Page 85 of Broken Blood Ties

“Aye. We’re walking.”

I snort, and he scowls. “Don’t have a fancy car to pick you up? I hear that’s all the rage with made men.”

His grip becomes painfully tight, and his nostrils flare when I release a closed-mouth whimper. “Then it’s best ye remember, I’m more than a made man, I was forged, and this is not the Cosa Nostra, love.”

For a second, I want to giggle at the interesting word choice, but the seriousness cutting across his expression keeps me silent.

“Understood?”

Ugh, this man is infuriating. He’s treating me like a child. I don’t answer, but he waits like he’s expecting me to.

When he realizes I’m not going to, he moves my head up and down in a gentle but forced nod. “The answer is yes.”

My blood burns, boils even. Is he relishing this? The walls have been stripped bare for both of us. He knows I’ve walked in this world most of my life and has also concluded he doesn’t have to hide behind the businessman’s demeanor anymore. I know he’s the Irish Mob, and it’s like something has released inside of him.

I’m not going to let him treat me like I’m some criminal that has a ten-year sentence under their belt. He understands why I’ve run, and I won’t let him talk to me like this.

So, because I want to give him a taste of his own medicine, and because apparently, I have a death wish, I whisper, “Yes, Daddy.”

It’s like I’m contagious with the world’s deadliest virus. He drops his hand from my chin, eyes widening and nostrils flaring. His breaths are irregular, chest heaving, while the thumps of my heart can be felt in my toes. Pretty sure I won this round.

“Get yer coat.” And with that, he strides past me, biceps grazing my shoulder.

* * *

Cold wind gnaws at my exposed ears as we traipse down the sidewalk toward the O’Donnell residence. Consider me thoroughly confused because I thought he was joking when he mentioned walking. I’m unsure if he’s trying to reveal us as a “couple” already, or if he doesn’t have a car that takes him everywhere.

His stride is long and for every one step he takes, I scurry three short ones.

My thoughts drift to Shelly and my position at school. No doubt Kieran informed them of my personal time off, and I can’t help but wonder who they got as a long-term sub. Although now that I’m staying for at least the next three months, maybe …

“Do you think I could keep my job at school?” The words leave me faster than I have the good sense to tie a lasso around them and yank them back.

Kieran doesn’t spare me a glance. “No.”

Is he speeding up?

I practically run to catch him, and when I finally match his pace again, I ask, “Why?”

“Ye think that’s the best way to convince those spying for yer father? No mob boss’s wife would work.”

I harrumph. Should’ve known that’d be his answer. “Okay … I knew you were old, but I didn’t know you werethatold.”

I watch the muscles in the trunk of his neck twitch, and he turns to me, grabbing my forearm. Stepping back, I run into a red Camry parked on the street.

“I don’t care what ye do for work, Summer, but he will. It’s standard procedure for ye to have left yer job when getting engaged, especially with Aoife in the picture.”

I freeze. Oh jeez, oh jeez. I forgot about Aoife. Not in the I-forgot-she-exists way, but I forgot to consider how she’s going to take this. How will she handle it when I leave?

Kieran moves to step back, but I latch on to his wool coat, fisting the material until he looks at me. “Kieran, Aoife.”

“Aye. What about her?”

“W-what do we tell her?”

“Let me handle me own daughter, Summer.”

He keeps saying my name, like he’s using it to test me, or perhaps trying to convince himself I’m still her. He hasn’t called me Isabella once yet, and for that I’m grateful. I mean my name is Summer now. There won’t be a time in the future I’ll ever go back to Isabella.