Page 134 of Sins of Arrogance

Not in my fam­ily.

Big par­ties like this? Are al­ways about the mob. The La­bor Day pic­nic? A state­ment about mob unity and the power we wield in the unions.

It’s al­ways about my fa­ther’s power and wealth. A chance to rub el­bows with the peo­ple he knows and has ac­cess to and for ev­ery­one to see him do­ing it.

Show­ing off.

He doesn’t brag. He con­sid­ers flahing a sign of con­ceit and in­se­cu­rity, but Bro­gan doesn’t have to brag when ev­ery­thing around him is de­signed to show his su­pe­ri­or­ity.

If my fa­ther wants to make a state­ment about his strength, se­cu­rity will be ob­vi­ous and in­tim­i­dat­ing in their dark ops uni­forms, weapons vis­i­ble. If he wants peo­ple to see his so­phis­ti­ca­tion and wealth, our men dress in suits and keep their guns un­der their jack­ets.

To­day, se­cu­rity is in suits. Prob­a­bly to im­press the Ital­ians. The mafia my cousin, Róise, will be mar­ry­ing into at the end of this month are more for­mal than us and my fa­ther doesn’t like to be shown up.

The De Lu­cas threw Róise’s 21st birth­day party on the VIP floor of an ex­clu­sive club in Man­hat­tan.

Boss Shauh­nessy has to go one bet­ter, of course.

So, we’re cel­e­brat­ing my birth­day with 200 of my not-so-near­est-and-dear­est at Carnegie Hall. In the Weill Mu­sic Room, to be ex­act. Com­plete with a world-renowned con­cert pi­anist play­ing for the guests be­fore din­ner is served.

Her mu­sic al­most makes this dog and pony show worth it. Be­cause the pi­anist is one of my fa­vorite mu­si­cians. I won­der if my fa­ther knows that?

Maybe Mick told him.

No mat­ter how lit­tle time Mick spends with me, it would be hard for my hus­band to miss her promi­nence in my mu­sic col­lec­tion. I have all of her al­bums. In vinyl and CDs be­cause stream­ing ser­vices change.

Some­thing flut­ters in my stom­ach at the thought of Mick mak­ing this hap­pen, but only for a mo­ment. Then I shut down those feel­ings hard.

You’re way past get­ting but­ter­flies over small things that may, or may not, mean Mick cares about you, Kara. You’re too smart for that.

I started out as his means to an end. Then we dis­cov­ered vol­canic pas­sion be­tween us, but that’s not af­fec­tion. Mick likes me, but he doesn’t love me and it’s not go­ing to sud­denly hap­pen af­ter seven years of mar­riage.

“Mommy, open my present to you.” Fitz tugs on the skirt of my Lela Rose flo­ral em­broi­dered midi dress.

El­e­gant and sleeve­less, with a full skirt, the green dress that brings out the green in my hazel eyes has been tai­lored to fit my curvy frame to per­fec­tion.

The scoop neck­line does amaz­ing things for the girls and I can’t help notic­ing how many times my hus­band’s gaze has strayed to my cleav­age since I got dressed for the party.

He’s been in­sa­tiable since our lit­tle break from sex be­fore La­bor Day, com­ing home in time to tuck Fitz into bed and then tak­ing me to ours for hours upon hours of mind melt­ing sex.

I turn to my son with a smile. “I’m not open­ing gifts here, mo stóirín. I’ll do it when it’s just us at home.”

“Please, mom.” Green eyes, so like his dad’s stare back at me im­plor­ingly. “Grandda said I could bring it.”

Trans­lated: I have per­mis­sion to open the gift here.

Prob­a­bly be­cause his grandda wants a photo op, or some­thing. I look around and sure enough, there’s a pho­tog­ra­pher with his cam­era trained on me and Fitz.

Ig­nor­ing the way my stom­ach sours at even my young son giv­ing me a birth­day gift be­com­ing a PR prop, I reach for the small box wrapped with lots of tape and un­even seams.

Fitz goes up on his toes and breathes ex­cit­edly over my shoul­der. “I wrapped it my­self.”

My sweet boy. The best part of me and the mob­ster I mar­ried.

“You did a great job,” I tell him. “It’s al­most too pretty to open.”

“Mom.” Fitz draws the words out over three long syl­la­bles.

With forced grin and wink, I tear away the wrap­ping pa­per to re­veal a box the same emer­ald green as Mick’s eyes. It’s em­bossed in gold with the store’s name.