Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
After turning on the coffee machine, I rested my palms on the counter and waited for my first shot of caffeine. I’d need it if I was meeting with Finn today to plead my case for a crew to dig around in Europe.
“Maybe rebellious is a better word,” Shan murmured.
When I looked at him, I noticed he was studying one of the tattoos on my arms. Hands and arms covered in color, from my knuckles up to my shoulders. Tributes to Ireland and family, mainly Luna and our heritage. The Cliffs of Moher, the family crest my grandfather had worn proudly, my affiliation—The Sons of Munster was written within a Celtic cross. History had always meant a lot to me, and Ireland had a violent one. We knew what it was like to fight for freedom, something my grandmother had lived and breathed. She used to cross herself, pat me on the cheek, and say, “May the rebellion in your blood save you from their shackles,” and that was the tattoo Shan was eyeing.
My grandmother would probably roll over in her grave if she knew the man I was today. She’d moved to Ireland after Gramps had died, so I’d come out to her over the phone right after my folks had kicked me out. I’d never heard her curse like that before, and she hadn’t exactly been a saint. But that day, man, she cursed her own son to the fiery pits of hell—then sternly told me, or reminded me, never to let anyone come between me and my truth.
Yet, somehow, I felt those shackles every damn day. I couldn’t be completely honest for as long as I harbored feelings for the man who’d once stood at the center of this syndicate. Despite having never wanted the top seat, Shan had reluctantly accepted the highest rank here in Philly when John took the throne and moved it to Chicago. Shan, whose sons had always been my best friends. No, it would stir up too much drama if anyone knew, so even now, when Grace was gone, coming clean and possibly dealing with my feelings in a more open way was unthinkable. And it affected me these days, I couldn’t lie. It affected my work. I was too focused on the guy crying on my couch most nights.
My espresso was ready, so I cleared my throat and decided to dig once more, and then I could inhale my shot of caffeine before getting out of here.
“So did I miss anything last night?” I asked. “You were out too, weren’t you?”
He straightened and stuck his hands into his pockets. “Just for a little while. I met up with Old Phil and Jim, then came back here and had a couple drinks.”
I didn’t know what was worse—that I wasn’t going to get any answers about his first meetup with a stranger, or that he’d just told a rookie lie. If you lied to another Son, leave other Sons out of it. It would be too easy for me to stumble on the truth considering I ran into these guys often enough, even when both were retired.
But so be it. Shan didn’t wanna share, and I wasn’t gonna pry.
Chapter 8
Five months later
“I’m heading out!” I hollered, pocketing my phones. Plural, hopefully for the last time. Tomorrow, I was gunning for recruiting an assistant, ’cause I’d earned it. I also needed one.
“Already?” Shan came out from the kitchen. “You just got home.”
I didn’t look at him. “Work’s busy. We got a shipment coming in from Florida at two AM.” Which usually took several hours to go through, and I had to be done before sunup because I was picking up a friend and his partner at the airport. “Try to get some sleep, yeah?”
I left before he could express his dismay.
He thought I was rarely home anymore, and he wasn’t wrong. In my defense, he’d entered a new stage of grief, and I couldn’t be around it. He was just so fucking angry all the time, and he took it out at the gym. He could spend hours there every day, which showed. God, did it show. And the fucker didn’t give a shit at home either—about how he dressed, that was. More often than not, I found him walking around in nothing but sweatpants.
He still had little to no appetite, but he made up for it by cramming supplements and disgusting smoothies down his throat. If I hadn’t known he was as depressed as ever and got nauseated from food, I would’ve mistaken him for a juicehead at the first sight of a bag of protein powder in the kitchen.
At least he wasn’t drinking like before. These days, when he said he’d had a couple of drinks, he meant it. I was keeping track of the bottles.