Page 5 of Guilty as Sin

Liam drops his head, trying not to laugh. Da pinches the bridge of his nose. For one happy moment, I enjoy Finn’s idiocy as I’m relieved for Sloane’s sake.

But only for a moment.

We’re talking about the marriage between a Muloney daughter and an O’Sullivan son. But it won’t be the O’Sullivan son. They won’t waste firstborn Liam on a long-distance alliance. Cold reality grips me, but I am steel. I’ve always known my marriage would be arranged for the good of our family.

Mam fixes her eyes on mine.

I clench my jaw and nod once.

I know my duty.

“Cora Muloney has been in Chicago for the past ten years,” Mam tells me. “Living under the name Samantha Greene since leaving Boston.”

“Why the identity change?” I ask her brother. But Connor doesn’t meet my eye.

“It’s just a pseudonym according to our intel,” Mam says. “She’s still legally Cora Muloney. Regardless, she’s Cormac’s daughter, which is what matters. As for why she uses a pseudonym—safety. Why else? Her family must’ve coordinated it, given she’s living in a city that’s not under their influence.”

“But why our city?” I ask. This time there’s silence until Connor finally answers me.

“School,” he says. “Loyola.”

I get the sense he’s skirting the full truth. But I can read between the lines.

Mafia princess asked daddy if she could go away for school. Of course he indulged her. She’s still a good Catholic girl, choosing Loyola of all places. A good Catholic girl, a classic mafia princess, someone who was raised in the life and understands what’s expected of her. Someone who knows her place: pliant and submissive. The perfect mafia wife.

Chapter 3

Cora

I grit my teeth as I pace the bridal suite. I was never the type of girl to plan my dream wedding. I had other dreams, like getting the hell away from my family and becoming a doctor. I dedicated years of hard work to accomplishing both.

Those were the goals that mattered to me.

I couldn’t give a shit about my wedding venue or my bouquet. What the hell does the choice of calla lilies matter if I can’t even choose my own groom? At least my controlling mother-in-law-to-be took over all the planning, though I refuse to feel gratitude toward her. She arranged every wedding detail in three days, as if to flaunt how little I was needed.

I’m getting married in the chapel of one of the O’Sullivans’ hotels. The reception will follow in a chic ballroom on an upper floor, with an expansive view of the Chicago sunset in all its inspiring glory.

I. Don’t. Care.

All that matters to me is keeping Connor safe. In this case, that means fixing his idiot mistake by pledging my life to a dangerous stranger. Brady Nolan O’Sullivan, the second son of Chicago’s foremost Irish mafia family. COO of the O’Sullivan Holding Company and director of all its restaurants and hotels, including the one I’m standing in. The man has a polished sheen on his public-facing résumé, but he’s also enmeshed in the nefarious world I left behind.

My future husband.

I dig my toes into the absurdly plush carpet of the suite I’ve been shut in. I’m dozens of floors above the chapel where I’m supposed to be getting married in an hour. Right now it must be draped with decorations I’ve never seen, filling with people I’ve never met, including my husband.

I pored over every article I could find about him. Bile burned in my throat the whole time, but it’s important to know your enemy. Unfortunately, my enemy isn’t just Brady, but the entire O’Sullivan family.

His parents, Declan and Orla, emigrated from Ireland to Chicago as young adults. Around the time they got married and started having kids, Declan began work in South Side construction. Initially a tradesman, he climbed the ladder quickly, becoming much richer than the average tradie through sources unknown. Construction led to real estate, which led to luxury real estate, and the rest is history.

The eldest son, Liam, is the spitting image of a younger Declan. Tall, square-jawed, and sporting thick dark waves, he looks like he should live in the era of black-and-white movie stars.

Brady belongs in color. With his russet-kissed hair and gray-green eyes, he takes after Orla. Both Liam and Brady, mafia sons though they are, have maintained impeccable public images.

Finn has not. The third O’Sullivan brother has been caught once or twice for youthful indiscretions, or so the unquenchable internet rumors claim. True to organized-crime form, no paper trail remains, discrediting the rumormongers. But Finn definitely looks more criminal than his older brothers. His messy curls and broken nose make him appear downright roguish.

There’s a gap of more than ten years between Finn and the only O’Sullivan sister, Sloane. She’s attending college on the West Coast, and for the daughter of a prominent family she has surprisingly few images online. The only ones available are glossy and curated, no windblown candids or late-night sneak shots. There must be publicity money involved. The family’s team likely protects her and Kieran, the youngest son, because there aren’t many records of him either. Given that he’s only thirteen, the lack of images doesn’t mean as much. But still, the O’Sullivans’ control extends to at least some of the media.

Briefly I wonder about the press release covering my wedding—because of it, I had to tell Jennifer and Lucy who I really am. Finally discussing my past with them felt like an unburdening, even if I did it in the broadest strokes. Admitting that I’d been lying to them for years brought no such relief.