Page 40 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

KARA

The air smells like barbecue, the beach, and the sweet but dying blooms of the last of the summer roses.

The familiar scents of the annual Labor Day picnic on the grounds of the Shaughnessy mansion.

A holiday arguably bigger than Christmas for us, Labor Day is the one time a year that the entire Shaughnessy mob congregates.

Soldiers. Wives. Children.

Anyone and everyone connected to our clan's syndicate comes to rub elbows with the boss and his family.

Even Fiona and Zoey shared our picnic blanket to eat before my sister disappeared into the boathouse, locked against entry for anyone without the code for the door.

Heavily involved in the unions, especially the Longshoremen's Association, the connection between the mob and Labor Day goes back to the beginning.

Shaughnessy mobsters were at that first parade in 1882, organized by the Central Labor Union. We played our part in it becoming a federal holiday a little over a decade later after the Pullman strike.

To hear my father tell it, Labor Day exists because of the Irish mob. But then he also claims that Halloween started in Ireland, which okay…there are definite roots in the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain.

But according to Brogan Shaughnessy, if it's something good, it probably started with the Irish.

Laughter rolls across the lawn like music, carried on the breeze as children who see each other once a year chase one another through the grass and splash together in the pool.

I sit on a picnic blanket with my knees bent, my feet to one side, like the mob princess I've been trained to be. His long legs stretched out, his sexy feet bare, Mick sits beside me, looking relaxed.

We made love for the first time in over a week this morning. I needed his nearness and reached out for him. He accepted my tiny overture with a voracious hunger that left me spent and feeling much more relaxed.

He's in a better mood than he's been in days. And so am I.

Fitz races past with the twin sons of one of our dock workers, his smile full of mischief.

"Watch, da!" he crows as he leaps over a diaper bag on a nearby blanket.

The entire first level of the yard at the back of the house is filled with blankets and lawn chairs for the older family members. The lawn between the pool and the ocean is set up for badminton, bocce ball (the set gifted for the celebration by Miceli) and giant yard pong.

Teens are swimming off the dock and lounging on the shore. Splashing children have pretty much taken over the pool, that has two lifeguards on duty.

Enoch grins at me as he runs by too, clearly enjoying his first Labor Day.

According to Hope, the AOG didn't celebrate national holidays. Or Christmas. And the way they celebrated religious ones wasn't intended to give children joy and a sense of belonging.

Easter was a time to teach them about the physical and emotional sacrifice necessary to be a good Christian. The rhetoric of religious nationalism was shoved down Enoch and Esther's throats from infancy.

Hope's too for that matter.

But she broke away from the brain-washing and did her best to mitigate it with her children.

She's pretty amazing and I think maybe I should tell her that. From one mom to another.

Sitting with my father, on a picnic blanket smack dab in the center of the revelers, Hope's fairly glowing with happiness. Though I'm not sure if it's caused by the holiday or the fact my father has barely let her out of his sight since they got back from London the day before yesterday.

Moma (who insists she's not old enough for a lawn chair) is sitting with them. So is Dierdre, for which I am silently but utterly grateful. When she chose sitting with the boss over sharing our blanket, my day turned brighter for sure.

That she is attempting to appear as the hostess of the event isn't lost on anyone. That no one else sees her that way is entirely lost on her.

Róise's fiancé, Miceli, started out sitting with us, but after eating, he went to talk business with my father. I was surprised, but not in the least unhappy, when Mick didn't opt to join them.

Fitz collapses on the blanket in front of me and his dad, barely missing Róise' feet. "Can I have another cookie?"

Reaching out to wipe at the chocolate smudged across his cheek, I ask, "How many have you had?"

He makes a face, jerking away from my hand. "Mom!"

The title's new and it's not at my instigation. Dierdre-bloody-Kelly told Fitz that big boys don't call their mams mommy. When asked for his opinion by our son over-the-moon excited about starting big boy first grade, my clearly distracted husband agreed.

When I told him later I didn't appreciate it, Mick didn't even remember the discussion. But he pointed out that at some point Fitz was bound to stop using mommy .

Which is true, if not the point.

The point was that Mick had taken Dierdre's side over mine. Which I was smart enough not to bring up.

Because Mick seems to be really sensitive to anything that might indicate I'm jealous lately. He's not mean about it, but he goes out of his way to tell me I have nothing to be jealous about.

Like that has helped any woman ever to feel more secure in her relationship.

Anyway, I told Fitz that we might be Irish but we're not from Ireland. If he wants to call me something besides mommy, he can use mom like I did with my mother.

I won that battle at least.

"How many?" I ask again and wait for Fitz to answer.

He shrugs. "Four. Maybe five."

"Which is it?" Mick hands Fitz his water bottle.

Our son takes a drink and then sighs. "Five, I guess."

He looks so woebegone, I have to hide a smile.

Mick looks at me, his lips quirking too. "Well? What do you say, mom ?"

"One more, but that is it." My stern tone could use some work, but it is a picnic.

Fitz takes off again, yelling for Enoch to race him, and my heart squeezes watching the two of them rush toward the food tables set up on the terrace.

Pure joy, tangled in a moment.

"You're such a good mom," Róise says with a grin.

Speaking of glowing. In her signature pink, my cousin is the epitome of happy bride-to-be.

Mick drawls, "She is that."

Warmth rushes into my cheeks. You'd think I'd stop blushing at my husband's compliments after seven years of marriage.

"Thanks." I smile at them both. "I try."

"You try so hard to be good at everything you do. Maybe too hard." Róise's words carry meaning I don't want to get into right now.

I'm enjoying myself.

"How are the wedding plans going?" I ask, to change the subject.

"You'd be better off asking moma or Aria. Not that I don't have opinions, but those two are operating on a single fixed track and it's all about the wedding."

" Moma was the same with my wedding." And back then, a completely overwhelmed eighteen-year-old, I hadn't minded a bit.

"She's obsessed. Moma even scoured Pinterest for the latest wedding trends. Aria was not impressed with the 'shades of brown' wedding idea." Róise laughs.

"I know, she told me about the 'love story notes' idea, but that doesn't really work for an alliance wedding does it? It's not like Mick and I had a meet-cute to share with our guests and yours with Miceli isn't exactly family friendly." I wink at my cousin.

This time her laughter is pure Róise wicked.

I grin at her. "You look happy."

There's no question that Róise and her mafioso are deeply in love, regardless of what brought them together.

"I am. It doesn’t feel real."

"Three weeks until you’re a De Luca." I waggle my eyebrows at her. "You ready?"

"More than. If you believe Miceli, I'm already a De Luca at heart."

"That's really sweet."

"Don't let him hear you call him that," Róise says with a laugh.

"How did the fitting with moma's dress go?" I ask.

I'm Róise's matron-of-honor, but we didn't have to go wedding dress shopping because she wants to wear our grandmother's dress.

My grandfather insisted I wear a gown designed by a big name fashion house. Moma made sure shamrocks were embroidered around the hem in matching white thread, so you had to really look to see them. But they were there.

She also made sure I had a tiny horseshoe nestled amidst the elegant roses in my bouquet. There'd been no sixpence in my shoe, but I'm determined that Róise has one.

We Irish mob princesses need all the luck we can get with our marriages.

Later, when everyone is visiting with everyone else, I go to check on Fiona in the Boathouse.

I don't find my sister, but an unpleasantly familiar voice lets me know I'm not alone.

"Kara." Dierdre stands in the open doorway, blocking the sun and my exit.

I knew I should have pulled the door shut behind me. "Hello, Dierdre. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yes. Your da really goes in for American Labor Day. My da and Micky's celebrate Lá an Lucht Oibre of course, but not with so much fanfare."

"It's an important day for our family."

"I'm sure. It really emphasizes how crucial heritage and family are for the Shaughnessy Mob."

I nod.

Glossy black hair, smooth despite spending the last couple of hours outside subject to the breeze off the ocean, she’s dressed in a royal blue romper. The shorts show off her long legs and her sandals reveal perfectly painted toenails.

I'm wearing my favorite summer outfit: palazzo pants with a halter top. And somehow what usually feels cool and sophisticated, not to mention flattering to my generous curves, feels understated and almost frumpy.

No. Stop thinking like that. Mick's eyes didn't read frumpy when he looked at you earlier. They said he'd like to take you inside and do wicked things with you .

My inner cheerleader has good intentions, but my outer mob wife is facing off with my husband's ex-lover and wearing insecurity like cheap perfume.

"You play such an important role in this tradition, don't you?" Dierdre asks, false sweetness saturating her tone.

"We all do."

"But you especially…" She lets her voice trail off and gives me a look of pity. "What you had to sacrifice to guarantee an heir to your father."

My world tilts. I suck in a breath, but I feel like the oxygen isn't reaching my head.

Thoughts racing, I ask, "What do you mean?"

"It must have been so hard. A virgin undergoing IVF to guarantee a boy baby." She shakes her head, like she feels sorry for me.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. There's no way she can know this. No way, except…

Mick told her?

My heartbeat is a roar in my ears.

Mick told Dierdre something I’ve never even shared with my cousin or sister?

I want to scream.

I want to grab Dierdre by the hair and throw her off the dock in the cold water of the bay. After I kick her.

But most of all? I want to slap my husband right in his loose-lipped mouth.

"Oh…" She affects surprised concern. "Should I not have let you know that Mick told me?"

I grit my teeth to keep the words in that want out so desperately.

Dierdre's mouth thins. She's not getting the response she wants.

I latch onto that and use the knowledge to keep my perfect mob princess facade in place.

"I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your willingness to sacrifice for the sake of your family's heritage." She reaches toward me like she's going to touch my arm. "I don't know if I would have been so willing to go months without having sex with my husband."

I step back. "I don't know what you thought to accomplish by bringing up the past, but it's not to tell me how much you admire me."

"But—"

Putting my hand up, palm out, I shake my head. "Stop, Dierdre. There's no audience to play to here. It's just me and you and you have to know I'm fully aware of what a cold-hearted bitch you are."

Her eyes widen with shock, then narrow. "The kitten has claws, I see."

"I'm no kitten and you? You're not anything . Nothing to Mick. Nothing to me." I say the words like they are true, no matter how much I doubt them personally.

"I'm the woman Micky loves. He left me for a chance at being a boss, but don't kid yourself. He still wants me and I'm more than willing."

Mick does not love her. He can't. "If my husband loved you, he never would have left Ireland. He's not that weak or grasping."

"You keep telling yourself that. But now that he has Fitz, he doesn't need you anymore. When he files for divorce, don't forget I told you so."

Her words about Fitz are too much a reflection of my own fears, it's all I can do not to throw up.

But I still manage to say in an even tone, "Mick is not divorcing me."

"Go ahead and bury your head in the sand while I rebuild my relationship with the only man I want. And, Kara? What I want, I get."

"Not my husband." The words ring hollow inside me, but they sound confident and sure.

And that's all that matters.

"We'll see." Dierdre spins on her heel and walks back out into the sunshine.

While my heart dives into the frozen tundra of winter.