Page 32 of Broken Blood Ties

It feels like a slight victory, but then she digs around in her oversized teacher’s tote for cash. She holds it out to me.

“I’mnottaking yer money.”

“Yes. Ye’re!” she bites back.

I shake my head while handing Aoife her water bottle.

Stepping closer to me, Summer whispers, “Please, Kieran. I don’t like to owe anyone.”

A laugh almost tumbles out, but then I look down to see her brow is knit in concentration—she’s serious.

“Ye don’t owe me.” I step back, place my hand on Aoife’s shoulder, and guide her to one of the tables near the wall of windows looking out into Boston. I set our tray down on a table that reminds me of the lunch tables from high school, and Aoife slides a wood-colored metal chair out and climbs up. I glance back at Summer, who’s standing there waiting for Mr. Terry and Shelly to get their food, a tray of salad and lemonade in hand.

Another chair grinds against the deep blue floor and leaches my attention away from where Summer has just realized I’m looking at her.

“This seat taken?” Ms. Brooks, the handsy parent helper, beams up at me.

Yes.

Maybe.

“Nah,” I end up saying with one more glance up.

Ms. Brooks sits next to me while Aoife is on my other side. There are still nine chairs at our table, so a few other preschool students from Miss Smith’s class sit near Aoife. Then, Summer and Shelly walk over to sit down across from us.

“You own O’Brien’s, right?” Ms. Brooks forgoes her burger and fries to prop her chin in her palm, elbow resting on the table. She smiles at me while I finish chewing the most awful bite of cheese pizza I’ve ever had.

“Aye,” I say, then wash my mouth out with a swig of water.

“Oh! That’s so fascinating. And you’re really Irish?”

Pinching my lips together, I try to keep from saying something sarcastic.

“Aye.”

“Did you come over here from Ireland then?”

That earns the attention of Shelly and Summer. They both glance over, waiting for an answer.

“No. Me great-great-grandparents came here from Ireland. I was born and raised in Boston.”

Ms. Brooks bats her eyelashes. “But your accent issostrong. That’s amazing.”

Summer tilts her head and tucks a few strands behind her ear. Does she want to know, too? Is she curious about me? Part of me wants to share.

The thought is quickly doused as though I’ve been dunked in the very tank we just toured. The deepest, darkest parts of me would make her run so far in the opposite direction.

What would Summer think of me if she truly knew who I am? Surely a woman content to spend her days with a roomful of giggling, screaming preschoolers wouldn’t have any idea what it means to be an Irish Mob boss—or the darkness that comes with it.

“Aye. Growing up, I spent a lot of time with other Irish men. Still do. It’s the nature of my business.” It’s the truth. But I’ll let them think it’s the pub.

“I’ll just have to come visit one of these restaurants of yours then. I love authentic?—”

My phone rings just in time to spare me from the rest of that sentence.

“Excuse me,” I say, standing. “Aoife, I’ll only be a moment.” She nods and goes back to clinking her water bottle with another student.

“Aye?” I answer, knowing it’s Cormac already.

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