I thought of the Scarpones nonstop. How they had been a part of it for greed.
I thought of Scott Stone nonstop. How he had cuffed my old man and made him an easy target.
Nothing made me stop salivating for the day the streets of Hell’s Kitchen would be mine.
Even if the rest of the world was overrun with drugs, my area wouldn’t be. We’d celebrate marriage, honor families, and give every man and woman a chance at a career—at a better life.
Stealing a heart out of revenge was at odds with celebrating marriage, but I had every intention of honoring every vow I spoke to Keely Kelly at the altar.
I stopped walking for a minute, thinking about something other than vengeance or chaos in what felt like the first time in my entire life.
No matter how much I fucking despised it, because I knew she’d use it as ammo, the archer put me to sleep like a lullaby. I’d fucked her all night, and then right before the sun came up, fell hard into that space where nothing exists. No noise. No sight. No disruptions.
The archer could’ve killed me in my sleep and I wouldn’t have had a clue.
She was worse than a drug. She was the addiction.
“Power of the pussy,” I muttered to myself, opening the door to my office building. “That’s all it is, Kelly.”
“Mr. Kelly!” Susan, my secretary, popped up from behind her desk. She narrowed her eyes at me after she had really taken me in. “You’re late.”
“Your watch is fast,” I said, checking mine, realizing that I was.
She waved a hand. “Your coffee is in your office. But it’s probably cold now.” She sat down with a slump and crossed her arms over her chest. It was no secret that she was the head of the club that disliked my wife. Susan and her minions thought my wife was too proud.
I grinned to myself, knowing that the only people I’d ever seen get under the archer’s skin was her family, and her friend, Mari. And me.
“Mr. Kelly.”
I stopped in the lobby.
Maureen O’Connell stood from her seat. “I don’t have an appointment,” she said. “But I need to talk to you.”
I’d never seen the woman so tired. And she had plenty enough reasons to be. She had worked hard all of her life to make ends meet after her husband died at a young age. When her son got into some trouble and fought addiction, dying from a drug deal gone wrong, and her daughter-in-law from a similar fate, her life got even harder. She was left with two children to raise, and she refused help from most of the women who offered it.
Unfounded rumors and gossip never sat well with Maureen. She had said that the nosy women only wanted inside of her house to know what was going on. “When people know you’re down,” she’d said. “They’ll kick you when no one is looking to keep you there.”
Maureen O’Connell reminded me of my wife. She had a backbone and refused to let other people ruffle her easily.
I nodded. “I have time.”
Once we were inside of the office, I motioned for her to take a seat. After sitting across from her, we stared at each other until Susan brought in two coffees. Maureen got up and closed the door after.
“Meddling old bitch,” Maureen muttered. Then she took her seat again but didn’t touch the coffee. I never did either. I had a plant in the corner with a caffeine addiction. “I’m going to get down to the point, Cashel. My grandson is coming home in a day or two. He doesn’t have a name.”
She called the little boy her grandson, even though he wasn’t, not by blood. The little boy was the outcome of his mother paying for drugs with her body. Mad respect for Maureen O’Connell was putting it mildly.
A minute or two passed, and I opened and closed my hands, urging her to continue.
“You’ll give him a name. A name to be proud of.”
“That’s not my place.” I’d heard little rumors here and there that Maureen was sick, but I never asked because she talked when she wanted. Maybe whatever she had was affecting her thinking.
She pulled her sweater forward and took out a piece of paper from the pocket. I sat back in my seat, already knowing what it was before she even slid it toward me. My old man would give something similar to a receipt, a piece of paper with his signature, whenever someone had done him a favor. He’d collect them and save them, writing whoever’s name down as debt paid, once he was in the good with them.
Maureen’s receipt was old and tattered.
“I took him in once and hid him,” she said. “Your father. From the police. I didn’t want thanks for it, but he insisted.”
