His poor mother. The little girl inside me who wants nothing more than to be held by my mom one more time can’t fathom being separated from her, forced to endure her suffering for ages. Even worse, his mother watching the man she loves being murdered by his best friend and then being forced to marry his killer.
“Exactly. And it’s not like Aiden could do anything about it. He was only fourteen at the time, still a kid. If he’d gone against Cian, Cian would have killed him without hesitation. I think it amused him, honestly. To watch Aiden suffer. If Cian ever got a whiff of Aiden rebelling, he’d punish his mother. Cian never had to put a hand to Aiden because he used his mother as a whipping boy.”
“Why would Cian care about Aiden rebelling as a literal teenager? Why punish him if he didn’t do anything?”
She stares off into the distance like she’s recounting a memory. “For one, because I think he’s a sick bastard who enjoys breaking someone down. Each time Aiden did something wrong, Cian got to take it out on his mother. He’s the definition of a sadist, and Aiden is his favorite toy.”
“And for another?” I prompt.
“Cian knew that as Aiden grew up, fueled by hatred and a thirst for revenge, he would eventually come for him—unless Cian broke him first.”
“And you think Cian will see our marriage as Aiden doing something against him?”
“Honey, that’s exactly what Aiden was doing. Getting married means he has to go home to Ireland to introduce his wife to the family.” Mara pours another shot of vodka for herself and one for me. When I shake my head, she insists. “Trust me, you’re going to need it.Sláinte,” she says, knocking my glass with hers before we both tip them back.
The liquor trails down in a line of liquid heat through my chest and pools in my stomach. “Why does going back to Ireland have any significance?” I ask when I can breathe again.
“Because it means Aiden can see his mother,” Mara says, replacing the bottle and stacking the shot glasses by a small sink.
“That’s good, right?”
Mara pushes to her feet, grabbing her purse. “Aiden hasn’t seen his mother in ten years. The only thing he cares about in this world is Mary O’Connor. His plan is to spring this marriage on Cian so he can see her for the first time since he was a teenager during the required introductions to the rest of the families in the organization. He’ll never tell you that, but I will. If you fuck this up for him, you won’t have to worry about Aiden at all—because I’ll be the one to fucking kill you.” She gives me one last lingering once-over as I try to discern if she’s joking or not. “Now, you’re going to knock ’em dead tomorrow. Aiden won’t know what hit him.”
I don’t know whether I want to recommend my therapist to her or ask her to be my friend.
CHAPTER 13
AIDEN
“Idon’t have long to talk today. It’s been a long week. But it’s so good to hear your voice, Aiden. It always is. You have an angel’s voice. Did I ever tell you?”
It’s the morning of the reception. Catriona has already left for classes—I get the feeling she plans it so she’s out the door before I even leave my room. A remarkable feat, considering I’m an early riser. The one time her morning classes were canceled this week, she found me in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, leaning against the counter, having a similar conversation with my mother.
“I’ll keep it short, Ma. And you do, all the time,” I murmur into the phone as I go through my morning routine. It’s barely six, but the house is already bustling with movement. Frances, preparing the kitchen for the week, Finn working quietly at the island counter, and Eamon swimming laps in the heated pool outside, the splashes echoing through the cavernous first floor.
“Well, good. That’s good. Have I told you about my blue rockets, love? They’re beautiful. The deepest shade of purple I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to show them to you the next time you visit. That is, if you have time to visit the gardens.”
My head hangs at her voice. Wistful. Dreamy. Too dreamy. Sometimes she can barely hold the thread of a conversation. There have even been moments when she forgets I’m her son and calls me John, my father’s name. The only time she’s fully lucid lately is when she’s talking about her bleedin’ flowers. I’ve memorized them all in my head. Oleander, daffodil, lily of the valley, mountain laurel, angel’s trumpet, and so many more. I mentally add blue rockets to the list. It’s my wildest dream to give her something other than the garden to look forward to.
There’d been a time when Mary Clarke O’Connor had been a vivacious woman. She’d spent most of her life in Derry with her father until he passed away, and she was sent to Dublin to live with her paternal grandparents. Her mother had died in childbirth. When she’d been married to my father, she’d dance around our house to the golden oldies, singing at the top of her lungs. Now, the only time she sings is during these phone calls.
“You haven’t. Tell me everything.”
Every day she still answers the phone is one where I can breathe easy. Especially since the wedding and her panicked call the morning after. It turns out Cian came home with no idea about what I’ve done, so I let myself breathe a little easier.
Ma goes on to describe her latest acquisition in minute detail. Sometimes she doesn’t remember I’m on the other end of the phone and starts talking to herself, but I don’t mind. I call as often as I can, every morning if my schedule allows, because the thought of not hearing from her sends bolts of alarm through me otherwise.
All we’ve had for the past ten years are these phone calls. When she gets lost in her garden, and she’s grown weary oftalking, she’ll sing for me if I beg. The same songs she used to sing when I was a boy, like “Molly Malone” or “Danny Boy.” Songs her grandparents had taught her after she moved to Dublin.
I want to tell her I’ll see her soon. The words hover on my tongue, begging to spring free, but I swallow them down. We still need to get through the reception tonight, and then I’ll inform Cian of what I’ve done. I’m banking everything on his desire to make me pay for my disobedience before he’ll harm my mother. Because Cian knows if he kills her without having a leash on me, there’ll be hell to pay.
“I’d better go rest now, John,” she says, and I hang my head. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Until then,” I wheeze.
After, I brood over my coffee cup until it’s no longer steaming as Eamon finishes with his laps in the pool. Turning, I drink the cool coffee and frown at the trail of water he leads in from the backyard.
“Why don’t you swim at your house?” I ask.
