Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
It’s just, Ward didn’t need to die at twenty. He didn’t need to get shot six times in the chest and be left for dead in some back-alley street in a sleepy section of a Delco neighborhood best known for dealing meth. He could’ve had a future, a wife and kids, real happiness, if only this family weren’t so obsessed with clan life. Like the mafia, except Irish. Everyone in here knows it, knows that violence stalks them like a shadow.
“Promise you’ll come visit next weekend,” Callum says as I give him a quick hug. “Dad always asks about you, you know.”
“What do you tell him?”
“That we rarely talk, and you know I hate lying.”
“I know you do.” I squeeze my brother’s shoulder. “Thanks for doing that, but it’s okay. You can tell him whatever you need to. Where’s Aidan, by the way? I’ve barely seen him since the church.”
“In back with Dad and Uncle Tomas. I think they’re having a meeting.” He frowns, looking toward the entrance to the private room tucked up on the other side of the bar. “You should go in and pay your respects.”
I sigh and nod. “Wish me luck.”
“Godspeed, sister.”
Nolan grins at me and waves as I wade into the mass of people, hugging and kissing and saying goodbye and how nice it’s been seeing everyone and how I need to come back to Delco more often and yes I graduated from Penn and yes I got an MBA, isn’t that nice, yes it’s nice, and no I can’t have another drink not even just a little whisky, yes it’s lovely seeing you, more cheeks to kiss and cousins to hug, until I reach the big oak door marked Private. The bartender doesn’t pay me any mind as I knock a few times and turn the knob. Anyone else trying this would get a club to the head, but not me. Not the daughter of Chief Fergal Halloran.
The back room’s thick with cigar smoke. There’s a long table, enough seating for twelve but only three people occupy the far end around a fancy bottle of whisky and three glasses. Smoke rolls from glowing red tips as the men turn to frown at the sudden intrusion, squinting at the light, the thunderous sound of another toast to blood, and the whoosh of fresh air. My oldest brother Aidan’s closest to the door—at thirty-one, he already looks like an old hand in the Halloran clan. Dark hair, dark eyes, like an alien creature. Uncle Tomas has a shock of gray on the top of his square head with his tiny sunken eyes sucked back into a mass of wrinkled, pale skin. He looks like every Irish man does past a certain age, with a hard stare and a harder reputation, and his eyes are bleary and red, but his cheeks are unmarked by tears. He’s no stranger to loss, and a Halloran doesn’t cry, not even over their own boy.
Then there’s my father. Chief Fergal smiles at me warmly. He’s always smiling warmly. Tall, thin, wiry, a physique that hides a surprising strength. I take after him the most out of anyone in this family, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad. He always says I’m the spitting image of his mother, but I’ve got his stubborn personality, and maybe that’s why he’s been so lenient with me over the years. But his smile now is sharper than usual, more strained, and I have a bad feeling as I move closer to the men.
“I just came to say goodbye. I have to catch a train.” I bow my head, the image of the perfectly deferential clan daughter, and turn to Uncle Tomas. “I’m so sorry about Ward. I really am. It was a nice service.”
Uncle Tomas nods and drinks and puffs on his cigar. “And a good wake out there. It was nice seeing you, Daley.”
“Why are you leaving so soon?” Dad asks, head tilted to the side. “I wanted to have a conversation before you left.”
“I have work in the morning.” I refrain from reminding him that yes, most normal people have jobs that are more than just a front for the FBI. “And you know how it gets at these things.” Past ten p.m., on a night like this with the alcohol flowing, the atmosphere will only get more intense out there and make it harder to slip away.
“All the more reason to stay,” Aidan says, leaning back in his chair, giving me his patented frown of disapproval. When Shane passed, Aidan was thrust into the role of heir apparent, and with it all the stress and responsibility he can handle. It was like losing two brothers: one to violence and the other to the clan.
I do my best to ignore him. “Sorry, Dad. I don’t control the trains.”