Page 81 of Tormented Diamonds
Patrick O’Shea
Birthplace: Brooklyn, New York
Birth Mother: Mona Riordan
Birth Father: Emmett O’Shea
Jesus.
O’Shea … Saddler … Starling…
It seems our duplicitous late marshal had a hat trick of personalities that would’ve lit stars in Becca’s eyes.
I don’t know the details of how Owen got his hands on Saddler’s birth records, and I don’t care to. However, it appears while I was auctioning off ports to Alejandro Carrera’s asshole son, my favorite marshal was in New York committing felony identity theft…
And uprooting some dysfunctional family trees.
“Saddler’s birth father was Flynn’s fucking half-brother?”
“Didn’t see that coming; did you?” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes up at him, my fingers clenched around my phone. “Is that a real question or are you trying to get your tongue ripped out of your asshole?”
He starts to counter, then wisely changes his mind. “As we suspected, Henry Saddler was a wannabe who never was,” Anton says, rerouting us back on topic. “It seems he always knew his birth father was the former second-in-command of the Rogue, but that meant very little when his birth mother was the whore ‘dear old Dad’ got pregnant and forced out of town.”
“You’ve talked to Owen?”
He nods like it’s a ridiculous question. “He sent the text two hours ago, Gianni.”
Christ, I don’t know what day it is, much less the time.
I drain the rest of his drink and change the subject. “I take it Henry was a little salty about that.”
“If by salty, you mean going the other route, getting himself a shiny Marshal’s badge, then, yeah. However, Emmett’s illegitimate half-brother, Declan, kept his ear to the ground after Alejandro Carrera hooked him up, and when Marcello got arrested, he made a call to his bastard nephew…”
“Who was all too eager to dip that badge in my blood,” I finish. “That’s why Saddler’s phone pinged. He and Flynn were family.”
He shrugs. “In a skeletons-in-the-closet, only-recognized-when-one’s-useful, sell-each-other-down-the-river, Cain-and-Abel type of way, but yeah, still family.”
The rest of the story is self-explanatory. Saddler got himself on my Witness Protection detail and started painting my existence with a shit-covered brush. Too bad he’s dead. I’d enjoy listening to his uncle relay how few fucks he gave about him before watching them both burn.
“Speaking of Flynn,” Anton hedges, letting the words hang a beat before adding, “Do we have any updates?”
“Not yet. I’ve sent men to Providence with instructions to wait for him should he be stupid enough to return. It’s just a precaution. I’m confident he has no intention of leaving Jersey empty-handed. His whole identity was based around my father and this trafficking ring. It validated him and gave him power. Without it, he’s a desperate nobody who blames Becca for his downfall. In his mind, she’s the source of all his misfortune; he should’ve killed her twenty-two years ago.”
He’ll have to get through me, first.
“What about Becca?”
Here’s where Anton pops a blood vessel.
“She’s at the police station.”
His face goes from white to red to purple. “What the fuck?—?”
“I’m the one who cleared it,” I say crisply. “So watch your tone. They want her to make an official statement about her father. If she didn’t go, it’d just draw more suspicion.”
I guess he’s learned not to beat a dead horse because he doesn’t offer any further rebuttal other than a muttered, “I’m surprised you didn’t demand to escort her in yourself.”
