12. Ronan
Ronan
As we push through the front door of O’Rourke’s Pub, the noise hits us in a wave—music, laughter, a hundred conversations overlapping, glasses clinking.
The renovation turned the old place into something sharp and modern without gutting the bones my great-grandparents built. Exposed brick, dark wood, brass fixtures. Every seat is taken. Bodies pack the bar three deep.
Prudence’s fingers dig into the sleeve of my jacket. Her jaw is clenched, her spine rigid, and her eyes sweep the room in a rapid, overwhelmed scan—trying to absorb a place that contains more people and noise than she’s experienced in her entire life.
“Stay with me,” I say. “I got you.”
“What if I say the wrong thing?”
“There is no wrong thing.”
I steer us through the crowd with my arm protectively wrapped around her.
Lorcan spots us first.
He’s behind the bar pulling a pint, and his gaze travels from me to the woman on my arm. His hand freezes on the tap. Beer overflows the glass, cascading over his knuckles.
He sets down the pint, ignores the mess, and vaults over the bar, landing two feet from us, grinning.
“There he is.” He clasps my shoulder, then his gaze shifts to Prudence. The grin doesn’t falter—it widens. “And who’s your lovely date?”
“Lorcan.” I pull Prudence closer against my side. “This is my wife, Prudence.”
His grin freezes. Thaws. Freezes again.
“Your…excuse me?”
“My wife.”
He looks at Prudence. Looks at me. Looks at Prudence again.
Then the grin returns—wider, brighter, full of genuine delight. “Well, damn. You dark horse you.” He turns to Prudence and performs a theatrical bow. “Welcome to the family. I’m Lorcan. Ronan’s youngest and best-looking brother.”
Prudence blinks at him, then at me, then back at him. She’s clearly out of her element, but before I can punch my brother in the face for making her uncomfortable, she says, “I’m Prudence. It’s lovely to meet you. Yes, you are very handsome.”
Lorcan’s face splits wide with delight.
“Oh, I love her,” he announces to no one in particular. “Ronan, she’s got more class in one sentence than you’ve managed in thirty-two years.” He leans toward her conspiratorially. “Fair warning—I’m the fun brother. The other three are miserable bastards.”
Prudence takes the hand he offers. Her posture is rigid with formality, and for a moment I think she might curtsy.
“The private room is set up in the back,” Lorcan tells me, jerking his chin. “Everyone’s here. Cillian’s pretending he doesn’t care about the fuss, but he looks like a peacock king holding court.”
I guide Prudence through the crowd. She moves with careful steps, turning her head to watch a waitress balance a tray of pint glasses, then a group of men roaring at something on a mounted television screen. Her face cycles between wonder and worry so fast I doubt anyone else catches it.
I catch it.
The private room is separated from the main floor by a heavy wooden door.
Inside, the noise drops enough to hold a conversation.
There’s a small bar against the wall, and a long table runs down the center, laden with food and bottles.
The family is already arranged around it in their usual formation.
Cillian stands near the head of the table with Nora at his side, his hand resting on her hip, hers on her pregnant stomach.
He’s in a dark suit—birthday or not, the man dresses as though he’s conducting a board meeting.
His eyes track our entrance, and move from my face to Prudence where they hold for a beat—assessing a variable he didn’t anticipate.
Admittedly—although she’s as beautiful as any woman I’ve ever had on my arm, even more so, truth be told—she’s not my usual type. That is to say, she’s not a vain, materialistic airhead.
I watch as Cillian reads her posture, the placement of my hand on her back, then spots the ring I put on her finger yesterday—a platinum and diamond wedding set I bought from a jeweler on Michigan Avenue.
I draw Prudence forward and nod at my oldest brother. “Cillian, happy birthday,” I say before announcing to the family, “I’d like you all to meet Prudence. My wife.”
Cillian’s eyes narrow as Nora’s widen. It’s Nora who recovers first, stepping forward with grace and warmth, to clasp both of Prudence’s hands.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you.” The kindness in Nora’s voice is genuine—she arrived at this family with nothing and built herself into something formidable.
She squeezes Prudence’s fingers and murmurs, “If you need anything tonight—anything at all—come find me.”
Prudence’s shoulders drop an inch. Her lips part in a small, grateful smile.
Cillian extends his hand to Prudence next. She takes it, and I watch her meet his eyes as I’ve taught her. It’s difficult for her, I can tell. Everything in her training screams that she should lower her gaze before a man of authority. Instead, she holds steady.
“Happy birthday,” she says. “I hope this evening brings you joy.”
The formality is quintessentially Prudence, and Cillian’s mouth curves. “Thank you. And welcome to the family.” He turns his sharp gaze on me, and the silent demand is clear—we’re having a conversation about this later.
Declan leans against the far wall with his arms folded over his chest, appraising Prudence with the hard focus of a man sizing up a recruit. He gives me a nod—short, decisive—then turns his gaze to her. “Welcome.” One word, but from Declan, it might as well be an embrace.
Saoirse, beside him, is less restrained. She offers a smile and a wave that carries real openness. I don’t miss how her blue eyes linger on Prudence’s face—one rescued woman identifying another.
Prudence waves back, shyly.
Lorcan appears with two glasses—whiskey for me, sparkling water for Prudence. He presses the water into her hand and winks. “Start with the easy stuff. We’ll corrupt you later.”
She takes a small sip, and her eyes go wide. “The water has bubbles.”
“Carbonation,” Lorcan explains. “They force air into the water. Makes it fizzy.”
She holds the glass up to the overhead fixture and watches the tiny streams of bubbles rise through the liquid. The delight on her face is so pure, so unguarded, that Lorcan catches my eye and mouths, she’s a keeper.
I nod once. She is.
Cillian taps a knife against his glass, and the room hushes. “I’ll keep this mercifully brief,” he says, which gets a laugh. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for the whiskey, which I intend to drink all of. And thank you to my wife, who organized this shindig against my explicit instructions.”
Nora shrugs one shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Glasses rise. Cillian drinks, and the conversation resumes, and the private room fills with the noisy rhythm of a group of family and close friends who communicate in jabs and laughter.
“Are all pubs this loud?” Prudence asks Lorcan.
“The good ones are.” He slides a plate of food toward her. “Try the fries. They’re legendary.”
She picks up a single thick-cut fry, golden and salted—and bites into it with the deliberation of a scientist running a controlled experiment.
Her eyes go wide.
“These are…delicious.”
Lorcan beams as though she’s awarded him a Michelin star.
I’m watching her eat her second fry when I register the shift. Ma has risen from her seat at the far end of the table and is moving toward the bar, where she pauses to straighten a cocktail napkin that doesn’t need straightening.
Her eyes find mine. One look. The silent summons I’ve been expecting.
I squeeze Prudence’s hand. “I’ll be right back. Lorcan’s got you.”
“I’ve got her,” Lorcan confirms, already pointing out different food choices on the table.
I cross the room to my mother, the formidable Kathleen O’Rourke.
Ma doesn’t waste time. She lifts her wine glass and takes a measured sip before speaking. “Another son. Another surprise wife. I’m running out of ways to act unsurprised, Ronan.”
“Ma—”
“What happened with Senator Whitfield’s daughter?
” She sets her glass down with precision.
“You attended her father’s fundraiser together.
You danced with her. She called my office afterward to express interest. Her family has political reach, media connections, and a clean public profile.
” Ma’s voice drops a register. “I had a dinner arranged for the two of you at Catalina’s.
The reservation is still in my calendar. ”
“Cancel it.”
“She can open doors for this family that—”
“I’m married.” My voice is even, civil, and final. “It’s a done deal.”
Her rings clink against the stem of her glass. “Where did she come from? She looks as though she’s never seen a french fry before.”
“She hasn’t.”
Ma’s mouth thins to a line.
“I know you had plans for me,” I tell her. “The senator’s daughter, the real estate heiress, the investment banker from the North Shore—I know the whole list. Tear it up. Or better yet, use it for Lorcan. Prudence is my wife, and I expect her to be treated with the respect due an O’Rourke.”
Ma is silent for several beats. I brace for the counterattack—the same artillery she deployed against Nora.
It doesn’t come.
“Fine,” she says, her voice carrying something I’ve rarely heard from her—acceptance laced with exhaustion.
“You’ll be kind to her. Kind, Ma. Not neutral. Kind.”
Her chin lifts. “I’m not a monster, Ronan. I’m a mother who watches her sons choose paths she wouldn’t have chosen for them. But they’re your paths.” Then she picks up her wine, takes another sip, and meets my eyes. “Does she make you happy?”
The question is stripped of strategy. For a fleeting moment, she’s not the calculating matriarch forging alliances. She’s a mother asking her son a simple question.
“Yes,” I say. “She does.”
She reaches out and straightens my collar—a private gesture so small and maternal that it catches me off guard. “Well… I’ll be kind then.” She holds my gaze for a long beat. “Never let it be said this old bitch can’t learn new tricks.”
Then she nods, smiles, and carries her glass back to the table without another word.
I stand at the bar and release a breath. That’s progress—Ma is either learning, or she’s getting old. Either way, I’ll take it.
I turn back to scan the room.
Prudence is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table, her face animated in a way I haven’t seen before. Nora is beside her, laughing. Saoirse sits across from them, her chin propped on her hand, wearing a smile.
Lorcan is delivering what appears to be an animated account of one of his crazy shenanigans. His hands are moving in wide arcs. Prudence’s eyes follow them.
I lean against the small bar and watch her.
Then, from across the room, she lifts her head and finds me. A smile breaks across her face—radiant, open, aimed at me with a certainty that makes my pulse stutter.
The realization doesn’t arrive gradually. It doesn’t build or creep or dawn on me in stages. It detonates. I am falling in love with my wife.
The intensity of my feelings for her terrifies me. But what scares me more is a dangerous truth that I’ve been avoiding.
Clive Buford let her go too easily. His Flock might see him as a holy man, but I know better. He’s a conniving con man who I doubt has a moral bone in his entire body.
He gave up Prudence without much resistance. He’ll try to get her back, I’m certain of it.
The only question is when and how.
I take another drink and fix my eyes back on my wife—luminous, laughing, alive—and make a silent vow.
Whatever he tries, I’ll be ready.
No one will take her from me. Not the cult, not her conditioning, not Satan himself.
She’s mine.