Page 16 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

That as his children, we deserve his protection before anyone else. Even the mob.

Róise's kidnapping crystalized that truth for me, when I didn't hesitate to put Fitz ahead of either her, or Fi. His safety was the only thing I cared about in that moment.

If it had been my father in the water that day, he would have protected his most important current asset of the moment: Róise.

"Mick, I need you in London next week to oversee a negotiation with one of our European clients." My dad's frown says he's not happy about the timing of this trip.

Which implies it is both urgent and necessary.

The buzz around the dining table continues as if my dad didn't just drop a conversational bomb between the grilled swordfish and rosemary potatoes.

Fitz chatters away, telling mamo how he and Enoch played super spies today, but all I hear is the echo of my dad's voice.

London.

For how long? Does it matter?

What will be materially different with Mick gone? Well, nightly sex for one thing, but is that such a bad thing?

You starve a fever right? And love is nothing but a fever of the heart.

That's what I’m telling myself when I realize both my dad and Mick are looking at me with expectation.

"I'm sorry, I missed that," I say automatically, knowing I missed something .

"I was saying you should go with Mick. Some time away from the family is always good for a marriage." My dad's smile is all white teeth and false generosity.

As if he's gifting me Paris Fashion Week, not another week of loneliness in a five-star prison.

Been there, done that. Burned the t-shirt. The week I spent in Paris on what was supposed to be my belated honeymoon, turned out to be a cover for a meeting between Mick and our other European clients, the ones not on the books of our legitimate businesses.

"Mick is free to go, of course." Like that would ever be in any doubt, or that I would have any say in the matter. "But I won’t be tagging along to act as window dressing for another business trip disguised as a romantic getaway."

My belated honeymoon in a nutshell.

And every trip we've taken since then.

But now things are different. I have a life, maybe one that my dad and husband know nothing about, but I have one all the same. School. Self-defense lessons with my cousin and sister.

I'm getting really good. Who knew?

And of course, there's Fitz. I don't want to leave him behind this time. Not with Dierdre here.

There's something off about her. Besides the fact that she so obviously has the hots for my husband and would be happy to see me get hit by a bus.

My father's brows beetle, his displeasure cast in the slant of his lips. "It wasn’t a request, Kara."

I set down my fork. "Neither was my answer."

Mick tenses, and Fitz goes still, glancing between the adults like he’s sensing a storm front rolling in.

"You don’t want to go to London with your husband?" Brogan asks, the even tone of his voice belying the storm seething in his blue gaze.

"Not really, no." I swirl my water glass. "I’ve stayed in the suite. Ordered room service. Waited around while Mick took meetings."

"You think I ask him to travel for fun?" my father snaps, his voice lowering just enough to make my skin prickle.

"No. I think you ask him to travel for you," I reply evenly. "And I think you send me along so I can smile and look pretty when the situation calls for it."

My father's jaw flexes, his hold on his fork now white-knuckled. But he doesn't reply.

So, I go for broke. "And I know that you don't care whether it's a good experience for me, or how much your business disrupts my life. But that matters to me ."

Mamo makes a small sound, barely audible over the clink of silverware.

"This is not the place to discuss personal family matters," my father says freezingly.

"Considering the fact that this is the only time I see you unless I make an appointment, I would say that family dinner is the perfect time to have a personal conversation."

Brogan Shaughnessy looks like I smacked him in the face with the swordfish before our chef got a chance to cook it. "We have guests."

I open my mouth to reply, but Mick lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes. "We can talk about the trip later."

"There's nothing to talk about," I reply, with zero remorse. "I am not going to London."

Fitz watches me with awe, not worry in his bright green gaze. I wink at him and he smiles.

A strangled sound comes from my father's end of the table. I ignore it.

The doormat version of Kara Fitzgerald has left the building.

"Why can't you go to Lunnon, athair mór? " Fitz asks. "I don't want my da to go."

I have to swallow back totally inappropriate laughter. If anyone doubts that my son has both his father and me in him, that should seal it.

Only Mick is audacious enough to challenge my father. And it's the Shaughnessy blood that makes me stubborn enough to do it.

I might not have shown that side of me for a while, but she's always been there. Biding her time.

"That's a wonderful idea, Fitz." I smile sweetly at my father. "You have fewer family commitments than Mick. Your daughters are all grown."

Brogan's mouth drops open and he stares at me like my head just spun around three times while I laughed maniacally.

"You allow your grandson to question your decisions, ceannaire? " Dierdre asks, scandalized, using the Irish term for chief.

Boss, but a shade more emphatic.

"No, I do not. Fitzgerald Shaughnessy, you do not question me." For the first time in memory, my father levels a harsh glare at my son and speaks in a tone better suited to dressing down one of his soldiers. "Ever. It is disrespectful."

Fury explodes like a grenade in my chest and I jump to my feet, shoving my chair back and knocking Mick's hand away. "If you do not like the manners I have instilled in my son, you take it up with me."

My father doesn't stand, but the look of chilling disapproval he sends toward me is meant to cow me. "Then you tell your son to apologize. To both Dierdre for his comment earlier and to me. I will not tolerate that kind of rudeness at my table."

He doesn't say it, but he definitely expects me to say I'm sorry too.

Going hot all over, my entire body flushes with anger. Fitzy's future unrolls in my mind's eye like a terrifying movie.

Us teaching him to be like me, tolerant of anything his grandfather, the boss, wants him to do. Us teaching him to be like Mick, willing to do whatever heinous act is necessary to further the mob's interests.

And never, ever having a say about his own life.

"I will not."

My father regards me coldly. "You will, or you will both leave the table."

Disbelief that my father would say such a thing to me wars with pain at the knowledge that if I don't change something, it will always be this way for Fitzy too.

Swallowing back tears, I say, "It doesn't have to be this way."

"There's a hierarchy in the mob and it must be respected."

Feelings I've kept locked away for so long leak out of the cage I've kept them in, adding to the cauldron bubbling in my gut.

"Kara, a ghrá. It's alright," mamo says soothingly. "Fitz has excellent manners and it will not hurt him to remember them with his athair mór ."

I blink away tears and shake my head. "No.

Brogan isn't acting like Fitz's athair mór , he's behaving with all the cruelty of a ceannaire.

But my son is not one of his soldiers and I won't have him raised to believe his feelings don't matter.

That he's not allowed to have an opinion in a family discussion. "

"This is not a family discussion, Kara," Brogan points out, almost patiently. "We are discussing business."

"Then you should have saved it for your office," I fire back, not even a little appeased.

Every bit of softening in Brogan's demeanor disappears. "You dare to tell me how to behave in my own home?"

"I thought it was my home too, but it never has been, has it?"

"Is she always this dramatic?" Dierdre asks in a whisper meant to carry.

The woman whose picture is next to Drama Queen in the Urban Dictionary thinks I'm dramatic?

Brogan's face tightens, but he doesn't reply. He's staring me down. A tactic he's used to great effect in the past.

But I am beyond being subdued by his disapproval. When you're never enough, eventually you stop trying to be anything.

"Fitz…" My husband's voice sends a dagger straight through my heart.

Betrayal nearly takes me out at the knees. So, it takes a second to parse what Mick is actually saying.

"…have nothing to say you are sorry for. You used a respectful tone when you asked your athair mór a question. If I go to London, you and your mam will be coming to. I made ya a promise and I don't break my word."

Now our son is looking at Mick like he's one of Fitz's favorite Marvel heroes. And mamo mouth is round with shock.

I'm clenching my teeth so hard my jaw hurts, but I will not cry in front of Dierdre Kelly. I didn't expect Mick to take my side.

He didn't take your side , a voice inside my head taunts, he took up for your son .

He's still talking like he plans to take me (and Fitz now) to London. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Is it better, or worse than the trips that came before?

"You'll not be taking my heir out of this country," Brogan says with arrogant implacability.

The quality of Mick's stillness beside me changes and the temperature around the table drops into the Arctic zone, sucking all the summer heat out of the air. "If I go my son goes with me."

The shock on Brogan's face when I stood up to him was almost comical, the look on his face now? Is not funny at all. He looks surprised, but there's a tendril of fear in his gaze too.

Something I never thought I'd witness in my father's face. Ever.

Whatever he sees in my husband's expression has him spooked.

"Yes, well…we'll discuss this later."

Mick slides his hand into mine and tugs. Not sure how to process the last five minutes, I sit. I stood up to my dad. Mick stood up for Fitz.

And my dad backed down.

Mick's arm slides along the back of my chair, his fingertips settling on my bare shoulder. The barely there touch sends electric zaps straight to my ladybits.

He just doesn't touch me out of the bedroom. So this? Tonight? My body doesn't know how to process it any better than my brain with my roiling emotions.

A show of solidarity with me? Or possession?

Brogan challenged Mick's right to make decisions for our family. He challenged mine too, but I wouldn't and didn't expect anything less.

Telling Mick he couldn't take Fitz out of the country was overreaching and my father knows it.

Dierdre sighs and shakes her head. "Micky, I know you're a doting father, but there's something to be said for discipline."

The look she gives me tells everyone at the table who she blames for my son's supposed lack of discipline.

Ignoring her, Mick reaches for his wine and asks our son if Gobby, Fitz's spastic cat, has brought him any more gifts .

When Gobby gets out of our private apartment, the cat steals things and brings them as tribute to my son. Once it was mamo's favorite crochet hook. Another time, the little monster found one of Brogan's cufflinks.

Fitz launches into a story about Gobby stealing Enoch's LEGO and bringing it to him.

And me?

I pick up my fork and resume eating like nothing happened.

Like I’m not mentally adding don’t stab the guest to my personal growth mantras.