Sins of Innocence (Syndicate Sins #2)

Prologue

áINE

The little bell over the coffee shop door jingles as I step inside, bringing the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon with it. Normally, I would love it.

Today it turns my stomach.

Maybe it's because I'm eight months pregnant with a dead husband and a lot of fears for my future. Maybe it's because two men from the FBI spent an hour three days ago telling me my husband wasn't the man I thought he was.

Or maybe grief has simply sucked all the joy out of everything.

I smooth a hand over the stretched front of my maternity top before scanning the room. The man who called introducing himself as Kenneth Shaughnessy lifts one hand from a table in the corner.

He stands before I reach him.

"Mrs. Gallagher."

"Mr. Shaughnessy."

His handshake is warm, his smile practiced. Mid-forties, expensive charcoal suit, silver at his temples. The kind of successful businessman Troy had always wanted to become.

"Call me Kenneth. May I call you áine?" he asks.

I nod.

"Please." He gestures toward the booth. "Sit. Can I get you something? Tea? Decaf coffee?"

"I don't need anything."

"I insist." He studies me for a second before nodding. "Herbal tea, then. For the baby."

Before I can refuse again, he's already walking toward the counter.

I should leave. Every instinct tells me to leave. Instead, I stay. Because Troy told me he worked for Shaughnessy Corp and this man's last name is Shaughnessy and he claimed to have been Troy's boss.

After my meeting with the FBI agents, I have a lot of questions about my husband's job and the people he worked for. The Shaughnessy Mob isn't exactly a secret in the boroughs of New York, but I never connected them to my husband's job for the huge global concern.

The FBI claims that connection is there. And they want my help bringing down Troy's former employers.

Kenneth returns carrying two mugs and sets one carefully in front of me. "Chamomile."

"Thank you."

"My wife drank it when she was pregnant with our son." He sits across from me and waits for me to take a sip before saying, "I hear you've been talking to the FBI."

What? How?

My heart starts pounding a mile-a-minute. "Did they contact you too?"

Kenneth spears me with suddenly cold eyes. "Is there a reason you think they should have?"

"They had some...interesting theories," I force out from my suddenly tight throat. "They said Troy wasn't who I thought he was."

"They should have left you alone." Kenneth sighs, looking genuinely disappointed.

What does that mean? He's not denying Troy had a life I didn't know about, but he's not confirming anything either.

"They didn't," is all I say. Then because if what the FBI agents claimed was true, I need to do damage control, I say, "I told them I wasn't interested in helping them with their inquiries. And I'm not."

I don't have a death wish.

"I know."

"You do?" I ask, my voice embarrassingly high. "How?"

His expression hardens ever so slightly. "One of the agents is an old friend. He gave me a heads up that my family might have a problem."

FML. "There's no problem. Not from me anyway. I don't know anything," I rush to assure Kenneth.

"What did they tell you Troy did for me?" Kenneth asks.

I blink. To tell the truth, or make up a lie? If his friend told him I refused to help with their inquiries maybe he told Kenneth what else was said.

Can you say corrupt Fed? There's my inner snark queen. Right when I don't need her.

Deciding honesty is my best tactic right now, I admit, "They said he was involved with organized crime."

Which is something I've tried to wrap my head around for the past few days and still can't quite take in. My Troy? The father of my three daughters, one of them unborn?

Vain? Yes. High handed with seriously traditional views of family? Yes and yes. A criminal? No.

How could he be?

"But they didn't tell you his job," Kenneth guesses…or knows.

"No." I take in a shaky breath. "Troy was a businessman."

Though I don't really know what that entailed. He never gave me details of his job. He said he couldn't because of the NDA he signed when he started working for Shaughnessy Corporation.

What I do know is that his job was legitimate on some level at least because he had life insurance through his employer and it paid out after his death. If it hadn't, me and the girls would be way worse off than we are.

"Not so much. He worked security for my family," Kenneth says with so much assurance, I can't disbelieve him.

"But…" How did he afford all the little extras in life he was so fond of working security?

"I'm sorry, áine, but your husband lied to you."

"No." I shake my head even as my sinking heart tells me the intimidating man sitting across from me is telling me the truth.

Kenneth takes a sip of his latte. "He loved expensive suits."

I don't answer.

"He liked luxury cars."

I still don't answer.

"He spent money faster than he earned it."

My cheeks burn. I can't deny Kenneth's words. Any of them. The girls and I had to move in with my mom after selling our home to pay off my husband's massive debts that I knew nothing about.

Like I knew nothing about Troy's life as a mobster.

Oh, lord. I'm going to be sick.

"Your husband couldn't afford his expensive tastes on a soldier's wages."

A soldier? What does that even mean? Do soldiers leave the house in a knockoff designer suit every morning?

"He left a lot of debt," I admit. Not that I think this is going to come as any kind of news to Kenneth.

Kenneth nods, his expression almost pitying. "He did more than run up debts, áine. He sold information. About my family."

I take a hasty gulp of tea, trying to keep myself from throwing up. It's been months since I was affected by pregnancy nausea. This is 100% stress.

I shake my head, desperately wanting that to be a lie. "No."

"Betrayal comes with a death sentence in our business," Kenneth says quietly.

No one but I am close enough to hear him the low hum of conversation, the barista taking orders, the hiss of the milk frother and beans rattling into the grinder.

But his words are so loud in my head, he might as well have shouted them. "Betrayal?" I ask shakily.

"He spied on us for payment. We call someone who does that a rat."

"A rat?" My voice sounds hollow to my own ears.

I'm not even sure why I asked that. I know what a rat is. In the mob.

My husband was in the mob.

And so is this man sitting across from me. "How…" I clear my throat and lick my lips. "How did Troy die?"

The police officer who came to my door said it was a car accident. That the body had been too mutilated for identification with anything but dental records. Troy's cremated remains sat in the front of the church for his funeral attended only by my family.

None of Troy's friends came. Neither did anyone from work. Since I'd never met them and didn't know who to even contact, other than the HR person at Shaughnessy Corp I had to tell about my husband's death, that didn't strike me as odd.

Now, it does.

Now, it's more than odd. It's sinister.

Kenneth looks at me for several long seconds. "I wish I didn't have to answer that."

My breathing turns shallow. I want to say, then don't, but I also want to know the truth. I need to know the truth.

"Our underboss believes betrayal has to be remembered."

Ice settles in my veins. "What does that mean?"

"He made an example of Troy before firing him." Kenneth waits a beat. "Permanently."

He means death. He means the underboss killed my husband.

I don't want to ask. I do anyway. "An example how?"

"He was tortured."

I jerk, knocking my mug of tea off the table. Hot liquid splashes my ankles and pools on the floor. I don’t care about the mess or the sting where the tea hit my skin.

"He wanted every man under him to understand what happens to a rat," Kenneth goes on with every evidence of sympathy, but there's a coldness deep in his eyes that makes me shiver.

The coffee shop disappears. All I hear is that word.

Tortured.

"They didn't..." My voice cracks. "They didn't even let me see him."

"There wasn't much left to see."

That's what the medical examiner said, but the reason he gave was a lot different than this one. A broken sound escapes my throat. I cover my mouth with both hands. "No..."

"I tried to stop it."

My head jerks up. "You—"

"I argued for mercy."

Did he? Do men in the mob do that on behalf of a rat? I don't know. I want to believe someone stood up for Troy. Even if they failed.

Kenneth slides a folded handkerchief across the table.

"I lost a good employee."

Employee. Not soldier. Not mobster. Employee. As generic as it is, the word is almost comforting.

"I don't understand."

"I know."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because someone needs to."

The answer feels honest. "The FBI wanted me to help them."

"Yes."

"I'll never help them." My girls need one parent at least who lives to raise them into adulthood.

Kenneth studies me carefully. "You mean that."

"Yes."

I can't tell if he thinks that's a good or bad thing based on his expression. It has to be a good thing, right? He can't want me talking to the FBI. Even if I literally don't know anything.

Except what he just told me.

He thinks he's doing me a favor. Being honest so I know the truth. I wish I didn't know the truth. It feels like this kind of knowledge is dangerous. For me. For my girls.

Pushing my chair back, I say, "I need to go."

But Kenneth shakes his head before I can lever my heavily pregnant body into a standing position. "I'm not done. I want to help you, áine."

"I…" I don't know what I want to say. I only know I want to go.

Right now.

"Do you know what happens if the underboss believes someone might become a risk to our organization?" Kenneth asks me, almost gently.

Fear coils in my stomach. "No."

"He removes the risk."

I stop breathing. "My girls..."

"They're safe."

"For now?"

"They aren't the concern."

Relief crashes through me so hard my eyes sting all over again.

"But if the wrong people start asking questions..." He lets the sentence trail away.

"I won't talk to anyone."

"I believe you. I think you're exactly what Troy always believed you were."

My voice barely works. "What's that?"

"A devoted wife."

I almost correct him. Widow.

Instead I ask, "Why did you want to meet me?"

His gaze is steady. "Because Troy can't protect his family anymore."

I blink.

"I can."

"Um...why…"

His gaze drops briefly to my stomach. "You've got three little girls depending on you now."

Three. Not two. Joy kicks beneath my ribs as if she heard him.

He reaches into his jacket and slides a business card across the table. "If anyone from the FBI contacts you again..."

I look down at the card.

"...call me first."

"I will."

He stands. "You'll need a job after the baby's born. I'll be in touch." Then he walks away.

Does he want me to work for Shaughnessy Corp too? As a bookkeeper, or a mobster?

Don't get hysterical, my inner voice sounds suspiciously like my mom right now. Mom, who has always been there for me. Who didn't like Troy but never made me feel like it mattered because she loved me and her granddaughters.

The waitress brings paper towels for the spilled tea, but I barely notice as I manage to lumber to my feet.

I lay both hands over the hard curve of my stomach.

Joy rolls beneath my palms.

"I've got you," I whisper, even though my voice shakes. "I'll keep you and your sisters safe."

Whatever it costs me.

Even if we have to move away from New York.