Chapter One
Cavin
I standwith my hands folded in front of me, the bitter cold of a Ballyhock winter seeping through my wool coat as I stare down at what’s left of Malachy.
“No one can know about this, lad.” Malachy’s last words. The envelope in my pocket weighs more than the coffin we carried. After the prayers, I’ll deliver it. One last secret for a man buried in them.
In my peripheral vision, my brother Seamus, the eldest, stands beside our father and mother. Da looks distinguished and broken. Malachy was a second father to him.
Mam looks poised as always, her expression gentle despite the frown creasing her brow. Her hands rest on Da's forearm, folded and still—but I know better. She's always alert. My sisters stand on either side of her, dressed in formal charcoal gray—Kyla on guard and frowning, Bronwyn, the baby of the family, quietly sniffing and wiping at her eyes with a balled-up tissue.
My cousin Declan whispers something in Bronwyn's ear that makes her smile and elbow him. Garrett, a family friend, his trademark red hair stark against the cold blue sky, snorts. I shoot them all a sharp look—this isn't the fuckingtime—and they straighten up quick enough.
It’s a huge turnout. I swear half of Ballyhock’s come to pay their respects, which makes sense when I think about the man Malachy was, and the way our father always made sure the McCarthy men stayed within the good graces of the residents of Ballyhock. Even the best of them will overlook our… transgressions… when we toss half a million quid in the Holy Family coffers.
“Ashes to ashes,” Father Gregory says in a monotone, his hand steady as he makes the sign of the cross over the coffin. My mother makes the sign of the cross and whispers what must be a prayer under her breath.
I rub my hand across my eyes. Haven’t slept more than a few hours straight since prison, and it’s showing.
“Mad, isn’t it? Only death or marriage gets us all in the same place anymore,” my cousin Daire mutters to me. He’s not wrong.
I stare at the coffin. It was lighter to carry than I expected. Malachy lost weight at the end, before he lost his battle to illness and old age, and I guess the lads and I are stronger than we once were.
Movement catches my eye—someone shifting near the far edge of the graveyard, half hidden behind a weathered angel statue.
A woman—blonde hair whipping in the wind and black coat buttoned to her throat.
She’s not with the main gathering but is separate, alone, kneeling at a grave with white roses clutched in her gloved hands.
And she’s staring right atme.
My breath catches. Is that…? Itcan’tbe.
ErinfuckingKavanagh. Perfect little Erin.
What the bloody hell isshedoing here?
She’s fifty yards away, maybe more, but I’d recognize her anywhere. That sharp little face. Those eyes that always looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. The way she holds herself—stiff, controlled, like she’s afraid she’ll fly apart if she loosens her grip.
Only she’s not the scrawny little bitch from St. Albert’s anymore. She’s filled out—tits, hips, the lot. Even in that shapeless coat, I can see the curve of her. My mouth goes dry. I want to look away, but I can’t.
Christ, I’m a bastard for noticing her arse at a funeral.
She ducks her head when she realizes I’ve clocked her. Pretends to fuss with the flowers, but her hands are shaking now.
Good.
The Kavanaghs sent flowers yesterday, including a card with her father’s signature, not hers. So why the fuck is Padraic Kavanagh’s daughter kneeling at a grave in McCarthy territory during our funeral?
My hand moves to my side, where my gun sits under my coat. Instinct. Even from this distance, I could drop her before she screams.
The thought shouldn’t make my cock twitch… but it does.
My eyes narrow. Is she spying for her da? Or did she just want to watch me squirm? That'd be just like her—Little Miss Perfect, always so fucking eager to see me brought low.Again.
I should look away. Focus on Malachy, on the prayers, on the envelope burning a hole in my pocket.
She looks up. Our eyes lock across fifty yards of dead ground.
