Page 5 of Sins of Arrogance

That’s what I tell my­self any­way. Only, some days, my heart is feel­ing salty and tells me that I de­serve more. Like when we spent our sev­enth an­niver­sary apart last month. Mob busi­ness.

He sent me seven dozen white roses and a di­a­mond ten­nis bracelet. No card.

Which is not what I need to be dwelling on. Be­cause to­day, I’m do­ing my best to give off noth­ing but pos­i­tive vibes for Fitz.

Three weeks ago, Fitz and I were play­ing to­gether in the wa­ter with my sis­ter, while our cousin sat on the dock, soak­ing in the sum­mer sun.

Then with­out warn­ing, Róise was jerked into the wa­ter by a diver and kid­napped right in front of us. None of us could reach her in time.

I didn’t even try. I love my cousin like a sis­ter, but my son comes first, last and al­ways. Heart pound­ing in ter­ror that our en­e­mies would hurt my son, or take him from me, I grabbed Fitz and rushed to get out of the wa­ter.

It felt like trea­cle slow­ing my limbs, but we made it to the shore as men tore across the yard, try­ing to reach the wa­ter in time.

They didn’t reach Róise, but her mafioso fi­ancé fol­lowed and got her back.

Róise’s fine now, but my son? Not so much.

Fitz has been clingy and ter­ri­fied of swim­ming in the bay ever since that day.

Micks an­swer?

Ex­po­sure ther­apy. Not what he calls it of course. “He’s go­ing to be mobbed up one day. He has to learn to over­come his fears.”

So, in an at­tempt to get our son past his trauma re­sponse, we’re swim­ming to­gether as a fam­ily. Or at least we’re try­ing to.

Fitz is still dry and on the dock.

He’ll let us carry him into the wa­ter, but this is the first time he’s ven­tured onto the dock. And he’s a lot closer to the shore than the spot where Róise was yanked into the bay.

“Mommy, you should come up here with me.” Green eyes so like his dad’s en­treat me.

“Fitz,” Mick says in the tone our son never ig­nores. “Ye need to come to me.”

“But what if the bad men come and take mommy?” Fitz de­mands, his lit­tle fists against his hips.

“I’ll kill them,” Mick replies with­out a sec­ond’s hes­i­ta­tion.

“But what if they get away fast like the bad man with Róise?”

Fitz has started show­ing more of the Shaugh­nessy tem­per over the past six months, but this de­fi­ance to­ward his dad is some­thing new.

“I in­creased un­der­wa­ter se­cu­rity and the num­ber of guards pa­trolling our wa­ter ac­cess.” Mick speaks to our son with an adult frank­ness that Fitz finds less jar­ring than I do. “Your mam is safe and so are you.”

Fitz glares at his fa­ther. “But what if we’re not?”

Un­per­turbed by our son’s de­fi­ance – thank good­ness – Mick puts his arms up. “Come to me now, a mhac.”

The Irish en­dear­ment that lit­er­ally just means son, sounds dif­fer­ent in Mick’s voice than it does in mine. I speak Gaeilge, but my ac­cent re­veals my Amer­i­can roots.

Mick’s is pure Dublin.

With one last wary look at the wa­ter, Fitz leaps to­ward his fa­ther.

Mick catches the small body eas­ily and swings him to­ward me. “Your mam said you learned a new swim­ming stroke. Are you ready to show me?”

Worry wars with the need to im­press his dad in Fitz’s gaze.

“I can swim across the pool,” Fitz says, clearly an­gling to shift our lo­ca­tion.