Page 3 of Enemy of Ours 1
His freckled, pale face erupts in red that matches his deep red hair. The man is known for his random bursts of anger, a temper that flips like a switch. I heard from my second cousin twice removed, who heard from a guy in some shady pub, that Dannyonce cut off a man’s hand and bitch-slapped him across the face with it just for staring at him for too long. My palms are already sweating just with the thought of making eye contact once he’s done reassuring himself that his daughter is okay. I’ll have to look into Danny O’Connor’s icy blue eyes and try not to stare too long so I don’t lose a limb. You don’t mess with the Irish mob unless you're a Messina, the fearless Sicilian mafia that takes no shit from anyone.
I’m a Messina; I’m not supposed to fear the man who holds his kingdom in the palm of his meaty fist, but Danny O’Connor is a fucking terrifying, beefy man, and I’m currently trying not to have a panic attack.
“I owe you one, Emilio,” O’Connor says in a gravelly voice as he squeezes his daughter in his arms.
“No. You owe Romeo,” my father replies with a hint of pride in his voice. He places a hand on my shoulder to steer me towards Mick and Ed, who are kneeling on the dirty floor while their hands are tied behind their backs with thick rope. “Today, you showed courage, Romeo. It’s time you became a made man in the family business.”
I hardly react as Danny O’Connor gruffs in approval and stomps in his heavy boots out the cabin door with his daughter tucked safely in his arms. My focus switches from her watery green eyes to her injured hand held out to me in a goodbye wave. I wave back before I realize what I’m doing and hiss in sudden pain as a small gun is placed in the palm of my bleeding hand.
“You know what to do, son,” my don commands as he moves to stand behind me while I look back at the two men who messed with the wrong families and thought they would get away with it. “Questa nostra cosa,” my father whispers as I bring the gun up without hesitation. I aim at Mick’s forehead dead center as my finger twitches.
“I told you, you were a dead man,” I repeat my warning from earlier, watching Mick’s eyes widen as I pull the trigger back without blinking.
Bang!
My arm jerks back with the kick of the gun, leaving behind a small haze of smoke.
“Questa nostra cosa,” I say calmly before switching my focus to Ed, the family motto that will stick with me forever after this moment, replaying over and over in my head.
This thing of ours.
CHAPTER 1
IRIS
Present
Nowhere is safe. That’s my motto. This is the one thing I am absolutely certain of. Out there on the streets, where people go about their day without panic attacks and feel completely safe in their own little worlds… it’s different for me. I never feel safe. My head screams danger. Get out while you can. It’s all because of that one day. I know deep down it’s not really my fault, but at the same time, it feels like it.
“Iris, are you listening to me, lass?” Inga, who practically raised me as my nanny and has now become my caretaker since the accident, yells at me as if I'm deaf rather than partially blind.
It probably doesn’t help that I pretend I can’t hear her. In reality, her shouting is technically my fault, but I’m tired of her treating me differently from everybody else just because I now have a disability. I always was a little bit of a handful growing up, but I’m still a shit starter because my life is absolutely nothing or interesting. What else am I supposed to do besides stare out the front window, where the sun shines through every morning so I can make out shadows of people and cars down on the street?I’ve been doing that on really bad days where it’s hard to go outside, hearing noises and smells most people won’t pick up on because they don’t have to heighten their other senses to survive. I feel stuck inside most days; panic attacks grip me, and I have to fight through my fears even when it feels like I’m dying inside. Inga frequently encourages me to try going outside, but I hate it. I just wish I were normal.
Two and a half years of fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every time I see a flash of light, the darkness transforms into shadows, trapping me in a state of emotional terror. Passing the front door makes my chest feel tight, knowing that there is more on the other side. So, for two and a half years, I have had a phobia of going outside, remaining holed up in my comfort clothes and blankets while the world continues to turn without me. Inga says I am a cloudy storm on the rolling green hills of grass of Ireland, always blocking the sun and never letting the storm pass. It’s some Scottish saying she likes to ramble about when my fear feels really alive.
My therapist just calls it PTSD and anxiety.
I personally refer to it as "fuck everything and everyone; let me die in peace in my safe home."
Somewhat safe.
In reality, I only feel safe in my head, unless I am freaking out and my mind starts playing the what-if game.
What if you go outside and someone kidnaps you? Or people stare and judge you. The fucking what-if game sucks ass.
Unfortunately, that brings us to why Inga is insisting that I get dressed to go take a walk around Central Park for some fresh air. I’d rather stay indoors with my cotton pajama set, bunny slippers, and a messy bun, but no, Inga says it will do me good to leave the house.
Why do I continue to have her around to nag at me all day? I mean, sure, she’s been keeping me alive for the last two and ahalf years by bringing me food and making sure my home is in order so I don’t trip and die over the coffee table. But, God, some days I just wish she’d go on a vacation or something so I could huddle under my blankets and pretend everything is totally normal.
“This hair, it’s so beautiful. I don’t understand why you wear it on top of your head that way—like you just woke up from a nap. Let those long red Scottish locks down, and maybe you will get a boyfriend,” Inga mumbles next to me, pulling at my tangled bun and gently pushing me onto the bed to brush my hair as if I'm a child. I won’t ever admit it to her, but when she does pull the brush through my long hair and mumbles under her breath, it’s easy to close my eyes to complete darkness and yet still feel something soothing without agony rippling through my body.
A quiet touch that starts at the root of my hair, almost like a slip of silk running across bare skin.
Light.
Freeing.
Until she gets to the end of my hair, where the tangles are snarled together, and yanks the brush through until tears fill my eyes. This is an everyday routine for me. Just sit here and feel the barest of touches that always end in pain. I can’t see myself crying; I can’t look into a mirror and weep for myself. I can just feel it.
