Page 57 of Stolen Mafia Vows
In the past, Kyle would’ve been on my side. He’d have promised to keep an eye on me himself to buy me a sliver of freedom if my parents were coming down hard on me. But he has already made his position clear on the topic of me and Eoghan: he thinks getting married was a dumb move, and that today will be my final day in Ireland.
Well, I have news for them. I’m not going anywhere.
My brother looks even more tired than Sienna does, the dark smudges beneath his eyes heavy and creased. “You couldn’t have picked a worse time to pull a stunt like this, Em.”
“A stunt? Is that what you think this is?”
There’s a brittle quality to my voice, like all the cracks are showing before my dad even arrives. I pick up my coffee and raise it to my lips so that I can hide behind the steam.
“You’re twenty-one years old.” He speaks in low tones so as not to disturb the baby and ends up sounding smug, which only makes me bristle even more.
“Yep.” I look at Sienna. “How old were you when you met Kyle?” My voice preens at the end of the question, and I don’t like that I sound smug too.
Tit-for-tat.
She lowers her eyes. I feel bad for putting her in this position—she’s just had a baby for God’s sake—but I’m done with being treated like a child.
“Twenty-one.”
Her voice barely crosses the cozy living room, and I realize with a sinking feeling that my dad is going to take up all the space when he gets here.
I wait for Kyle to tell me that it was different, but all he does is glare at me, excuses chugging around behind his eyes. Eventually he says, “Different circumstances, Em. Sienna was already independent. She had a job, an apartment, a—”Fucking hypocrite.
“She had a life, is that what you were going to say? Sorry, Si, for talking about you like you’re not in the room.” I turn my attention back to my brother. “What would you have done if Sienna’s father had threatened to break your kneecaps?”
“It’s irrelevant, because he didn’t.”
“You can still answer the question though, Kyle. Hypothetically. Because, you know, I’m genuinely curious.”
When he doesn’t respond, I fill the silence. I’m on a roll now.
“Would you have begged him to reconsider because you were in love with his daughter? Or would you have run away with her and come back five years later, hoping that he’d have forgotten your kneecaps were still attached to your legs?”
“Em, this isn’t cute.” Kyle doesn’t look at me. “All you’re doing is proving that you still have a lot of growing up to do.”
Just then, there’s a gentle rap on the front door, and Kyle gets up before either me or Sienna can move. Time seems to slow down. A thousand possible scenarios flash behind my eyelids, all of them resulting in me boarding the private jet with my father when he’s done yelling at me and flying back to the States with him.
Low murmurs filter through from the foyer, and I feel as though I’m taking root, stringy vines snaking around my body and binding me to the sofa so that I can’t run away.
Then my dad walks in, and he isn’t smiling, and for the first time ever, he doesn’t come over and fold me into a giant bear hug.
There’s barely time for me to feel the emptiness in my chest before he says, still standing, “Get your stuff, Emily. You’re coming back with me.”
That’s it. No discussion.
And the realization that he came all this way simply to take me back with him ignites something in my chest that I’ve never felt before. Colder than rage, and more solid than frustration, it makes me feel nauseous with the sheer tsunami-force of it.
I stand up and lean against the sofa to prevent my legs from buckling. “I’m not going back.”
My dad studies me like I’m a stranger. No, worse than that—he would be pleasant if he were talking to a stranger—he looks at me the way he would look at someone he was dragging out of the casino. Someone wearing a silver suit.
“You can’t stay here indefinitely. You won’t get a visa.”
“I’m married, Dad.” I flash my ring at him. “My husband will sort it for me.”
I wait for the outburst. He clenches his fists, his eyes screwing up into tight little pebbles. But he must’ve spent the duration of the flight here running through his options, and now, he opts for the cajoling tone.
“Emily, baby, I didn’t raise you to be dependent on a man.”
