22. Maeve
MAEVE
On the edge of South Boston sits a large home, modeled after the rich villas of Tuscany.
With warm brown tiles, white stucco walls, and a terracotta roof, it stands out from the normal brick-and-mortar homes.
Fake red petunias hang in planters, swinging in the cold, wintry wind, but in the summer, the mistress of the house plants real ones.
Inhaling, the air is ripe with tomato sauce, red wine, and love. I’m not sure someone could accurately describe such a word, but this home, with tall hedges of climbing roses and a gravel driveway, smells like devotion and care. Something I’ve never smelled at my home.
Pushing through the large double French doors, I slip off my jacket, handing it to Tony. A tall man, bald, with a body built for war, he nods to me once, taking my coat and stepping aside. We rarely exchange words, but his silence is comforting. It’s an unspoken trust.
The warmth of the foyer tickles my nose, and I walk into the great room, the fireplace roaring. Reaching all the way to the ceiling, it’s made of tan brick, with a mantle of old photos. They’re full of births, parties, and weddings. Of smiling faces and happiness.
Our walls hold photos of my sisters and brother. Rarely do they hold anything of me.
Because to my father, I was a mistake. A girl born for a boy’s position, he’s never liked me. By allowing me into the clan, running the streets, and making deals, he thought he could break me.
Instead, I was forged.
“Piccola,” Nico greets from his armchair. It’s big, dwarfing his small frame, with a pie table by his elbow. A glass of bourbon sits there, condensation running down the edge.
Carefully, I step around the large sectional, sitting at the corner by his side. Without a word, he gets up, goes to the far bar full of expensive liquors, and takes out a small bottle from under the cabinet. My liquor. He always keeps it for me.
Turning back, he winks. “You look different.”
I feel different. I am different.
When I come to his home, I’m in old street clothes—ratty jeans, a ripped shirt, and my old jacket that’s seen better days. I blend into the clan in that outfit. Here, dressed in a velvet black dress and high boots—I don’t look like a runner. I look like a fucking heir.
Handing me the glass, I touch it to my lips, studying him. With a huff, he waves me away. “You know it’d do me no favors to poison it.”
No, it wouldn’t. Nico has had plenty of time to kill me. These talks started because of one such night. He found me bleeding out in the alley beside his club. Fucking Bruno had gotten the drop on me, and although I walked away, I didn’t make it far.
He found me passed out. Woke me up. Brought me here. Maria healed me. And he just… spoke to me. Never hurt me. Never touched me. When I asked, he had this disgusted look take over his face. Like I poured bleach into his coffee and asked him to try it.
“Who would touch a child?”
Shifting, I look away. I thought everyone did in this world. I thought this was normal.
At my silence, his gaze darkened, and he pulled out a cigarette.
“You have my word, piccola. With me, you’re safe. No one will touch you.”
I kept coming back. When I was let out into the city, I found myself back here.
I listened to his stories and offered my input.
Maria would make me meals—meals that I willingly ate, because with them I was safe.
They cared for me, made me feel loved. A commodity in this world, I had never experienced.
Coming back every so often to chat became a ritual. Two enemies breaking bread, becoming friends.
“Can’t be too careful.”
He tilts his head, smiling. “Spoken like a true heir.”
To Nico, I am the heir to the O’Brien clan. He never doubted my role based on what was between my legs. Not like my father.
“Where’s your nephew?”
“At the club.” He holds up his hands, taking his seat. “And no guards, other than Tony. Like always.”
It has to be clandestine. If my father saw me here, I’d be dead. He’d send Linwood to do it.
Shifting, I try—and fail—to ignore the rawness between my legs. It’s only been hours since I let Killian into my bed, into my heart. He cleaned up my mess and pledged his loyalty to me. He, the man most feared, gave me everything—his trust, his heart, and his devotion.
There’s a part that still wonders if it will last. If he will choose me over my father, because he’s always put him first. But I can’t think about it now. I don’t want to ruin this.
“How’s your father?”
Licking my lips, I look at the fire. “The same.”
Still hateful toward women. Still trying to put me in my place.
“How’s Alessio?”
“The same,” he admits. “He’s learning the books. I’ve officially chosen him as my next successor.”
That was a given. Nico praises Lex’s work. He’s loyal, ruthless, and from what I hear, decent enough not to beat women. Already a higher standard than others in our world.
“Good choice.” I sip from the glass. The burn is welcomed, driving the coldness out of my veins. “Dom isn’t too bright.”
He snorts. “No. No, he’s not. And you?”
I give him a dry look. “I’m fine.”
He glances at my hands. They’re freshly cut, from my attack on Michael. A few are bleeding from the freezing temperatures, but I’d happily withstand it. It means I’m here—that I’m free.
“I’ve heard,” he begins casually, “that your second has died. A heart attack.”
Shrugging, I take a larger sip. Oak and smoke flood my mouth. “Wasn’t a very healthy man. Heart sort of… stopped.”
Because my blade penetrated it. Forty-two times, I stabbed into his body, letting all the sins he inflicted on me come out and flood him. I sent him to Hell and made him take back all his torment, too.
Nico chews on his tongue, eyes on my leg. Not in a perverse way, he sees the thin scars down my calf. From a box knife one night, when Michael had tried to get me to submit in the backroom at The Wharf. I had crawled away, and he struck, slicing into my legs with the first thing he could find.
It didn’t stop him from rolling me over. He didn’t stop him from ripping away my jeans.
Hands shaking, I drain my glass.
“I hope he suffered,” he mumbles, voice deep and velvety. “I hope he felt every terrible thing he’d done in this life. I hope he went, full of your vengeance, carrying all that pain back to the devil. Let it hinder him—and never anyone else.”
Swallowing the lump, I bite my lip. “That and more.”
He smiles ruefully. “That and more, piccola.”
We sit in silence, the mantle clock ticking by as the fire crackles. The tension in my shoulders drains away, and I lean back into the couch. The doilies on the top scratch my face, but I relish the feel. It’s normal—it’s familiar.
“When I found you as a child,” he begins softly, “I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know what to expect from you.”
“That’s a common thread.”
“You have to understand.” He finishes his glass, leaning forward.
“You are a force in this world. A woman who favors knives? At fifteen years old, my hardened soldiers were afraid to run into you. I didn’t know if you would one day kill me.
If I’d be forced to kill you.” My heart pangs, and I catch his eyes.
Nico smiles gently. “It never came to that. I like to think we became friends.”
“We did,” I agree. “You’ve helped me in ways no one else knows.”
Nico saved me that night. He offered me advice and safety. Maria gave me a glimmer of comfort and maternal love.
And when I wanted to help Hayes, I ran to Nico.
“I never thanked you,” I murmur. “For giving me the money to save Hayes. To break his father’s hold on him.” To save him from certain death at the hands of my father if he found out he was a Bruno.
“I should be thanking you.” He leans back, winking. “You killed five men for that money. We’re even.”
Men in my clan—and Bruno’s. All horrible men who hurt women, children, and Nico’s business. Clan loyalty says to never kill family, but I have no allegiance to bad people.
“You have the same look on your face as that night.” He waves his gnarled finger. “You only ask for help when it serves to save someone else. You’re a selfless person, Ace. Your father would be happy to have you as heir.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Turning toward him, I fold my hands in my lap. “Without Michael, we don’t have a second.”
“And no clear succession,” he surmises. “But Ferguson has you. There is a line, should something happen.”
I give him a broken smile. “My father doesn’t believe I can lead the clan. It’s not a woman’s place.”
Nico’s eyes flash with rage. He gets it. The De Luca family is run like a business—gender doesn’t matter as long as the job gets done. If Lex had been a woman, it wouldn’t have changed Nico’s choice to make him the next in line. The O’Brien clan, on the other hand, doesn’t believe the same.
“What do you need?”
“Power,” I say simply. “Only power gets respect. Without it, I’m nothing in the clan.” I can’t do anything without power. If I try, I’m dead.
Then who would protect my siblings? Who would be the shield against everything dark?
Nico refills his glass, doing the same for me. Once he’s seated again, he asks, “And what do you need for this power?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer truthfully. “I know I need it. Ferguson won’t leave me the clan if he dies, and without power, I can’t take it on the eve of his death.”
My father isn’t in bad shape, but he’s older. And this world is not friendly.
Nico sighs, swirling his glass. “And as heir, you have no right?”
“Not in the clan. They care more about what’s between my legs than what’s between my ears.”
He rolls his eyes. “Ah. And what do you want from me?”
Shifting, I shrug. “A backing.”
The old man smirks, dark eyes shining. “Explain.”
“I want the clan,” I whisper. I don’t know why I do—Tony won’t talk. “And the only way I can get it is with a backing. Your backing.”
He nods, his smirk growing. “A coup. And what do I get out of this?”
That’s the thing no one realizes about Nico. He’s a good man—kind. But he’s intelligent and crafty. He only makes deals if they benefit him.
Luckily, I came prepared.
“Naming Alessio as your heir is one thing,” I say, reclining. “But you don’t want just an heir. You want a legacy.”
Nico chuckles. “Say it, Ace.”
“What about a marriage proposal?” The old man tilts his head. “Between my family and yours?”
He barks out a laugh, sharp in the silence. “As tempting as you are, and I would love to see you as my blood, I’m not signing my nephew over to you in marriage. The Reaper would gut him alive.”
Of course, he would know about the Reaper and me. Nico knows everything.
“Not me.” I laugh—Alessio might be handsome, but I would slice his neck for his arrogance on the wedding night. “But I do have two sisters. If I’m captain, I can decree one of them for marriage.”
“You’re pragmatic.” He rubs his jaw. “Why the sudden change?”
“I killed Michael,” I admit. “And I was supposed to marry him. If my father ever discovers I did it?—”
“You’re dead.” Nico sighs. “And if he tries, and I back you, it gives you protection.”
“I need it,” I plead. “I have nothing in that house, Nico. My father controls everything. And if he marries me off again, I’ll be trapped.
” Panic claws up my throat, the idea I’ll be forced to submit to another man against my will, drowning me.
“Men won’t follow me if he’s in charge and I’m acting like a disobedient daughter.
But if I offer an alliance?” My eyes watch him.
“Men will follow. But only with your help.”
Nico exhales through his nose, finishing his bourbon. “Alright. I accept.” He clucks his tongue. “I have a man. We’ll change the will. Should something happen…” he trails off. “At least you’ll be given the throne.”
My body deflates, a breath rushing past my lips. “Thank you.”
“And Lex will marry one of your sisters.” He makes a gesture as if signing a paper. “Everything will go into writing, yes? Of course, no one outside of us will see it. We’ll keep this very hush-hush.”
“Of course.” I did it. I fucking did it. The clan—my birthright—is going to be mine.
“So, to an alliance.”
Tipping my glass to him, “An alliance.” Between an Irish clan and an Italian family in Boston. It’s never been done before. It’s unimaginable.
Smiling down into his empty glass, the old man laughs to himself. “One hell of a birthday present, Ace.” At my shocked look, his smile turns soft. “I was going to get you jewelry, but you’re not the type.” I’m not—Nico knows that. Standing, he hobbles over to a shelf, grabbing a simple black box.
Placing it delicately in my lap, he says, “This seemed more your style.”
Removing the lid, a small gasp leaves my mouth.
It’s a gleaming silver Desert Eagle. A large, beautiful gun; it fits into my hand like it was made for me. “Happy birthday, piccola. Twenty-one years in this world is a lifetime most don’t get to see. I have no doubt you will own this city in another twenty-one years.”