Page 95 of Possessive Mafia Vows

Terry’s right-hand-man joins us in the bedroom. He’s taller than Terry, broader, more solid, his hair turning rusty silver in patches. Patrick has been around for as long as I’ve known Terry, and in all that time, I’ve never known them to be more than a few miles apart at any given moment.

“Patrick is going with you,” Terry says.

“No, Tel. You need him here.”

“This isn’t up for debate.” Terry smiles. “Your mom would never forgive me if I let you do this alone. And besides, Patrick has more connections in the Irish mafia than I’ve had hot dinners.”

Terry pulls me in for a hug. He was always tactile when we were growing up, but it’s one of those things that you wake up one day and realize it’s been years since you last hugged. He still makes me feel safe.

It’s also a stark reminder of the danger I’m flying into.

Patrick talks. A lot.

He talks about the first sheep he ever sheared as a young lad growing up in rural Ireland. The time he and his pals stole a bottle of whiskey from his pa’s stash and got drunk in a forest where they used to spend weekends camping. His grandma’s soda bread which she was apparently famous for in the village where he grew up.

By the time we reach the airport, I’m mentally acquainted with every member of his family, including cousins, second cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, and even their neighbors when he was growing up.

We’re on board the Dragonetti private jet when he mentions a name that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

Sinead.

I trawl through my memories for the name, knowing that I’ve heard it recently, but unable to place it into context. Until I recallthe conversation with Sienna’s father in the executive room at the casino.

He said that he wasn’t going anywhere until I called Sienna.

“Sienna or Sinead. Take your pick.” He’d peered at me with bloodshot eyes and added, “I’d pick Sienna if I were you. Just saying.”

He was drunk. I didn’t question the name Sinead at the time. He’d been rambling on about the drinks being watered down in the casino bar, and I thought it best not to entertain him. But now, I’m not so sure. Was the name another breadcrumb dropped into the palm of my hand to see if I’d notice?

“I have to make a call.” I apologize to Patrick and call Bash from my cell phone, grateful that the aircraft hasn’t taken off yet.

“Bash.” I don’t even wait for him to say hello. “What does the name Sinead mean to you?”

Silence.

I hear my brother walking with the phone clamped to his ear. I hear him close a door behind him, then, “Who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Sinead Duffy.” His voice is hushed. “She’s married to Sasha Bogrov.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

It takes me approximately two-and-a-half seconds to figure out where this is going.

“Shit.” I glance at Patrick who is following the one-sided conversation with narrowed eyes. “Cash’s alibi.”

“Got it in one.”

“Have you managed to get hold of her yet?”

Bash hesitates. “Seems she’s left the country for a while. Gone home to spend the holidays with family while her husband signs her lover’s death warrant.”

“Find out where she is. I’m heading to the airport, but if you can get the details to me while we’re in the air, I’ll pay her a surprise visit when we land.”

I end the call, and stare at my blank screen.

What the fuck was Cash thinking?

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