“Can't do that, love. See, your da's the whole reason we're here.” He stops pacing and turns to look at me fully. “Did you know he worked for us? For years.”
My belly drops. “That's a lie.”
“Is it?” Donovan tilts his head. “Padraic Kavanagh. Good man. Loyal man. Well, loyal to the Boston Irish, anyway. Not so much to the McCarthys.”
I knew it. I knew there was something with the Americans.
But… Da?
“No.” I'm shaking my head, but even as I deny it, the pieces are clicking into place. The money that disappeared. My parents' fights. The late-night meetings. The way my father would go to Boston on “business.” How he'd take calls at odd hours—different time zones, I suppose.
“He cheated them, Erin. He had no West Coast connections. And you’re the one who’ll pull the trigger on this. You’re the one who’ll make sure we go away, we do what we have to, and your husband will keep paying this damn tribute.”
He doesn’t know yet that I told the McCarthys. “You know how that's gonna end, don't you, love?”
“Don’t you call me that.”
He chuckles low. “Was damn fun seeing you and Cavin go mental over the damn posts I made.”
“Youdid that? Why?”
He shrugs. “Easy to throw a man like Cavin off. It’s simple to know what gets under his skin.”
“This was never about what I thought it was, was it? Me and my marriage to Cavin.”
“Ah, you're getting there.” He laughs and shakes his head. “You were supposed to have access to the doctor, right? Dr. Rosenberg, is it? Where's he now, I wonder?”
Donovan takes out his phone and makes a call. “Padraic. You got him?”
“Aye.”
My god.My father?
“Your da destroyed your life for us. He knew that if you got in with the McCarthys, he would too. That you'd have access, right? Me and him—we could take over this fucking McCarthy clan. Work with the Boston Irish. Take over the tribute. It's been going on long before you were around. Malachy was the one who started it all.”
“You're lying. You're fucking lying.”
“I'm not,” he says simply. He crouches again, grabs my chin hard enough to bruise. “This is how it's gonna work. We get tribute every two weeks. Not monthly anymore. And if we don't, you die.”
“Cavin's not going to?—”
“Cavin will do exactly what we tell him, or he'll be scooping up what's left of you.” He releases my chin and stands. “The Boston Irish send their regards, by the way. We've been patient, but our patience is running out. And I'm telling you now, lass?—”
The door to the warehouse explodes inward with a crash that makes my ears ring.
Cavin.
He's there, silhouetted in the doorway, looking like death itself. Blood stains his shirt. His face is pale, but his eyes are pure murder. Behind him, I can see his shadows—his family.
He found me.
How? Donovan shows a flash of terror before he schools his features.
“Get away from my wife,” Cavin says, his voice deadly calm.
Donovan doesn't move. “Ah, you shouldn't be here, cousin. You should be in the hospital. You're looking like shite.”
“Last chance,” Cavin says, taking a step forward. He's swaying slightly, and I can see the effort it takes for him to stay upright.
