So much for the sweet relief of my high.
Chapter 6
Age 22, London
Weekly dinners with Una are always a toss-up between an interrogation and a punishment. Usually a tortuous blend of both that would drive even a saint to drink.
She likes to pretend they're tradition, something sacred between mother and son, but the only thing sacred about them is how efficiently she can mine me for information without ever lifting a perfectly manicured finger. Half the time, I’m not even sure Una Quinn sees me as her son anymore, just an information source and her claim to the O’Malley name. The same name she lost after being a two timing whore. But that's neither here nor there.
She’s already seated when I arrive at the private section of O’Neill’s, her silhouette backlit by soft candlelight and the shimmer of silver cutlery. Regal, polished, inflexible. Not a single strand of icy blonde hair out of place beneath the glossy perfection of her blowout. Nails blood red and razor sharp. The diamonds at her throat catch every flicker of light like tiny, expensive knives.
Despite her messy divorce from my Da, she still acts the role of Mafia wife to perfection.
“Darling,” she purrs, barely tilting her cheek as I lean down to kiss it. “How lovely to see you.”
“Mother,” I drawl, sliding into the chair across from her just as the waitress arrives with our usual drinks—a glass of red wine for her and a shot of vodka for me, leaving the bottle behind.
Nodding my thanks, I down my first shot while Una sips her wine, and I mentally brace for whatever this week’s attack will be.
“I heard Ciaran invited Antonio Salvatore to your birthday dinner.” A spike of heat flashes through me at her words.
Not just because of the mention of Salvatore—though thinking about the contract hanging over my head is definitely enough to have me forcing myself to remain calm.
But because the moment she says it, my mind drags me back like a hooked fish to the other parts of that night. Jen’s voice, sharp enough to cut flesh. The scent of cloying perfume and expensive scorn. And Lily, fuck—Lily—standing in that stupid pink dress that was clearly the wrong size, stiff as a doll. Eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights on the side of the road. Shoulders curled in, like she was trying to collapse into herself and disappear. The ring she gifted me, pressing it into my palmlike a secret only we know. The same ring I haven’t taken off in the weeks since.
She looked like a child playing dress-up in a world built to devour her, and every part of me wanted to drag her out of there before the starter was even served. But I couldn’t. Da’s watchful gaze made sure of that, and the unspoken weight of making a good impression kept my feet planted like roots. For now, anyway.
My jaw tenses until it aches just thinking about it.
I pour another shot and knock it back, savouring the burn before forcing myself to meet Una’s expectant gaze.
“He sure did,” I drawl, offering her nothing more than the bare minimum. Over the years since my parents split, I’ve learnt less is more when it comes to what I share with each of them about the other.
The silence stretches long enough for my phone to buzz on the table. I don’t look at it, never mind pick it up. If I so much as glance at it, Una will pounce and sink her teeth into whatever she thinks it might mean. She always does.
Her gaze skims the vibrating phone, but she doesn’t say a word, just sips her wine again, looking at me through lowered lashes, a calculating look hidden behind her carefully curated façade.
She can taste blood in the air, and we both know it isn’t hers.
She lets the silence settle between us, and I know better than to fill it. The more I talk, the more chance there is for me to slip and give her something to latch onto. But I’ve been playing this game with her long enough to know how to get through these dinners without giving her anything, while seemingly giving her everything.
So I sit back and pretend to listen as she launches into a story about the dancers at Alibi—one of the Four Points clubs she still oversees. The divorce may have stripped her of the O’Malley name, but Da insisted she keep her position as manager. Said continuity mattered, that the club needed stability, and that no son of his would grow up isolated from his mother. Hell, that’s why these bastard dinners exist in the first place.
He’s a better man than me. If I’d been the one she cheated on—and then tried to paint as the villain—the last thing I’d be doing is keeping her on the payroll.
She’s halfway through listing which girls might need replacing when she stops, narrowed eyes flicking to my phone.
“Are you going to answer that?” she snaps when it buzzes for what feels like the tenth time.
I shrug, tossing back more vodka. “You know how it is. Business never sleeps.”
Her eyes narrow, the blue gone icy. “Business or your father?”
“Same difference,” I mutter, swirling the ice in my glass.
Una leans forward, lowering her voice. “Tell me something, Matthew. Is the little Davis girl still sniffing around? Or has she finally realised she’s not up to the standards of an O’Malley?”
I freeze, ice clinking sharply against the rim of my glass.
