Page 7 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

KARA

Early enough for Fitz not to be cranky with tiredness, Sunday dinner is usually one of my favorite times of the week. It's the one time our powerful mob family feels almost normal.

Not only do both Mick and my father stop working early to be at the table by two o'clock sharp, but there is no business talk at the table on Sundays. Per mamo's decree.

My grandmother is a stickler for timeliness and tradition.

It's an Irish tradition mamo brought from the Old Country. One even my grandfather didn't mess with.

Like he messed with everything else.

My hand presses against my lower belly in a self-soothing reaction to the memories that try to surface. Concentrating on my surroundings, I push them back.

No clinic. No callous disposal of embryos with female DNA. No fertility controlled sex life.

I was four months pregnant with my son before I had penetrative sex for the first time with my husband.

No. Darn it. I am not going there.

In a desperate attempt to stem the tide of memories that don't want to be suppressed for some reason today, my eyes latch onto the view across the lawn.

The afternoon sun shimmers on the bay, turning the boats into hazy blips of bobbing color. A soft breeze lifts strands of my hair and carries the scent of sea salt and grilled meat from the terrace.

My father's contribution to family tradition. Brogan Shaughnessy, wealthy boss of the Irish mob, turns steaks on the barbecue. He only does it during the summer months, but I remember how much my mom loved it.

At least I think I remember that. Is it a real memory, or part of the movie that plays in my head when mamo tells family stories?

Does it matter?

Dad does his thing at the grill and it makes me feel closer to the mom I lost at the age of six. Another good thing about Sundays.

It's also the one day a week that Mick almost never returns to work after eating, despite it being served several hours before our usual dinnertime.

My family is gathered around the long outdoor dining table shaded by an enormous cream-colored sail attached to sturdy trellises on three sides. The scent of the climbing roses mixes with the other smells of summer and I breathe in deeply.

Finally, the painful memories disappear into the haze on the water.

I smile at the sight of Fitz climbing up beside my grandmother with a bowl of fresh watermelon chunks. They're both fiends for it and grab for a chunk at the same time.

The good boy that he is, Fitz offers it to mamo , who insists he eats it. Of course.

She's the opposite of her deceased husband, my grandfather, in almost every way, but especially how she dotes on the children in the family.

My gaze shifts to Fi leaning into Zoe, whispering something that makes them both snort into their wine. I love seeing my sister come out of her shell. Before Zoe, Fi was a silent guest at the dinner table, even among family, only opening up around mamo , me and our cousin, Róise.

Róise doesn't live here anymore, but we have new people living in the mansion to fill the empty space at the table.

Hope and her two children. Esther, the teenager, is coaxing Enoch, Fitz's new best friend, to try a shrimp from the cocktail platter. Their mother is hovering at my father's side, her expression filled with a worrying amount of hero worship and adoration.

I suppose that to a woman raised in a white supremacist cult and married off to an abusive man nearly old enough to be her grandfather at the tender age of sixteen, my father must seem like a hero among men.

But his feet of clay will crush her heart if she doesn't watch out. I should know.

And then there’s her.

Dierdre's high-heeled sandals click against the stones of the terrace as she walks toward us, Mick at her side.

Where he has been presumably since leaving our apartment to speak to her three hours ago.

She's got her arm through his, clinging possessively and I have to school my features into passivity.

Nothing to see here.

Mick pulls out her chair and Dierdre slides into the seat one over from me like she belongs there, all long legs and artful disinterest. She’s wearing a breezy designer sundress and sunglasses too big for her face.

Her lips curve like a woman with a secret. Or several.

Mick doesn't greet me, but his hand rests on the back of my chair when he takes the empty seat between Dierdre and me.

"So," Dierdre says, tilting her head toward me with an air of insouciance I don't trust for a second. "This is family dinner."

The words are innocent enough, but this woman is trouble.

"New York summers are something else. It’s not like this in Dublin, is it, Micky? So hot." She fans her face with her hand, her eyes now fixed intently on my husband's face.

He makes a sound that could be agreement or a grunt.

Dierdre doesn’t seem bothered by his taciturnity. But then she knows what he's like. They're practically family after all. The sarcasm inside my head is strong, but I keep it there.

Twirling her wine glass by the stem, her eyes flick toward mamo , then back to me. Cataloguing. Assessing.

Mamo came over from Dublin herself to marry my grandfather over five decades ago at the age of eighteen. Just like Mick came here to marry me.

Only I was the teenager in that wedding ceremony.

"Micky and I used to sit out like this in the summer.

The view from the rooftop of his building was breathtaking," Dierdre says with a warm gaze directed toward my husband.

"You remember those nights, don’t you, Micky?

Back then, what we got up to wouldn't have been appropriate for a family dinner. "

A sick feeling invades my stomach and the breath catches in my chest. But I keep my smile fixed. Polished. Impervious.

They'd been lovers. This Irish beauty and my husband.

He had a whole life before I met him, I remind myself. I know he wasn't celibate, but having one of his ex-girlfriends sitting at my family dinner table is sending my appetite to the bottom of the bay faster than a concrete boat.

Mick’s fingers twitch against my chair. But he doesn't confirm, or deny Dierdre's claims. That's confirmation in itself, isn't it?

Mamo stiffens beside Fitz. "Your conversation leaves something to be desired at the dinner table, Miss Kelly."

Zoey raises an eyebrow. Mamo might scold her family, but not a guest. She spent years as a mob boss's wife and hiding her irritation is second-nature to my grandmother.

Unless someone comes for one of her own. Then mamo's Irish temper sparks.

"Dierdre, please, Maeve. We're practically family." She completely ignores my grandmother's admonishment.

Oh, to have that kind of confidence for real, and not a put-on facade for the sake of appearances.

Mamo's eyes narrow to slits.

Fi notices because she's hyper attuned to the emotions of the people around her. She goes still, pulling away from Zoey slightly, like she's going into self-protect mode. The smile drops from her face.

I want that smile back. My sister is finally happy and the harpy intent on stirring up trouble isn't going to steal it.

Shaking my head infinitesimally at my grandmother, I focus on the love I have for Fi so my smile is real before I turn it on my sister. I wink at Fi, letting her know I'm fine.

That the Irish beauty claiming past intimacies with my husband isn't getting to me. For a second, even I believe it.

Then Dierdre opens her mouth again. "Of course, that was years ago," She waves her hand dismissively. "We’ve stayed in touch, though, through texts. And calls here and there. It’s nice to have…history."

I glance at Mick. His eyes are on me, not Dierdre. Is he worried I'm going to snap again? I won't.

I might feel like dumping the platter of cold prawns over Dierdre's head, cocktail sauce and all. But I won't.

The past is the past. And we are living in the present, as my therapist would say.

I may not be as confident as Dierdre on the inside, but I'm definitely not the same insecure woman at twenty-four that I was at nineteen.

"I’m sure you understand." Despite Mick's lack of a response to her words so far, Dierdre blithely goes on, the smile she directs at me saccharine sweet and just as bad for you. "Old friends."

"Sure," I say lightly. "I’m a big believer in keeping tabs on dangerous people."

Her smile falters for half a second, then rebounds as she places her hand on Mick's forearm. "Well. That’s one way to put it. But Mick knows I'm not dangerous to him."

The look she gives me says I'm in a whole different category.

Mick doesn't pull away from her touch.

Five years ago, I would have drawn into myself and spent the rest of the meal telling myself I wasn't enough.

That's not where this is going today. I lower my hand below the table and slide it over Mick's upper thigh, stopping when the back of it brushes against his sex.

Luckily, Mick dresses to the right, so I don't have to reach across his lap and make my movements obvious. To the others it looks like I'm resting my hand in my lap.

No one else at the table knows where it actually is. Except Mick.

My husband sucks in a breath and I feel the bulge against the back of my hand grow. That quickly.

Dierdre's eyes narrow. I'm pretty sure she can guess where my hand is right now too.

I smile back, all teeth.

Having made my point, I go to pull my hand away, but Mick twines his fingers through mine and keeps it against him.

Showing she is and will always be on my side, moma pushes the basket of yeasty rolls toward Dierdre. "Here, take one and pass it to Mick."

"I don't eat carbs at dinner, even when the meal happens at lunchtime," Dierdre replies, but she takes the basket, having to remove her hand from my husband's arm to do it.

Showing no such compunction, Mick snags two, putting one on my plate, before passing the basket over to Enoch.

"I love the smell of freshly baked bread and the taste even more," I say, taking a bite.

"Enough of that, we've yet to say grace," my father protests as he sits down.

Unconcerned, I finish chewing the yeasty goodness as I bow my head and let my father's recitation of the familiar Gaeilge words wash over me as Mick's penis grows steel hard against the back of my hand.

I smile to myself. This is my family. Our traditions.

No matter what they shared in the past, Mick is my husband.

Unsurprisingly, our new houseguest dominates the conversation over dinner. Though every time she looks in my direction, it's like she sucked on a lemon.

Mick hasn't let go of my hand and he's still hard.

I wonder if Fi and Zoey are up for some nephew time after we're done eating?

As we're finishing up, Hope asks Dierdre, "What brings you to New York, Miss Kelly?"

"The Odessa Mafia tried to snatch me right off the street. Who knows what they would have done to me if my bodyguards hadn't stopped them?" Dierdre replies dramatically.

Hope's innocent gaze turns horrified. "That must have been awful."

"It was terrifying. My father sent me here because he knew Mick would keep me safe." Dierdre puts her hand right over Mick's heart and gives him a look that I'm sure is meant to convey frightened vulnerability.

It doesn't sit naturally on her face. The woman's a viper, not a mouse.

Unfortunately, the mask I can see through so easily is opaquer to my son. He leaps from the oversized chair he shares with my grandmother and rushes toward me.

Throwing himself against me, he bursts into tears. "They can't have you mommy!"

Climbing right into my lap like he hardly ever does anymore, he clings to my neck with both arms.

Finally shaking off yet another unsolicited touch from Dierdre, Mick shoves his chair back and drops to one knee beside our distraught son. "No one is taking your mam from you. I promised you, didn't I?"

"Is it wise to make promises to a child like that?" Dierdre asks sotto voce. "I don't know a lot about children, but making empty promises to calm them down isn't a kindness."

"If Mick makes a promise, he keeps it," my father says firmly, concern softening his harsh features as he watches my son sob in my arms.

At least he's not telling Fitz to pull himself together like he did me after my mom died.

"I'm only pointing out that our world is dangerous and our children need to realize that. As the missing family members from this table can attest."

Alluding to the violent deaths of my beloved aunt and uncle at a table full of people who still miss them is a low blow I won't forget. But I'll never forgive the way she's so clearly trying to increase my son's hysteria.

And it's working. Fitz's sobs turn to incoherent wails amidst a few recognizable words demanding his da keep me safe.

Mick tries to pull him away from me to reassure him, but Fitz's little arms are like barnacles. He's not going anywhere.

"I will always protect you and your mam," Mick vows again as he stands.

Then he leans down and slides his powerful forearms under my thighs and along my back, lifting both me and our son like our combined weight is nothing.

When I know for a fact, it's more than average something.

Without a word to anyone else at the table, including his awful ex-girlfriend, Mick takes long, confident strides toward the house.

The movement stops Fitz mid-wail and he looks up. "You're carrying me and mommy?"

His voice is still tear soaked, but at least he's talking and not wailing.

"Aye. I'm strong enough to carry yiz both and I'm strong enough to keep yiz both safe mo leanbh ."

"Strong enough to carry us up the stairs?" Fitz tests.

Mick nods. "Strong enough to carry you as long as I need to."

By the time we reach our apartment, Mick is breathing a little heavier, but he's not panting. I don't know about Fitz, but I'm impressed.

So are my ovaries, which are sparking like an ungrounded wire.

It's almost enough to make me forget how tolerant my husband was of Dierdre's familiarity.

Almost.