Page 9 of Stolen Mafia Vows
“You’re a part of this family.” Dad smooths out the creases across his forehead, and it’s like watching him erase ten years from his life. “I value your opinion.”
“Bullshit.” Fuck respect when I’m being lied to my face. “You want to know what I think? You and Ruairi have already decided to go ahead with whatever alliance is on the table because my brother isn’t content with inheriting the business as it stands, and you refuse to consider that he might be wrong.”
My heart is pumping steadily; this conversation has been a long time coming.
I don’t miss the glance that passes between them. A warning perhaps? Is there a reason why they need me on board with this venture?
“If I’m wrong, I’ll hold my hands up and admit it.”
Ruairi raises both hands, palms facing outwards, to prove the point, in a gesture that’s so unlike my brother it takes me several beats to process that this might almost be an apology.
Almost.
“But Dad’s right. If we’re going to expand, we can’t do it without you, Eo.”
Okay, now I know there’s far more to this than they’re prepared to admit.
“It’s never stopped you before. And what about the agreement between the Byrnes and the Murrays? Have you conveniently forgotten about that because it no longer suits your narrative? They took New York; we took Ireland and the North of England. We don’t cross the line. It works this way.”
“We’re not crossing any lines, I promise,” Ruairi says, sounding as if he means it.
“I’m not getting any younger, son.” Dad smiles into his brandy glass, swallows a mouthful of amber liquid, and releases a sigh. “I want to see my sons working together before I retire. I want to see them working hard to protect the business that has been in our family for generations. Is that so hard to believe?”
It’s a great speech.
And it might not have been so hard to believe if it had been made twenty, fifteen, or even ten years ago. But mostly, my father looks right through me like I don’t exist, seeing only the heir to his empire: my brother. Ruairi has always been the one nurtured to follow in our father’s footsteps, the one molded into a clone of Declan Byrne, the one who understood his destiny from a young age.
After our mom died, I convinced myself that this happened because I look more like her than Ruairi does. I made excuses for his behavior for a while and tried to find my own niche within the empire that allowed me to distance myself from them. Gradually, the need to be seen, to be understood, to be loved, hardened as I built a shell around myself, and learned to live inside it. Alone.
So, why do I still feel the tug inside my chest, even now?
Why am I still so desperate to believe him?
As if he can read my thoughts, Pa rises from his seat, leans across the desk, and extends his hand. “We’re in this together, Eoghan. We’re family. We’re blood.”
I rise too and reflexively shake his hand. The instant our palms touch, Pa wraps his other hand around mine, engulfingme in his warmth. His eyes grow large with tears, and I feel the first cracks appearing in my toughened exterior like a chick breaking out of its egg.
A knock on the door breaks us apart, and all three of us turn around as it opens, and our housekeeper, Mary, appears.
“Your visitor is here, Mr. Byrne.” Mary opens the door wide and stands aside to allow a young woman to enter.
She isn’t what I was expecting. At first glance, I’d guess her to be ten years younger than me, early- to mid-twenties perhaps. She’s tall, elegant, with long, fine blonde hair that reaches down to her waist and a slim boyish figure. The woman is tastefully dressed in a white pantsuit, a simple strand of pearls around her neck, and pearl studs in her ears.
Her smile reveals perfect, neat white teeth. She’s poised and confident, but there’s something behind her eyes that I can’t quite place.
“Hi.” Her accent immediately reminds me of Emily. “I’m Olivia Dragonetti. Pleased to meet you.”
3
EMILY
We Murraysand Keegans certainly know how to party.
The day before the wedding is a blur of arrangements and dress fittings and choosing flowers. Sienna wants wildflowers. She has been chilled about the whole wedding—they’re getting married in the meadow behind the Murray mansion, Sienna in a vintage dress that she customized to her own design, bride and groom both barefoot. But the only thing she has been adamant about is that she wants to hold a bunch of wildflowers rather than a bouquet primped to within an inch of its life.
We all get involved. This is simply the way we are. And everything we do is accompanied by a bottle of brandy. Or Irish whiskey. Or multiple bottles of wine.
We traipse back and forth between the house and the meadow, the men erecting a romantic archway beneath which Kyle and Sienna will say their vows, the women decorating it with more wildflowers. When it is finished, I stand back and admire our work; it’s like a scene fromRomeo and Juliet, minus the feuding families and the vial of poison.
