Page 15 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

MICK

What the fuck just happened?

I thought I had the perfect leverage to gain Kara's cooperation. I didn't think I'd have to use it.

As the highest-ranking woman in the Shaughnessy Mob, insincere apologies are nothing new to Kara. She knows how to play the game to keep peace when another syndicate leader's wife or daughter takes umbrage over an imaginary slight.

How is this any different?

Dierdre's a source of information and must be tolerated until I can get that information out of her.

Realization blinds me like the muzzle flash of a Ruger 57 shooting 5.7mm ammunition.

I didn't explain that to my wife.

Kara doesn't usually require an explanation to cooperate when it's for the good of the mob, the family, or both. But I didn't couch it in those terms, did I?

I made it about Dierdre's feelings which I give feck all about. And somehow I expected my wife to know that.

But she's not an emotionless monster like me. Kara feels things and that matters to me. Believing I'm a better man than I am, she assumes that Dierdre's feelings matter too. And didn't I feckin' feed that fear?

Bleedin' hell. I'm not a stupid man, but I should have led with the explanation and then none of the other shit would have been necessary.

I swiftly catch up with my wife before she opens the apartment door, Fitz's hand in hers.

Pressing my hand against the door, I look down into her beautiful, closed off face. "Your da and I need Dierdre to stay for the next little bit."

Instead of lighting with understanding and acceptance like I expect, Kara's pretty hazel eyes darken with displeasure.

"Will you be eating dinner with us, Mick?" she asks, right there in front of our son.

"That's up to you," I lobby back.

Her expression stony, she shakes her head. "No, it is not."

"Do you have to work, da?" Fitz asks, my little guy's voice tinged with the disappointment he's trying to keep off his face.

Bleedin' feckin' hell with demons dancing on a man's grave.

"Of course I'll be eatin' dinner with ya." My wife well and truly won this round.

And as frustrating as that is, part of me, the pole between my legs to be exact, is impressed.

Removing my hand from the door, I step back and let Kara open it. Two of her security team are waiting in the hall and they accompany us to dinner.

My family doesn't need security when I'm with them, but their presence reminds our son that I keep my promises.

Maybe I need to figure out a way to remind my wife of the same thing. I promised fidelity. I will never break that promise. Not only because I am apparently now Kara-sexual, my cock reacting to no one but her.

But also because although I may not experience normal emotional reactions, I do have my own code of honor. And I don't break my promises.

Placing my hand on the small of Kara's back, I answer Fitz's question about the nutritional merits of broccoli. My son is looking for a reason to strike it off his "foods I eat" list.

Kara steps a little faster, trying to dislodge my hand, but I keep pace with her.

I don't usually touch her like this in public, not because I don't want to. But she and Fitz are safer if both of my hands are free to pull a weapon to protect them. Or defend them with my bare hands and in that case, two is always better than one.

But we have two guards with us and I've seen the way Kara looks at Róise and Miceli. Like she yearns for the same small touches of affection that come so naturally to the Italian underboss with Kara's cousin.

I'm not a touchy-feely guy outside the bedroom, but I don't like my wife looking at another man like he's all that.

If she wants me to hold her hand, I'll hold her feckin' hand.

And when she tries to step away from my touch again, that's what I do, keeping her pinned to my side with her hand in mine.

"Da!" Fitz exclaims mid sentence on reason twenty-four that broccoli is not a superfood. "You're holding mommy's hand."

"Aye. So are you."

"Yeah, but I always hold mommy's hand. You never do."

KARA

I always hold mommy's hand. You never do .

Fitz's words echo in my mind, pinging against every lonely memory from my marriage.

No, my husband never holds my hand and I have no idea why he's doing so now.

I want to rip it away, but our son is watching us both, his dear little face lit with joy. At least someone's happy about my husband's small dose of public affection.

When we reach the dining room, Mick pulls my chair out for me like he always does. I sit down, forcing a smile and a greeting for everyone already seated.

Mamo taps the bevel of her Tiffany watch and my smile turns to a grimace.

Then I mouth, "Sorry."

We're five minutes late sitting down, which means everyone else is already here. Except Fi. She and Zoey are having a picnic on the beach for two.

My sister practically gets hives at the idea of going to a restaurant, or anywhere else with a lot of people. So, her girlfriend arranges romantic at home date nights.

It's incredibly sweet. And Fi is so happy, she glows. That's all down to our cousin Róise, who negotiated Fi's freedom from an arranged marriage by agreeing to one of her own.

When and if my beautiful little sister marries, she will be the first woman in four generations to do it for love.

"Am I to take it that everything is sorted with our houseguest?" My father gives me a pointed look. "I assume that's why you're late."

"That issue is indeed why we're a few minutes tardy for dinner," I agree. "But if by sorted you mean, I talked to her. That did not happen."

My father's eyes widen in shock before they narrow in anger. "I expect—"

His voice abruptly breaks off at the click of heels drawing near on the terrace stones.

Why am I not surprised that Dierdre got over her pique and decided to join us for dinner after all?

In a magenta dress that covers very little of her decolletage and none of her shoulders, she stops theatrically for everyone to take in the magnificence of her beauty.

Seriously, did this woman go to the drama school of overacting, or what?

Her expression is reticent, like she’s been dragged here against her will – despite the perfect makeup and the fact she clearly timed her dramatic entrance.

"I wasn’t going to join," she says with faux-shyness, "but your mamo insisted."

Mamo's snort is not well concealed, but she doesn't gainsay Dierdre.

Hope leans toward me from the right and whispers, "Maeve told Dierdre that she wasn't holding with a prima donna eating on a tray in her bedroom and if she wanted to eat, it would be at the table with everyone else."

I duck my head to hide my smile. Mamo is my hero.

Brogan stands to pull out a chair for Dierdre. "You’re always welcome at our table, my dear."

Hope stiffens beside me and my heart squeezes for her. Falling for my dad is not a good proposition. Even if he returns her feelings, he's not going to be considerate of them.

The mob always comes first.

No exceptions. I should know.

Dierdre looks around the table, her lips twisting in disappointment when she realizes she can't sit beside Mick.

He's to my left and Fitz is once again in the oversized chair with mamo at the end of the table near him. Hope's son is across the table, in the chair closest to Fitzy.

Their oblivious chatter brings a smile to my face despite the tightness in my shoulders.

Hope's daughter Esther is seated across from me. Since no additional chair was added, because with my sister and Zoe's absence it wasn't needed, that leaves the only two empty chairs across the table and opposite the end where Mick's sitting.

Dierdre smiles coquettishly at my dad as she sits down. "Thank you, Brogan. You're so sweet."

I sip my water and breathe through my nose.

One second.

Two.

And then I smile.

Because I have never in my life wanted to stab anyone with a salad fork more than I do in this moment – and this family believes in table manners.

Her eyes pointedly moving right past me, Dierdre smiles at Fitz, the way some adults do.

With condescension. "Aren't you lucky to be the spitting image of your da."

Fitz eyebrows draw together in a scowl. "I look like my mommy too. Everybody with eyes says so."

"Fitzgerald Shaughnessy," my dad barks. "Apologize right now."

Fitz presses his lips together and lifts his chin mulishly. No apologies coming from that quarter either.

"He's only speaking the truth, son," mamo chides. "Fitz has his father's red hair and green eyes, but the shape of them, his mouth and cheekbones are all Shaughnessy."

For once, my father doesn't have a ready comeback. The fact Fitz resembles my side of the family is a great source of pride to him. To deny it now would be to deny that pride. He's not going to do that, not even for our forked-tongued houseguest.

"Oh, I can definitely see you in your grandson," Dierdre gushes, bypassing my donation to the gene pool completely.

"I think Fitz is a very lucky boy to look like both of his parents," Hope says, putting herself firmly on my side and surprising everyone at the table.

I mean. I know she's got inner strength because she's the one that risked her own life to warn my cousin about the AOG's plans to "bring her back to the fold".

But since she arrived, she's been quiet. Unlikely to join most conversations much less cast a verbal vote that might be taken as siding against my father.

The look on his face is even more surprising than Hope's words.

Instead of angry, my dad looks stunned and then pleased. Proud even.

Because Hope spoke up?

If that's the case, I'm going to bring him a delirium of joy going forward. Because I'm done conforming.

I did everything right, submitted to emotionally devasting conditions regarding having a male heir, stood beside my father and husband in all ways. And what did it get me?

A marriage that is an emotional wasteland and a father who shows no pride in me, only expectation. He has no idea that he should even consider putting me, or Fiona, first sometimes.