Page 36 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. “It’s not just about the money. There’s more to it than you know.”

“Then explain it to me,” I say, my voice trembling, already fearing what he might reveal. “I want to understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

He looks at me for a long moment, then his tone takes on a sudden urgency. “Adele, look, you’re not safe out there on your own. You really shouldn’t have moved out of here. And you should never have gone to Chicago. Or at least you should have informed me well ahead of going there.”

A chill settles in my bones, goosebumps rising on my arms. “What do you mean?”

“There are people who would do anything to get to you,” he states calmly, and a part of me wonders if my dad has gone off the rails, his paranoia finally tipping him into a mental breakdown.

“Who are these people out to get me, Daddy?”

He stands and goes to the window, taking a deep puff of his cigar and staring out into the back gardens. “Do you remember the incident at Airydale Park?”

I absently finger the scar on my chest. I was only five, so I can’t actually recall the incident. But I remember crying myself to sleep the night before another surgery. I remember the physiotherapy sessions, and I remember being homeschooled until ninth grade. And I have the scar to show for it, so yes, it’s safe to say that I was there.

“Of course,” I say. “It was a random attack by a crazed gunman. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He closes his eyes for a moment as if gathering his strength. “It wasn’t a random attack, Adele.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t random?” My voice comes out as a whisper. “Daddy?”

He opens his eyes and turns to me, and I’m shocked to see his face pinched with cold hate. “It was an assassination attempt. And it didn’t happen in Airydale, or in Boston for that matter. You were in bed with your mother in Chicago when it happened. You were shot six times, your mother eighteen times. She shielded you with her body, taking most of the hits.”

The world around me blurs as I try to make sense of his words.

Shot multiple times? In Chicago?

My mind tries to piece together fragments of memory, but all I get is the smell of old books mixed with the acrid stench of smoke, the copper taste of blood, a woman’s screams, and a masked gunman. My dad told me those were nightmares.

Apparently, they weren’t dreams. They were memories, and for some reason my dad had me doubting my own reality.

An unpleasant buzzing begins in my ears, the sound making me want to plug them shut, to run and find a dark silent room, but I need to know.

“But . . . but what about the playground incident?” I ask in a trembling voice. “It’s on record. The June 14th Airydale attack.”

“Yes, the Airydale events are true, and they did happen that year,” he admits, his voice heavy with regret. “But you weren’t one of the victims. You were in bed with your mother when the gunman came. My sister was killed that night, but by some medical miracle, you survived against all odds. And you continued to survive through dozens of surgeries. I had to protect you and hide the fact that you didn’t die that night.”

My eyes widen in confusion, my breath coming in short gasps. “Hold on. Wait a second. How can my mother be your sister? I thought my father was your brother, Joshua O’Shea?”

His fists curl, his face contorting with rage as he snarls, “Your father is not my brother.”

His sudden vehemence puzzles me, and his use of present tense isn’t lost on me. There’s a swarm of questions in my head, hovering like angry bees, but somehow, this is the first that tumbles out of my mouth.

“If only my mother and I were attacked that night, what about the rest of our family? My father? Your wife? Your sons, Brody and Baswell? Were they also assassinated?”

He looks down, his face pale. “No, because they never existed. I was never married, Adele. I don’t have a brother—well, none you know of. And I never had children—well, except for you.”

“But . . . but that’s . . . impossible.” I sputter out a disbelieving laugh as my gaze flies to the photo on the desk . . . One of him, his wife, and two ginger-headed boys with toothed smiles, taken around eighteen years ago.

There are dozens of similar photos dotting the walls around the house and in photo albums. His sons’ old rooms are still immortalized to this day. We cry and put lilies on their gravestones every year . . . It’s just not possible.

But I look into the cold unrepentant eyes of Benjamin O’Shea, the man I call Daddy, and I see the gut-wrenching truth lining his weathered face.

It was all a big, fat, elaborate lie.

The magnitude of the deception and the mockery that my life has been suddenly floors me.

My chest feels too tight, my breath coming in short puffs as I continue to stare at him, shock slowly giving way to horror, rage, then disgust.

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