, lit up like an alarm I can’t ignore.
lily_davis posted a new photo.
I tap it open.
She’s at a club I don't recognise, awash in pink strobe lights. A martini glass sweats beside her elbow. And she’s draped between two guys I’ve never seen before—one has an arm slung across her shoulders, the other leaning in, mouth close to her ear like he’s whispering something private.
Her smile is as bright as her eyes, lips parted like she’s about to laugh. Like she’s having the time of her fucking life.
I zoom in. The guy on her right has his hand on her thigh.
A hot spike of rage lances through my chest, setting my pulse pounding in my ears.
My phone vibrates again.
My vision tunnels.
She doesn’t fucking get it.
I jam my phone into my pocket and drain the rest of my drink in one savage swallow.
This is why I stay away. Why I’ve been trying so goddamn hard to stay away.
Because when it comes to Lily, nothing about me makes sense. No logic, no loyalty, no control. Just instinct and obsession and the ache that lives beneath my ribs whenever I see her.
She’s my stepsister. She’s supposed to be untouchable, off-limits to everyone and especially to me.
Even if she weren’t, even if fate hadn’t already twisted us into something wrong, I’m locked into a future with Gianna Salvatore. A marriage designed to secure alliances and silence blood feuds. A deal inked in legacy and expectation that comes with a thousand rules.
But I’ve never been good with rules, and one glimpse of Lily leaning into some stranger’s touch—a guy who doesn’t know a single thing about the way her nose crinkles when she laughs, or how she cries when someone calls her worthless—and just like that, I’m gone.
My pulse spikes, my jaw locks, my entire brain short-circuits. I become someone I don’t recognise—reckless, possessive, dangerous.
Another notification lights up my screen.
lily_davis posted a new story.
I tap it open and my worst nightmare unfolds.
A blurry video.
Pulsing music that rattles beneath my skin.
Lily, laughing into the camera—head tipped back, hair tangled across her face, lips slick with gloss, like she’s just kissed someone she shouldn’t have.