Page 25 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

I don’t remember anyone’s name.

So far, I’ve been introduced to what feels like three hundred people in the last ten minutes, and none of whom is the only one I’ve already met, Patrick’s cousin Dylan. Our house was always full of Da’s “work colleagues,” but it seems we pale in comparison to the Mahoney-led group.

Maybe I just don’t know how many people are really in a mafia “family,” but this feels like… a lot.

I take in the scene of chaos around the room. Kids chasing each other, their parents standing around in clusters talking to people they probably see all the time but love so much they enjoy spending time together.

My gut lurches. While listening to the sounds of laughter and love as we wait for the man of the hour, a bone-deep pain surges through my being.

I’ve never been more alone.

I’m an outsider here. These people aren’t my family.

I share the same last name with the man tipped to be their leader, but that’s it.

No matter how many allowances Patrick so benevolently bestows upon me when we get back to Ireland, it doesn’t change the fact that he took almost everything in this world I hold dear.

Those things he said in the car about being sorry…

I’m a mug for even thinking he was sincere, but there was something in his eyes, in the tone of his voice…

I want to believe him. Our world isn’t like everyone else’s.

The rules are different. Da broke them and paid the price.

If the roles were reversed, he’d have wiped out every single Mahoney and not lost a moment’s sleep over it.

But still, they were my family, and now they’re gone.

My jaw trembles, so I bite down on my lip to stop it as a small child, maybe four or five, collides with my leg. She’s a blur of blonde ringlets and giggles and stronger than she looks because water sloshes over the rim of the glass I’m holding onto with white knuckles.

“Ah. Come here, you little urchin.” A lanky man with blonde curls like the little girl swoops in to rescue me from the tiny tornado. While most faces in the room are good looking, some I’d even go so far as to say are hot—no one quite has Patrick’s jaw-dropping good looks.

“Sorry about that.” The man picks up the little girl and throws her over his shoulder.

I offer a small smile. “It’s okay. No harm done.” I glance around the room, feeling Patrick’s eyes on me, although I can’t see him. It’s a stark reminder he’s always watching.

“Jimmy.” The man thrusts out his free hand as the little girl squirms. “And you’re Sorcha, right? Patrick’s wife. Nice to meet you.”

I nod, still worrying my raw bottom lip between my teeth as I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He chuckles. “I know we’re a lot. We’re a close-knit family; it’ll take some time to get your feet under you. But we protect our own.” He hasn’t let go of my hand yet, and there’s something intense, like he’s willing me to believe him, in his eyes. “That includes you, too. Welcome to the family.”

The knife in my chest burrows a little deeper.

I had a family. Okay, it wasn’t really a fucking good one, but we protected our own, as well.

Our Christmas celebrations were legendary across three counties, and my husband took that from me.

Jimmy’s trying to be nice, to assure me I’m not alone, but all it does is drive home the fact I truly am.

And no amount of Patrick’s sorrys will ever bring them back.

Is that something I can find peace over?

I have no choice but to try. I can’t spend energy hating him until I’m old and wrinkly.

Hating him, wanting vengeance for my family is exhausting.

And if there’s no way out, I need to at least find some kind of acceptance.

I almost snort because the idea feels so distant, and there’s no road map.

Jimmy, the child wrangler, doesn’t linger. He takes off toward the throng of shrieking children. As it happens, that’s where Patrick is, and for what feels like the first time since he pointed that damn gun in my face, his assessing gaze isn’t on me.

He’s crouched low to the ground, one knee pressing against the plush carpet of the reception room. He’s ditched his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. And, good God, the sight should come with a content warning. Who knew forearms could be… sexy?

It’s my first full glimpse of the ink that snakes up both his arms, before disappearing behind his rolled-up sleeves. How far up do they go? Are his chest and back intricate tapestries of art, too?

But his toned and inked forearms are not the only thing that have my ovaries in a vise. Patrick Mahoney—big, scary, grumpy arsehole Mahoney—is talking to two little children, a similar age to the girl who crashed into me.

From here, I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the adoration in his eyes and the softness on his face has me damn near swooning.

The kids are animated, wide eyes, wide smiles, their hands moving rapidly.

They seem to be in some kind of negotiation for whatever Patrick has clutched behind his back.

Could it be… Is Patrick Mahoney actually a… warm-blooded human being? Have I found his kryptonite? Is the hard man from Ireland a mush-ball for children?

I barely resist the urge to press my hand to my chest and dreamily sigh. But a presence next to me does exactly that. “He’s so good with them.” A dark-haired woman with a round belly and a runway-ready face of makeup smiles at me before offering her hand. “Sarah.”

“Sorcha.”

She nods. “Welcome to the mayhem.” She sweeps her hand at the sight in front of us before patting her stomach. “Not long before the brood grows again.”

“When are you due?”

She sighs. “Well, I’ve been pregnant for about a bazillion months, so hopefully any day now.” She points to her feet. “Do I even still have feet?” She shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Haven’t seen them since I hit my third trimester.”

When my cousin Moira was pregnant, she hated when people made a joke about the possibility of there being two babies instead of one.

But staring at Sarah’s baby bump, I can see why sometimes people are inclined to ask.

Patrick will want children, and soon. I’ve been caught up on the fact he’s going to put his dick in me, but not that I’ll be pregnant and have to push a watermelon out of my vagina.

She laughs. “Don’t look so concerned. This baby is way too comfy in there. They won’t be making an appearance today.”

Not the part of this process I was concerned about. But she’s sweet to try to assure me her water won’t break on my feet.

The din around the room ripples into quiet, drawing my attention to the door to my left.

A nurse, dressed in pale-blue scrubs, pushes Dylan into the room.

He’s connected to a drip, his shoulders rounded, his face ashen, and to be completely honest, he looks like the last place he should be is in this room.

He points at me, and his nurse directs the wheelchair in my direction. I ignore the urge to seek out Patrick for reassurance. I need to face this alone, to prove to everyone and myself that I can do it.

Because right now, in a sea of people, who fifteen short days ago were considered the enemy, I’m not sure I can. I stand up straight, channel Da’s way with people and Ronan’s cool head under pressure, and offer a warm smile as the wheelchair approaches.

I make the first move, offering my hand. “Dylan, it’s so good to see you again.” He looks marginally better than when I met him earlier today, but he’s obviously extremely sick.

“There’s no need to lie to a dying man, Sorcha.

But I appreciate the sentiment.” He winks at me.

Winks. It’s unexpected, but something tight and painful inside my stomach begins to unwind, and the people around us return to their own conversations.

“I presume that cousin of mine is treating you well?” Dylan briefly pats the back of my hand.

I allow my smile to widen, hoping no one will realize it’s fragile, fake, and if it gets much bigger, my whole face will crack. “I can’t complain.”

He grins. “You could, but you’re not. ”

What was it Patrick said earlier about Dylan being astute? He’s not wrong. The man may be at death’s door, but he’s still clued in. Da used to say “there’s no flies on him.” He knows exactly who I am, how I got here, and he sees right through the pretense I’m doing my best to keep up.

Tension coils in my muscles. No matter how brave I’m trying to be, I’m still in the lion’s den, and my very life—and Cathal’s—depends on this interaction going well. These people might be putting on a friendly face, but they’re all of the same ilk: dangerous.

“Come on, let’s eat.”

I dutifully follow him into the dining room, presuming the rest of the family will follow suit and Patrick will catch up to me after he’s finished negotiating with the littlest of the group.

When Dylan’s chair is placed at the head of the table, he pats the space directly to his left. “Sit, love. Let’s have a chat about your intentions with my cousin.”

I snort, and the corners of his mouth tick up. My intentions are usually to murder the fuck out of his cousin, and from that little smirk he’s giving me, he knows it, too. He’s much more amenable than I’d expected him to be, softer around the edges. From age or from illness, I’m not sure.

There’s a twinkle in his eye, but from the way he holds himself, even when his body is ravaged with cancer, I know in my gut that twinkle could easily turn to an icy glint.

But he’s not the cold-hearted old bastard I expected him to be.

Patrick set the tone for the Mahoney family.

Distant, ruthless, unyielding. But Dylan is a different beast entirely.

With his family, he doesn’t seem to be very beastly at all, even though most of them aren’t blood relatives.