Page 2 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

The Present

KARA

"Come on, Fitzy. You can do it!" I give my son an encouraging smile and beckon him to me.

He looks from me to his father, standing a few feet to my left in the deeper water off the shore. Fitz peers suspiciously into the water shimmering in the mid-August sun.

Only deep enough to reach my ribcage, he can see all the way to the bottom, but his sturdy little body remains firmly on the dock.

"Here, Fitz. I'll catch you." Mick's soft Irish lilt still makes my heart flutter after seven years of marriage.

But that's nothing compared to the way my nether regions react to his muscular, tattooed body covered in nothing but board shorts, the barbell through his right nipple on display. Even the frigid waters of the bay can't cool my ladybits.

You'd think that after this long, I'd be immune. I'm not.

I've learned to accept that regardless of what my heart may feel, and my mind might think, my body will always respond this way to Mick.

It's the one area of our marriage we are on an entirely level playing field.

My husband craves my body as much as I pine after his nonexistent love.

No matter what time he comes to bed at night, he always initiates sex. Do I make sure I get to sleep early enough to take advantage of that when the time comes without being tired and sluggish?

Yes, yes I do.

On the rare occasions he's around during the day and our son is otherwise occupied, Mick turns on the seduction then too. There's no question he wants me.

However, the heated passion and sensual touches stay tucked safely behind our bedroom door.

What can I expect when I got married as part of a deal between two powerful mob families?

That's what I tell myself anyway. Only, some days, my heart is feeling salty and tells me that I deserve more. Like when we spent our seventh anniversary apart last month. Mob business.

He sent me seven dozen white roses and a diamond tennis bracelet. No card.

Which is not what I need to be dwelling on. Because today, I'm doing my best to give off nothing but positive vibes for Fitz.

Three weeks ago, Fitz and I were playing together in the water with my sister, while our cousin sat on the dock, soaking in the summer sun.

Then without warning, Róise was jerked into the water by a diver and kidnapped right in front of us. None of us could reach her in time.

I didn't even try. I love my cousin like a sister, but my son comes first, last and always. Heart pounding in terror that our enemies would hurt my son, or take him from me, I grabbed Fitz and rushed to get out of the water.

It felt like treacle slowing my limbs, but we made it to the shore as men tore across the yard, trying to reach the water in time.

They didn't reach Róise, but her mafioso fiancé followed and got her back.

Róise's fine now, but my son? Not so much.

Fitz has been clingy and terrified of swimming in the bay ever since that day.

Micks answer?

Exposure therapy. Not what he calls it of course. "He's going to be mobbed up one day. He has to learn to overcome his fears."

So, in an attempt to get our son past his trauma response, we're swimming together as a family. Or at least we're trying to.

Fitz is still dry and on the dock.

He'll let us carry him into the water, but this is the first time he's ventured onto the dock. And he's a lot closer to the shore than the spot where Róise was yanked into the bay.

"Mommy, you should come up here with me." Green eyes so like his dad's entreat me.

"Fitz," Mick says in the tone our son never ignores. "Ye need to come to me."

"But what if the bad men come and take mommy?" Fitz demands, his little fists against his hips.

"I'll kill them," Mick replies without a second's hesitation.

"But what if they get away fast like the bad man with Róise?"

Fitz has started showing more of the Shaughnessy temper over the past six months, but this defiance toward his dad is something new.

"I increased underwater security and the number of guards patrolling our water access." Mick speaks to our son with an adult frankness that Fitz finds less jarring than I do. "Your mam is safe and so are you."

Fitz glares at his father. "But what if we're not?"

Unperturbed by our son's defiance – thank goodness – Mick puts his arms up. "Come to me now, a mhac ."

The Irish endearment that literally just means son , sounds different in Mick's voice than it does in mine. I speak Gaeilge , but my accent reveals my American roots.

Mick's is pure Dublin.

With one last wary look at the water, Fitz leaps toward his father.

Mick catches the small body easily and swings him toward me. "Your mam said you learned a new swimming stroke. Are you ready to show me?"

Worry wars with the need to impress his dad in Fitz's gaze.

"I can swim across the pool," Fitz says, clearly angling to shift our location.

He's proud of his new skills, but even that pride won't make him let go of his father.

Mick lifts our son until their faces are parallel. "Look at me, Fitz."

Identical green eyes stare back at each other.

"I will never let any harm come to yiz. Not you, nor your mam. You will always be safe when you are with me." It's more reassurance than I expect from my husband.

I'm not sure why. He's a good dad and has always shown an affection and patience for Fitz that he doesn't show anyone else.

Our son's shoulders lower and his body relaxes in his dad's hold. "What about when you're not here?"

"Then you have to trust me that I've taken the precautions necessary to keep yiz safe."

One thing about the way Mick speaks to Fitz: our son has a truly impressive vocabulary for a newly turned six-year-old.

Fitz nods and then looks at me. "You're not scared, are you, mommy?"

"No, mo stóirín . I'm not."

Fitz won't like being called my little treasure for many more years, but he hasn't decided he's too big for the endearment yet. And I'm using it until I can't anymore.

His little brow furrows as Fitz considers my answer.

What Mick hasn't mentioned to our little boy, is that it's not just a matter of increased security. The man who betrayed us by looking away from the sonar monitoring system at the opportune time (on purpose) is no longer on our payroll.

He's no longer breathing either, but that's beside the point.

Or maybe that's the only point? Hopefully the method of his demise will discourage other soldiers from selling out the Shaughnessy family.

I don't know the details, but I do know that even though it's been a couple of weeks since it happened, several soldiers who witnessed the execution are jumpy when my husband is around.

Some even avoid him altogether if they can.

Mick begins moving away from the dock, parallel to the shore. "Your mam can stay near the dock and you can swim to her."

Fitz's body bows like he's trying to throw himself from Mick's hold. "No! Mommy, come with us! The dock's not safe!"

That's it. My son is going to start seeing a children's therapist. No matter what my husband or father says.

Mick pulls Fitz close and speaks quietly in his ear. After a few seconds, our son's rigid body relaxes and he nods.

My husband raises his head, so our gazes meet. For once, I can easily read the concern in his usually inscrutable emerald gaze. "Fitz will swim toward you from the dock and I will keep pace with him."

I nod and dive into the water to swim past them. When I'm about thirty feet away, I stop and turn to face the two males I love most in the world.

Even if one of them doesn't love me back.

Fitz is smiling, obviously relaxed now. Clearly, he identifies the danger with the dock and not just the water in the bay. Which is good to know, but no less concerning.

He leaps from his father's hold and starts swimming a butterfly stroke toward me.

Mick calls encouragement, moving more swiftly through the water than I ever can unless I'm swimming, staying in easy to reach distance with our son.

Fitz stops in front of me and treads water, too short for his feet to reach the bottom. "Did you see mommy? I'm fast. Just like a dolphin."

The way the swimming technique resembles that marine mammal is the biggest reason Fitz wanted to learn it. "You looked just like a dolphin, mo stóirín ."

"Ye did well." Mick's voice is laced with approval for our son's swimming feat. "That's not an easy stroke to learn."

"Mommy taught me." Fitz grins at me.

And my heart warms.

The look of heated approval Mick gives me is less joyous but no less impactful to my foolish heart.

My husband swoops our son up into the air. At six-one he can easily stand in water that is only chest-deep for him, while it's almost up to my chin.

Fitz whoops and Mick laughs like he hardly ever does, the sound real and happy. My mobbed up husband smiles a lot because he has the charming Irishman thing down pat, but it almost never reaches his eyes.

And his affability act does not stretch to frequent laughter either.

When we were first married, I thought all those smiles were genuine. Now, I know better. My husband is not the genial Irishman everyone believes him to be. I'm not really sure who he is, only that I wish he would let me in so I can find out.

"Micky!" A woman's voice calls from the shore.

A voice I don't recognize. I turn to look.

Standing next to my father on the lawn is a woman, her willowy frame encased in a well-tailored, designer suit-dress. Black hair cut in a stylish bob frames an almost ethereally beautiful face.

"Who is that?" I ask the back of my already moving husband's head.

"Dierdre Kelly."

Kelly, as in the other family that leads the Northside Dublin Syndicate in Dublin along with Mick's family, the Fitzgeralds? What the heck is she doing here?

"You never mentioned her before." I would remember.

My husband doesn’t bother to answer. He doesn't stop to put on his slides when he steps onto the shore either. It takes me a few seconds longer to step out of the surf, but I still take a moment to slip my feet into sandals.