“Mrs. McErlane must have been a beauty,” Raoul says.
“That she was, son. That she was.” My father’s eyes grow misty, and Raoul drapes an arm over his bare, sweaty shoulder.
“I’m sorry I never met her,” Raoul replies.
Definitely drunk. Both of them.
Mother of God, help me.
“You two need to get home…right fucking now!” I snap. They exchange glances, then stand in unison, swaying slightly.
“My lady has spoken,” Raoul says.
“Good on ya, son. Treat her right, and I’ll see ya right too,” my father slurs. I roll my eyes. He peers at me blearily for a moment, then turns and murmurs something into Raoul’s ear. Raoul turns silver eyes on me, piercing me with a stare.
Oh God, Daddy…please don’t tell him about the baby!
Chapter 9
Raoul Caraldi
The old man put up a fight; I’ll give him that much. If we’d gone head to head ten years ago, I’d have been hard-pressed to walk out of that ring unscathed. As it is, I think he cracked a couple of ribs, and my head is still ringing.
But youth and strength were on my side. Not to mention the countless hours I’ve spent in the gym with Mateo and Dario. McErlane’s fight skills are old school, honed on the streets. There’s definitely a place for that shit. I took some hard body blows in the match, and I’m going to be feeling it for days. Even now, my kidneys feel like he was using them as a boxing bag, and he nearly rang my bell more than once with an uppercut that’s like a fucking sledgehammer. Not to mention the damn stitches, which are throbbing yet again. But I’ve had countless techniques drummed into me over the years. Stand-up, ground game, good old-fashioned brawling; I’ve honed it all.
Still, I have a newfound respect for the man. And a strange sense of kinship – especially when we’d finally staggered away from each other and he’d raised a hand in the air, signaling his submission.
“Jesus Christ, boy,” he’d spluttered through bloody teeth. “You got a right hook like a falling fridge, God help me!” I’d reached for his hand as we ended the match, and he’d said the words that still leave me shaken. “If I’d had a boy o’ my own, he’d a been just like ya, kid. Hard and brutal. Good on ya!”
Now that we’re both facing the woman who’s our common link, I find myself oddly pleased to call this man father-in-law. There’s something tough and ruthless about him that’s edged with an honor I can understand. Something I would have wanted in a father.
As I think of it, it occurs to me that I never saw my own father use his fists – not against a man, at any rate; women were his victims of choice. He’d always had his men do his dirty work. Often it would be me who went to bat for him. And somehow, I think that eroded any respect he had for me. As much as I was trying to please him, by being his lackey he grew to despise me, saw me as some kind of mindless battering ram. Little wonder I gravitated toward Dario – my half-brother always treated me like family, even though there was never a ring on my mother’s finger.
There’s a ring on Emma’s now, and it’s going to stay right where it is. I smile down at her, feeling my heart swelling oddly.
“Why did you come here?” I ask.
“That’s a good question, lass,” Tommy says from beside me. “You shouldn’t be here.” He reaches out to squeeze her arm in a strangely gentle gesture.
“To stop the pair of you from making a right mess of yourselves,” she snaps, pulling herself free from him and not meeting my eye. Though I sense she’s running a look over my chest and not happy that I’ve probably bust several more stitches.
“Just look at you,” she grumbles. “I’m probably going to have to take you back to the Emergency ward!” She huffs a breath.
“Nah, I’ll live,” I reply, glossing a hand over my chest. I’m still slick with sweat. She watches the motion of my hand and flicks the tip of her tongue out. “I could probably use a shower, though…unless you’d like to keep me dirty.” I wink.
“Go on with ya!” Tommy interrupts, eyeing his daughter with a warm affection I’ve never noticed before. “Don’t be dragging my little princess into your sordid dealings!”
A week ago, I’d have taken offense to that, but now I laugh and cuff the back of his head. He cuffs me back, and then we’re both laughing and clanking our mugs together again. When the fight had been called to a halt, he’d beckoned his men over to pour us a drink, and they’d delivered without hesitation. Seems these Irish come prepared with whisky regardless of the occasion – though I imagine he’d expected a different outcome to this situation. Yet it’s an outcome that suits both of us. He’s in such high spirits that when I told him I didn’t intend to take over his import business, he offered me a twenty percent stake anyhow.
“Consider it a wedding gift,” he’d said, and so I’d graciously accepted. Now we’re both smiling affectionately at the feisty blonde who looks like she’d happily kill us both – and might just have the skills to do it.
Nah. My Buttercup would never hurt me.
“The two of you are drunk,” she mutters. “I’m going to have topouryou out of here!”
“I’m fine,” I reassure her. My jubilant mood isn’t a product of booze. More likely because I’m feeling a sense of camaraderie with a man I’d viewed as my sworn enemy, who happens to have more in common with me than I realized. And now we’re related.
I’m building a family.
