Page 42 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

KARA

One of the best things about having a birthday in early September is that it means my father doesn't throw a huge party, doing syndicate business under the guise of family bon homme .

Only not this year.

At Carnegie Hall.

Although, whatever reasons Brogan has for this gathering, I'm sure they have nothing to do with celebrating my birth.

Not in my family.

Big parties like this? Are always about the mob. The Labor Day picnic? A statement about mob unity and the power we wield in the unions.

It's always about my father's power and wealth. A chance to rub elbows with the people he knows and has access to and for everyone to see him doing it.

Showing off.

He doesn't brag. He considers flahing a sign of conceit and insecurity, but Brogan doesn't have to brag when everything around him is designed to show his superiority.

If my father wants to make a statement about his strength, security will be obvious and intimidating in their dark ops uniforms, weapons visible. If he wants people to see his sophistication and wealth, our men dress in suits and keep their guns under their jackets.

Today, security is in suits. Probably to impress the Italians. The mafia my cousin, Róise, will be marrying into at the end of this month are more formal than us and my father doesn't like to be shown up.

The De Lucas threw Róise's 21 st birthday party on the VIP floor of an exclusive club in Manhattan.

Boss Shauhnessy has to go one better, of course.

So, we're celebrating my birthday with 200 of my not-so-nearest-and-dearest at Carnegie Hall. In the Weill Music Room, to be exact. Complete with a world-renowned concert pianist playing for the guests before dinner is served.

Her music almost makes this dog and pony show worth it. Because the pianist is one of my favorite musicians. I wonder if my father knows that?

Maybe Mick told him.

No matter how little time Mick spends with me, it would be hard for my husband to miss her prominence in my music collection. I have all of her albums. In vinyl and CDs because streaming services change.

Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of Mick making this happen, but only for a moment. Then I shut down those feelings hard.

You're way past getting butterflies over small things that may, or may not, mean Mick cares about you, Kara. You're too smart for that .

I started out as his means to an end. Then we discovered volcanic passion between us, but that's not affection. Mick likes me, but he doesn't love me and it's not going to suddenly happen after seven years of marriage.

"Mommy, open my present to you." Fitz tugs on the skirt of my Lela Rose floral embroidered midi dress.

Elegant and sleeveless, with a full skirt, the green dress that brings out the green in my hazel eyes has been tailored to fit my curvy frame to perfection.

The scoop neckline does amazing things for the girls and I can't help noticing how many times my husband's gaze has strayed to my cleavage since I got dressed for the party.

He's been insatiable since our little break from sex before Labor Day, coming home in time to tuck Fitz into bed and then taking me to ours for hours upon hours of mind melting sex.

I turn to my son with a smile. "I'm not opening gifts here, mo stóirín . I'll do it when it's just us at home."

"Please, mom." Green eyes, so like his dad's stare back at me imploringly. "Grandda said I could bring it."

Translated: I have permission to open the gift here.

Probably because his grandda wants a photo op, or something. I look around and sure enough, there's a photographer with his camera trained on me and Fitz.

Ignoring the way my stomach sours at even my young son giving me a birthday gift becoming a PR prop, I reach for the small box wrapped with lots of tape and uneven seams.

Fitz goes up on his toes and breathes excitedly over my shoulder. "I wrapped it myself."

My sweet boy. The best part of me and the mobster I married.

"You did a great job," I tell him. "It's almost too pretty to open."

"Mom." Fitz draws the words out over three long syllables.

With forced grin and wink, I tear away the wrapping paper to reveal a box the same emerald green as Mick's eyes. It's embossed in gold with the store's name.

A frisson of excitement goes through me. Every piece of the Irish jeweler's collection is individually designed and handmade, making whatever is inside mine alone.

I do nothing to suppress my gasp of delight when I open the lid. A delicate, bolo style, tree of life bracelet is nestled on the satin. Silver glints brightly against a fabric that is such a dark green it is almost black.

I run my fingers reverently over the bracelet. "I love it."

"Knew you would," he crows. "Da thought you'd want something with diamonds."

Fitz knows me better than his father.

Okay, to be fair, Mick probably wasn't thinking about what I would like. He'd be focused on adding jewelry to my collection of pieces that exhibit my wealth and standing. Thereby his own and that of my father.

"Your da already took care of that." I touch the pear-shaped green sapphire of perfect color and clarity sitting against my chest an inch above my cleavage.

This year's gift is going to be one of my favorite pieces. Not because of the size of the sapphire pendant, or the round cut diamonds and princess cut green sapphires of impeccable quality used in the setting.

But because the setting from which the pear-shaped sapphire dangles is made up of delicate leaves and tiny branches. Beautiful, it reflects my love for nature, despite my inner computer geek.

I would be feeling treasured and seen if not for the fact that Dierdre is also sporting a new necklace given to her by Mick.

He gave it to her the day after Labor Day. It's all I can do not to grimace at the memory.

"Oh, Micky, thank you. It's perfect!" Dierdre holds up a silver chain with a four-leaf clover charm nestled next to a medallion of St. Michael. "It's just like the one I lost."

Lost? She probably threw it away and then dropped enough hints my husband bought her a replacement.

Jealousy takes another swipe at my heart. In the past, it would have been a cut deep enough to draw blood. But not today.

Whatever my marriage was, or could have become, it's not. And I've finally accepted that fact.

If we had a different relationship, I would have told him about college and my therapist. If things were different between us, he would have told me he knew.

Mick and I are stuck together and we both have to make the best of it, but my heart is no longer on offer.

Sex, yes. Emotions, no.

That's my new mantra.

"You keep your 'mportant stuff in that box with the tree carved on the top," Fitz says, breaking into my thoughts. "And you're the most important to me."

My heart bursts with love, silly emotional tears pricking my eyes. "Thank you, Fitzy."

Pulling him in for a tight hug, the moisture in my eyes almost spills over when he hugs me back just as tightly. Getting hugs like this from him is pretty hit-and-miss these days.

I'm struggling to believe he's already in first grade. And loving it.

"Why don't you help your mam put the bracelet on?" Mick's deep, rich voice washes over me as his warm hand lands on my bare shoulder.

My heart rate surges a my nipples bead with inappropriate anticipation. Because emotions aside, my husband is my sexual catnip.

Utterly and totally irresistible.

I accepted that when I chose to make love to him again after the debacle of him leaving me to take Dierdre to dinner.

His forefinger slides over my collarbone, sending a shiver of arousal through me I try my best to hide. The possessive press of his thumb against my nape makes that almost impossible though.

I want to shrug off his touch almost as much as I want him to move those skilled fingers just a little lower. Neither would be acceptable right now.

What I can do is lean forward to allow Fitz to help me put on the bracelet and hope my husband gets the hint.

But Mick's hand only shifts so he's cupping the back of my neck in an even more possessive hold.

"What a pretty bracelet." Dierdre's voice surprisingly close grates against my ears.

I didn't notice her get up from the table she's sitting at with guests who are not family.

My shoulders go rigid, but I don't let the smile slip off my face. "Isn't it? My son has excellent taste."

"So does your husband." Dierdre taps the medal for St. Michael she hasn't taken off since Mick gave it to her.

"I have to agree," my father's voice booms. "He had the good taste to marry my daughter."

The look he gives Dierdre makes the gloating smile slip right off her face.

"Aye, there's no denying Kara is the perfect wife for me and I'm lucky to have her."

My stupid heart skips a beat.

Even knowing neither man means anything real by his words, for just a second I let myself wallow in the fantasy of being appreciated.

Treasured.

But reality's spotlight dissipates the glow of fantasy. Neither Mick, nor my father said what they did because they care about me, or how Dierdre's words affect me.

They care how her words impact the people around us . They're doing what they always do: protecting the image of the Shaughnessy Mob and our family.

It wouldn't do for it to look like my husband was open to Dierdre's blatant fascination with him.

Regardless of whether he is, or not.

His words say one thing and that pendant around her neck says another.