Chapter 20
ROSALINA
I barely make it to the bathroom before I am on my knees in front of the toilet, retching violently.
Nothing comes up except bile—acidic and burning—because I haven’t been able to keep anything down all morning. Not the toast Dante insisted I try to eat. Not the water Gabriel forced into my hands. Not even the plain crackers Luca snuck into my purse with a wink and a "just in case, Fiorella."
My stomach heaves again, and I grip the cold porcelain with shaking hands, my bandaged knuckles—still healing from my incident in the gym two weeks ago—protesting the pressure.
Two weeks since Patrick cornered me in Seamus's office.
Two weeks since Gabriel fucked the confession out of me against the gym wall.
Two weeks since we told Dante and Luca everything, and they promised we would figure this out together.
Except we have not figured anything out.
Patrick has been silent. No calls, no messages, no demands for information.
Just silence that feels more threatening than any explicit threat could be.
And Erin is still not answering her phone, which means I have no way to warn her, no way to make sure she is actually safe, no way to know if Patrick was bluffing about knowing where she is.
And now I am throwing up in the bathroom of the O'Connor estate on the day of Seamus's funeral, and everything is falling apart.
I spit into the toilet, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and force myself to stand on legs that feel like jelly.
The mirror shows me exactly what I expect—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hair coming loose from the bun I carefully styled this morning.
I look like death, which feels appropriate for a funeral.
I rinse my mouth, reapply lipstick with trembling hands, and try to make myself presentable enough to go back out there and face everyone.
A soft knock on the door makes me freeze.
"Lina?" Luca's voice, gentle and concerned. "You okay in there?"
"Fine," I call back, and my voice only shakes a little. "Just needed a minute."
"Can I come in?"
I unlock the door, and he slips inside, closing it quietly behind him. He takes one look at my face and his expression shifts from concern to something softer, sadder.
"You threw up again," he says. It is not a question.
"Third time today," I admit, leaning back against the sink. "I can’t keep anything down."
"Stress," he says, moving closer and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Your body is trying to process too much."
"I know." I close my eyes, letting myself lean into him for just a moment. "I just need to get through today. The funeral. Then we can leave and I can fall apart in private."
"You don’t have to wait until we leave to fall apart," Luca says gently. "You can fall apart right now and I will hold you together."
The offer makes my throat tight, makes fresh tears threaten, but I force them back. "If I fall apart now, I won’t be able to put myself back together in time for the funeral. So I need to hold on just a little longer."
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. But I am staying close. If you need me, you just look at me and I will get you out of there. Understood?"
"Understood," I whisper.
He takes my hand—carefully, aware of the bandages—and threads his fingers through mine. "Come on, Fiorella. Let us go say goodbye."
The funeral home is packed.
It seems like every member of the Irish mafia is here, along with associates, allies, friends, and people I have never seen before who apparently knew Seamus well enough to attend his funeral.
The room smells like lilies and wood polish and grief, and the open casket at the front makes my stomach lurch again.
Luca's hand tightens on mine as we walk down the center aisle, past rows of mourners dressed in black, toward where Seamus lies.
He looks wrong.
That is the first thought that hits me when I see him.
Wrong. Too still. Too pale. Too much like a wax figure and not enough like the man who used to laugh so hard at his own jokes that he would wheeze.
The man who taught me how to shoot a gun when I was eleven.
The man who told me I was smart and capable and worthy.
My father.
Gone.
My knees buckle slightly, and Luca immediately wraps his arm around my waist, holding me upright.
"I’ve got you," he murmurs against my ear. "Breathe, Lina."
I force air into my lungs, force myself to keep moving forward until we are standing right in front of the casket. Someone has dressed Seamus in his best suit, folded his hands over his chest, arranged everything to look peaceful.
But he is not at peace. He is just dead.
The sob that rips out of my throat surprises me with its violence. I press my free hand to my mouth, trying to hold the sound in, but it is useless. Once it starts, I cannot stop it.
"Rosie."
The voice makes me spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance.
Erin.
She is standing three feet away, dressed in a simple black dress, her red hair pulled back, her face pale and tear-stained, and for a moment I think I am hallucinating because she cannot be here, she is supposed to be safe in Texas, she is supposed to be—
"Erin!" I close the distance between us in two strides and throw my arms around her, and she catches me, then we both collapse into each other, sobbing.
"You are here," I gasp against her shoulder. "How are you here? I have been trying to call you for weeks—"
"I know, I know, I am sorry." Her voice is thick with tears. "The farm phone broke and I didn’t have your new number and I only found out about Dad three days ago when Dolan finally tracked down one of his old contacts."
Dad. She called him Dad, and the word breaks something open in my chest.
We stand there in the middle of the funeral home, holding each other and crying, and I do not care that people are staring, do not care about anything except the fact that she is here, she is safe, she is alive.
When we finally pull apart, both our faces are wrecked, makeup smeared, eyes swollen.
"I missed you," I choke out.
"I missed you too." She cups my face with both hands. "God, Rosie, I am so sorry. I should have been here. I should have—"
"You are here now," I interrupt. "That is all that matters."
The funeral passes in a blur of tears and prayers and people offering condolences that I barely register. Erin and I sit together in the front row, our hands clasped so tightly between us that my bandages start to ache, but I don’t let go. Can’t let go.
Dante, Gabriel, and Luca sit in the row behind us—close enough to offer support but far enough back to give Erin and me space. I can feel their presence like a physical weight, solid and reassuring, and it is the only thing keeping me from dissolving completely.
Patrick gives the eulogy.
He talks about Seamus's loyalty, his strength, his dedication to family. He talks about legacy and honor and carrying on traditions. And the entire time he is speaking, I stare at him and think about his hand on my throat, his threats against Erin, how he wants me to betray Dante.
Because Gabriel was right about one thing—we need a plan. And sitting through this funeral, watching Patrick play the grieving friend while he plots to destroy everything Seamus built, I realize that whatever plan we come up with needs to happen fast.
The reception is held back at the estate, and by the time we arrive I have thrown up twice more—once in the car, which mortified me until Dante just calmly handed me a bottle of water and told the driver to pull over, and once in the bushes outside the front door, which Erin held my hair for while making soothing sounds.
"You need to see a doctor," she says as I wipe my mouth with a tissue Gabriel silently hands me. "This is not just stress, Rosie. Something is wrong."
"I’m fine," I mutter, even though I very clearly am not fine.
"You are not fine. You have thrown up five times today."
"Three," I correct weakly.
"Five," she insists. "I have been counting. Come on." She loops her arm through mine. "We are going to my room. You need to lie down."
"Erin, I should stay—"
"You should lie down before you pass out," she says firmly, already pulling me toward the stairs. "The boys will understand."
I glance back at Dante, Gabriel, and Luca, who are all watching with identical expressions of concern.
"Go," Dante mouths. "We will be fine."
I let Erin pull me upstairs, down the familiar hallway to her bedroom—the room where this all started, where she tried on wedding dresses and begged me to spy on Dante, where I found Dolan and Erin together and my whole world shifted.
She closes the door behind us and immediately points to the bed. "Sit."
I sit, sinking into the mattress that still smells faintly like her perfume, and watch as she disappears into her bathroom. She returns with a damp cloth, which she presses gently to my forehead.
"Better?" she asks.
"A little." I close my eyes, letting the cool cloth soothe my overheated skin. "Thank you."
"When did this start?" She sits beside me, her hand finding mine. "The throwing up?"
"This morning."
"Just this morning?"
I hesitate. "I have felt nauseous for about a week, but today is the first time I have actually thrown up."
Erin goes very still beside me. "Rosie."
"What?"
"When was your last period?"
The question catches me so off guard that my eyes fly open. "What?"
"Your period," she repeats, and there is something in her voice now—excitement? Fear? Both? "When was your last one?"
I try to remember, my brain sluggish and overwhelmed. "I—I do not know. A month ago? Maybe more? I haven’t exactly been keeping track with everything—"
"Rosie." She grips my hand tighter. "I think you might be pregnant."
The words land like a bomb, and for a moment I can’t process them, cannot make them make sense in the context of everything else happening.
"No," I say automatically. "That is—no, it is just stress. You said it yourself, stress can—"