Page 69 of Brutal Heir

The scent of antiseptic and mint tea greets me as I step into Paddy Flaherty’s tiny, cluttered studio. Same as always. Same as it was nearly twelve months ago when I first met the cranky old bastard, swaddled in gauze and cursing out every nurse in the burn unit.

“Hey Paddy, you in here?” I whisper as I scan the empty room.

“Is that you, girl?” The familiar bark seeps through the bathroom door.

“It’s me,” I call out, slipping off my coat and kicking the door shut with my heel. “You decent, or should I shield my eyes?”

“Depends. You bring biscuits?”

I grin as I pull the coffee shop bag from my coat pocket. I knew very well I wouldn’t be welcome without them. “Of course. Chocolate ones, too.”

“That’s my girl,” he grumbles.

The bathroom door swings open, and I squeeze my eyes closed before I’m subjected to every inch of his wrinkly, scarred skin.

“Paddy!” I shriek. “You’re as naked as the day you crawled out of your poor mother and twice as wrinkled!”

A gruff chuckle fills the air, and I can almost see that mischievous grin.

“Put your clothes on, mister.”

“All right, all right.”

Keeping my eyes closed for what seems like forever, I regret not offering to help him dress. It’s not like I haven’t done it dozens of times before.

“Okay, all finished.” I follow the sound of his gravelly voice into the living room where he sits in his recliner like a king on a tattered throne, flannel blanket over his lap, scarred hands folded atop it. His skin, like Alessandro’s, is a patchwork of grafts and burns, shiny in places, tight in others. But Paddy doesn’t hide it. Never has.

“You’re late,” he adds as I hand him the biscuits and settle into the chair beside him.

“I’m early,” I counter. “You just like pretending you’re dying every hour of the day.”

“Feck off,” he mutters, but there’s no heat to it. His watery blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he rips open the bag with his good hand. “You look like shite.”

“Gee, thanks.” I lean back with a sigh. “Rough week.”

“Still playing nursemaid to that Italian lad with the face like a war map?”

I snort. “Something like that.”

Though I haven’t visited since I started working for Alessandro, I have still kept in touch. So he knows a bit about what’s been going on in my life.

He munches a biscuit and peers at me, crumbs sticking to his stubbled chin. “You got that look, girl. Like the whole damn world’s closing in.”

“It feels like it is.”

Silence stretches between us, thick with all the things I can’t say and all the things he already knows. He knows bits and pieces, without too many details to get either of us in trouble. He doesn’t push. Never does. That’s why I come here, becausePaddy may be rough and half-rotted from loss, but he listens. And hegets it. His wife, Moira, lit the match that changed his life.

He’s been alone ever since.

Like me.

“You still my family, Paddy?” I ask softly, voice rough around the edges. “Even though I haven’t been around as much lately?”

He eyes me for a long moment, then reaches out and clasps my wrist in his gnarled hand. “You’re the only pain in the arse I got left, girl.”

I want to tell him everything. About the man with the scars. The almost kiss. The body. The way it all feels too big for my chest to hold.

A lump lodges in my throat. I nod, blinking too fast.