Page 59 of Guilty as Sin

Cora obeys, but with her own flair. When she pulls the bottle from the shelf, she swings it down, then up behind her back for it to spin over her shoulder. She’s going to do an elbow bump. Impressive, but I can one-up her. After she bumps the bottle back into the air, I reach out to snatch it before she does.

But the clever minx outmaneuvers me. Without missing a beat, she stomps her spiky heel down on my foot, making me curse and stumble backward. Then she catches the bottle and pours our two shots. Completely uncaring of the fact that she intentionally caused me pain.

Well, well. Two can play at that game.

My heart rate accelerates as I meet her defiant gaze. We toss back our shots without breaking eye contact. After we’ve slammed down our glasses, I hear Old Bob shut his book and climb off his stool.

“Think that’s my cue,” he says, sliding crumpled bills onto the bar. “Goodnight, ya kooks.”

“Night, Bob,” Cora calls. It’s the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard from her, each word covered in syrup.

The old man throws a hand over his shoulder before pushing out the front door. Hiking up his jacket collar, he strolls down the sidewalk with his book tucked under his arm.

There was a time when he would’ve been an easy target for muggers. After dark in this part of town was risky for the vulnerable. But now that we O’Sullivans control the area, our streets are clean of petty thugs. We keep our people safe.

I lock the door behind Old Bob. Now it’s just me and my wife.

I watch Cora open the cash drawer and flick up the money clips. Sorting Bob’s bills, she starts counting my pub’s cash for the night. Bold woman. I keep an eye on those light fingers of hers. I almost want her to try something, that way I can catch her red-handed.

She doesn’t. At least not that I can see, which is an unsettling thought. This woman can outmaneuver me. When she finishes closeout, she returns to dusting the bottles on the top shelf. But I’ve put up with enough of her teasing.

“I have something to show you,” I tell her. She quirks an eyebrow at me, intrigued.

When I’d brought her to my office, I’d allowed her into my space. My sanctum. I’d never brought a woman there before. Never brought anyone into my personal spaces if I could help it. But Cora. She’s part of my life now.

And what’s more, she’s part of my family.

I lead her into the back hall and show her the rooms. The sacred spaces of the O’Sullivans.

“Office,” I say.

She peers in at the monitors, then keeps following me.

“And the back room.” I open the door for her.

She steps in cautiously, almost reverently. I can tell that she knows the significance of me bringing her back here.

I see our headquarters through her eyes. Long table surrounded with wooden chairs. Yellow walls scattered with old family photos and an Irish flag. A filing cabinet in the corner. Nothing all that exciting.

And yet, Cora takes in the room like she’s absorbing every detail of it. She does know what this means.

For me.

For her.

For us.

She meanders along one wall of pictures, then pauses.

“Is that…?” she asks.

I know the photo without looking at it. A sepia from the old country. Mam, ten years old, on the shoulders of two famous Irish sisters, in their twenties at the time.

“Yeah,” I confirm.

“Holy shit,” Cora says. “Your mom’s a badass.”

She continues down the wall of pictures. She’s taking her time, showing respect.