Pledged to the Irish Mobster

1. Maeve

Maeve

My father leans forward, his hands clasped on the table between us. He looks older. Grayer. The lines around his eyes have deepened. I suppose prison will do that to you.

"Thanks for coming, Maevey."

I hate that nickname. Always have.

I stare at the man through bulletproof glass.

I haven't seen him since his sentencing. Haven't wanted to. It was easier to pretend he didn't exist.

I'm not even sure why I came, except that he claimed it was urgent that he see me.

And here I am.

I suppose that despite everything—despite the years of disappointment and broken promises—some pathetic part of me is still a little girl vying for parental love and protection.

Dad's jaw works like he's chewing something. "I know I haven't been there for you kids."

Understatement of the century.

"I know you've been carrying everything since..." He swallows. "Since your mother—even before that.”

My chest tightens. I don't want to think about Mom. Or about Cara's trauma when…

"Get to the point."

He flinches at that. Good.

"I want to say I'm sorry. For all of it. For leaving you…“ His voice catches. "With nothing but responsibilities that you should never have had to shoulder. I know what I did to you. To all of you."

I let his words sit there. I've heard apologies before. Not one of them has ever paid the rent.

"Apologies don't keep the lights on," I mumble.

He nods like he expects my bitterness, like he knows he deserves it.

"I have something better than an apology," he says. "I have a way out."

“A way out?”

"There's a family. A powerful family. They'll take care of you. All of you. The kids will have everything they need. A good home. Safety. Money. Things I can't give you from in here.”

My fingers dig into my thighs. "What are you talking about?"

"The O'Rourkes." He says it like I should be pleased. “One of the four brothers has agreed to marry you."

Agreed to marry you.

The words don't make sense at first. They’re just a jumble of syllables in my brain.

Then they click.

"You’ve…” I can barely get it out. "You’ve offered my hand in marriage? You can’t do that. What is this, the eighteenth century?”

“Maeve—”

“And to the O’Rourkes, no less!” The words rip out of me now, loud enough that the guard by the door looks over.

Pretty much everyone in Chicago knows the name O’Rourke. They’re in the Irish mob. They ARE the Irish mob.

"It's not like that—"

"No!" I'm on my feet, the chair screeching backward. "I won’t agree to this. You do not get to do this!"

The guard takes a step toward us.

Dad holds up his hands in a placating gesture, then focuses back on me. “I know I failed all of you. But this is the one thing I can do right. Let me do this one good thing."

Dad’s standing too now, desperation bleeding through every word.

"The wedding is Saturday," he says quietly.

My whole body is shaking. I'm going to be sick. “The wedding is NEVER.”

Without another word, I turn and walk toward the exit.

“St. Brigid’s,” he calls after me. “Saturday at noon.”

I don't stop.

The guard buzzes me through, and when I'm outside in the cold air, I gasp for breath like I've been underwater.