Page 103 of Guilty as Sin

“It’s confession, Connor. Not therapy.” But even as I say it, I can predict his response.

“It’s habit from Mom.”

Our father would never allow his children to do something as weak as go to therapy. But our mom, for all her faults, recognized we needed it from having a man like Cormac Muloney as our father.

Confession was the closest thing she could give us.

“So the priest must’ve told Seven,” Connor says, dejected.

“Or the confessional is bugged.” If I were Seven, I’d have every confessional in the city bugged. “Fuck.” I need to move, so I start pacing again. “Goddamnit, fuck.”

“I mean, it’s not good.” My brother frowns like he doesn’t understand my reaction.

“Any confessional in Chicago could be bugged by Seven,” I explain. “Which means the O’Sullivans have a vulnerability they don’t know about. They’re in danger.” Brady’s in danger.

Connor purses his lips at me, shaking his head.

“Don’t you dare say it,” I warn, but he says it anyway.

“You’re still in love with him.”

I collapse onto the couch beside my brother. He’s right.

“So,” he says. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Wait for it to pass.” Wait for these spikes lodged in my heart to shrink, to become painless needles as I continue through the motions of my unfulfilling life.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Connor says.

“Then what do you propose?” I snap.

“Give him a test. Your version of handing him a gun loaded with blanks and sending him into a firefight. He’s always setting little tests, so see how he likes it for a change.”

With my head leaned back on the couch, I let it fall to the side to look at my brother, making sure he sees all of my skepticism. He shrugs.

“It’s worth a shot.”

Chapter 49

Brady

Damage control following the attack goes as smoothly as it can. Thanks to the cops, coroners, and media outlets on our payroll, we’re able to spin the story into a tragic accident, complete with pictures of the rocket launcher damage.

Gas leak. Faulty wiring. Kaboom.

Since I’m the one in charge of our buildings’ quality, I’m the one to take responsibility for the “shoddy construction.” I fucking hate paying for an error that isn’t mine. But I know my duty, and I do it without complaint.

It’s nothing compared to what my older brother endures.

Liam and his men never made it to Seven’s brownstone that night. Given how late he had to send out the call, Liam was only able to fill two SUVs with ready fighters. He drove the first car. As soon as he crossed onto Seven’s block, spikes came out of the road. Our second car was debilitated, then obliterated. Two remote-controlled SUVs slammed into either side of our second car, crushing the men within.

We’d underestimated Seven’s defenses. He killed eight of our men before they’d made it into his yard. Who knew what other surprises he had in store? Liam made the difficult call to abandon the attack, and I do not envy the choice he had to make. No O’Sullivan wants to retreat. But because he did, we lost eight men instead of sixteen.

And we didn’t lose Liam.

The brutal car crash made no headlines. Not with the “explosion” at our high-rise occurring the same night.

Normally Mam coordinates the funerals. This time, Liam’s taking on all eight by himself. The wakes and services and burials. The widow visits. The fatherless children provided for.