Page 49 of Stolen Mafia Vows
It’strue that when you live with someone, you attune yourself to the sound of their footsteps, to the way they fill their coffee mug, to the opening and closing of doors and windows. I was around ten years old when I first recognized that I could gauge my pa’s mood by the sound of his boots crunching across the gravel outside the house. I knew instantly if he’d stopped at the pub for a few pints of Guiness on his way home, if he’d had a good day or a bad day, if he was going to walk through the door and shut himself away in his study for the next few days.
It was around the same time that I learned to stay out of his way when his footsteps were heavy. Mostly, I went out to the stables; riding always gave me a sense of freedom that I never got from inside the house. Other times I would wander down to the beach and stare at the sea until my eyes watered in the glare of the sunshine or I was drenched through from the rain.
Today is different.
Today, I can’t match the footsteps across the foyer to the man who has been a constant in my life. I keen my ears, listening, gauging, preparing my own reactions, and drawing a blank.
Gran sits forward in her rocking chair, the book on her lap still closed. I haven’t seen her turn a page. We’ve simply been sitting in comfortable silence, waiting for his return.
“Pa?” I rise to my feet, the chair legs scraping across the floor behind me.
My breath catches inside my chest when I turn to face him. He’s a broken version of the man who walked out of here with my brother a couple of weeks ago. A walking shadow. His sharp edges muted to shades of gray.
The color has been rinsed out of him like denim that has been through the wash cycle too many times. His eyes are bloodshot and bulging, his cheeks are hollow, his stubble has grown into a raggedy, silver-sprinkled beard. He left the house a successful mafia Boss and has returned a man for whom the lights have gone out.
“We have work to do.” He offloads his bag onto the table with a heavy thud.
“Declan.” Gran comes into the room but doesn’t approach him. Instead, she keeps herself busy doing what she always does, filling the kettle and adding teabags to mugs. “Sit down, son,” she says over her shoulder. “Work can wait.”
“Not this time.” He keeps his eyes on me when he adds, “We’ll take our tea in the study.”
Gran’s eyes narrow. “Have you eaten? I’ll make you some food. You need to keep your strength up.”
“I’m not hungry.” He turns around and strides back out of the room, his footsteps still unrecognizable. He wants me to follow him.
I raise my hands placatingly to Gran and give her the nod to bring the drinks through when they’re ready. She doesn’t protest. Gran might be the strongest woman I know, but even she understands when it’s best not to argue.
I enter the study and close the door behind me.
It feels off-kilter without Ruairi. I glance at his empty seat and meet my father’s eyes behind his desk. I was wrong. He might be hollowed out by the loss of his oldest son, weary right through to his core, but at first glance I missed the icy fire blazing behind his eyes.
“Where is the Murray girl?”
“Emily?” Something slithers down my spine. “She’s gone to visit her sister-in-law and their new baby.”
“Is she coming back?” This isn’t a paternal inquiry. He isn’t asking out of genuine curiosity. There’s an agenda behind the questions, and I don’t like where this is leading.
“Yes, she’ll be back.”
The door opens then, and Gran enters carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and slices of thickly buttered fruit loaf.
“You must be talking about Emily.” She slides the tray onto the desk. Her voice softens whenever she mentions Emily, I’ve noticed. My father notices too. “Lovely lassie. Have you given your pa the news?” She winks at me on her way out.
“News?” Pa’s eyes are still cold, but Gran has piqued his interest, only I have the sickly sense of dread in the pit of my stomach that it’s for all the wrong reasons.
“Emily and I were married yesterday. I was going to call you.” I pause. “She’s wearing Gran’s ring.”
I half-expect him to thump the desk with his fist, remind me that the ring was promised to Ruairi, for the wife he’ll never have. Instead, he blinks, his canines making a brief appearance between his lips as he leans forward, takes a cup, and raises it to his mouth. He sips the steaming liquid and sits back in his seat.
“Good. That will make life easier for us.”
I’m tempted to walk around the desk and open the brandy decanter myself, but I don’t. It would be disrespectful not to wait for my father to drink first.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Watching my father is almost like watching ice harden inside him, the crystals spreading, until eventually there will be no warmth left. No compassion. Nothing that makes him human.
“This is war, son.” He sips his tea, calmly, as if he just advised me that he’ll be retiring to his room shortly.
