Page 93 of Sins of Arrogance

“You don’t be­lieve her?” Róise asks.

Zoey snorts. “That woman has a very dis­tant re­la­tion­ship to the truth.”

I fin­ish ad­just­ing my bust un­der my criss­cross hal­ter top. “She tried to con­vince Mick that I told her I didn’t want her stay­ing at the man­sion.”

Tak­ing a look in the full mir­rored wall at one end of the chang­ing room, I nod. The girls look bang­ing and there’s a slice of skin ex­posed be­tween the hem of my hal­ter top and the waist­band of my high-waisted palazzo pants.

Frumpy mom vibe is noth­ing I’ve ever as­pired to. Maybe be­cause I was so young when I had Fitz. Or maybe it’s that I crave my hus­band’s at­ten­tion even if I can­not have his love.

And em­pha­siz­ing my boobs is sure to get it. Not that I’m go­ing to see him in this out­fit with him leav­ing the man­sion to take Dier­dre to lunch.

“It was a whole thing.” Fiona slides her feet into Crocks.

She prac­ti­cally lives in them, no mat­ter what sea­son it is.

“You weren’t even there,” I re­mind my sis­ter.

Zoey ad­justs her gun hol­ster. “Hope told us. She was im­pressed with how you stood up for your­self and Fitz.”

“She thought it was amaz­ing that you re­fused to apol­o­gize for some­thing you didn’t do. Even though da got an­gry.” Fiona still calls our fa­ther da some­times.

I stopped us­ing the term and started call­ing him Bro­gan and the more for­mal fa­ther ex­clu­sively when I was at the Mar­lowe Cen­ter. A da would not have pushed me into mar­riage, un­der­go­ing IVF treat­ments and par­ent­hood as a teenager.

A fa­ther might, but not a da.

A da loves his chil­dren above oth­ers. Like Mick loves Fitz.

Al­though, it was my grand­fa­ther and not my fa­ther who or­dered the dis­posal of the girl em­bryos, Bro­gan was com­plicit be­cause he was just as adamant that I pro­vide a male heir to the Shaugh­nessy line. De­spite the risks to my health and men­tal sta­bil­ity at such a young age, my fa­ther in­sisted I use IVF to en­sure giv­ing birth to a boy.

Nearly seven years and my chest still feels like it’s be­ing shred­ded by ra­zor­blades when I let my­self re­mem­ber that time and what came af­ter.

“I’m pretty im­pressed too,” Zoey adds. “I know plenty of made men and women who wouldn’t have.”

Warmth un­furls in­side me at the other woman’s ap­proval.

Fabi­ana slides into a blazer that cov­ers her shoul­der hol­ster. “It sounds like Dier­dre is a real ma­nip­u­la­tor.”

My gut twists. I can’t be­lieve I’ve been talk­ing about some­thing so pri­vate in front of her.

Like she knows what I’m wor­ried about, Fabi­ana winks. “Don’t worry. What hap­pens in self-de­fense train­ing stays in self-de­fense train­ing.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Though I have zero doubts that if some­thing came up that would com­pro­mise the Cosa Nos­tra, she’d take it to her capo with­out com­punc­tion.

I’m pretty sure Róise would too at this point. Her loy­alty has shifted from the mob to the mafia and it’s no won­der. Miceli pro­tects her with the kind of zeal Bro­gan re­serves for the mob.

“You should bring Hope to the next train­ing ses­sion,” Róise says.

“I in­vited her to this one, but she said no,” Zoey an­swers.

Róise frowns. “I’ll call her.” Hope is Róise’s mom’s sis­ter. Maybe she’ll have more sway. “Tell me more about the vin­tage cling­wrap.”

“Vin­tage cling­wrap?” Fabi­ana asks, her voice laced with hu­mor.

“You know, she’s the old model, thin, trans­par­ent and sticks where she’s not wanted.” Róise’s tone is pure snark.

I burst out laugh­ing and so does ev­ery­one else. Okay, so twenty-one-year-olds aren’t slouches in the sar­casm de­part­ment ei­ther.