Page 54 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

It’s hard to believe two months have already passed since I watched Patrick take what I thought was his last breath.

It’s amazing how much can be achieved when money and resources are thrown at a problem.

So much has changed, and I don’t just mean the fact that our home has gone from being a building site, to having not one but three panic rooms installed.

Or that an entire wing of the Mahoney Manor has been repurposed and renovated for Cathal to come and live with us.

The changes to the house aren’t the only things that have changed.

I’ve changed. I’ve gone from being a twenty-year-old, green-around-the-gills daughter of a mafia boss to a mafia wife.

I’ve still got a lot to learn, and there are any number of things Patrick can’t—or won’t—teach me, but I feel much more on level ground than I did a few short weeks ago.

Besides, I’m not twenty years old anymore either. Today is my twenty-first birthday.

Does anyone in the house even know it’s my birthday?

It’s not as though Patrick and I dated like normal people.

We didn’t get to have candlelit dinners or coffee together or exchange late-night sexy pictures and text into the wee hours.

There’s still a lot that we don’t know about each other, and some things I wish I didn’t know—like my husband’s proclivity for leaving his dirty fucking socks lying all around the house.

How Maeve hasn’t crammed them down his throat after all this time is anyone’s guess. He must have her under his spell.

Despite it being my milestone birthday, Patrick has been away on business. He was due to come home this afternoon but messaged to say his flight got delayed. In a bid not to roll around the house like a tiny pinball in a massive machine, I dragged Rosanna out for an afternoon of shopping.

As the car winds up the driveway to the front of my home, a balloon arch catches my attention. My heart picks up speed. Maybe Patrick does know it’s my birthday after all.

“I’ve never seen balloons at the Mahoney’s house before. Is there something going on tonight?” Rosanna’s hand flies to her chest. “Are you having a party and didn’t invite me?”

I lean forward and cover the hand on her thigh with mine. “No, Ro. I’m not having a party. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my husband has found out that today is my twenty-first.”

“What?” She shrieks so loud the car practically vibrates. “We didn’t even have cake, Sorcha! Best friends don’t let best friends turn twenty-one without a doorstop of cake.” She holds her palms apart like she’s showing me just how much cake is acceptable for someone’s twenty-first.

It’s only been a couple of months, but Rosanna and I have become very close.

She hasn’t replaced Eabha, who has left a hole in my heart that throbs every time Rosanna orders a chai latte or some other froufrou special edition drink of the month at our local café.

But Rosanna has been a good friend to me, and I’m not sure I’d have made it through my time here without her.

She throws her door open as the car is rolling to a slow stop.

“What are you doing?”

She jerks her head toward the house. “I’m going in there to give your husband a piece of my mind for not telling me that my girl had a massive birthday today.

” Her face falls. “I’d have done something special for you had I known.

You know, got you something really nice.

Or taken you somewhere better than a shopping center’s food court.

” She groans. “Please don’t tell the other wags.

I can’t handle the embarrassent.” She covers her chest. “I’m utterly mortified.

On your twenty-first, I took you for a shitty burger and flaccid fries. ”

I dismiss her concerns with a laugh, though my heart swells at how devastated she is to not have been given a heads up. “Watching you yell at Patrick will be the gift that keeps on giving.”

When we walk inside, Maeve is crossing the entrance hallway with a jug of water.

“Maeve, do you happen to know where Patrick is?”

“Aye, love. He’s in the formal dining room.” She drops her voice. “He’s entertaining some visitors.”

My mouth makes an O shape, but Rosanna is already striding toward the dining room.

“Ro, stop. Stop!” My harsh whispers are lost on her. She’s a woman on a mission. But if she bursts into an important meeting and threatens to take the boss’s head off his shoulders over his wife’s birthday, it’ll likely be she who loses her head.

I chase after her. My fingers graze her elbow as I reach for her, but she’s already turned the handle and shoved the door open. The light flickers on and a deafening roar saturates the room. “Surprise!”

Rosanna gives me a sly wink. Patrick sneaks up beside me offering me a glass of champagne as he slides his arm around my waist, drawing me to him. He’s still got a slight limp, but he discarded the cane he had for the first few weeks at the earliest opportunity.

“Happy twenty-first, mo mhuirnín .” He plants a chaste kiss on my cheek.

I blink, trying to clear the blur of tears that fill my eyes. “What did you do?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t let my wife’s big birthday pass without some kind of fanfare now, could I?”

I gesture at my clothes. “I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”

He grips my chin. “Don’t talk about my beautiful wife that way. You look gorgeous.” He turns me to face the room, giving my arse a love tap. “Go say hi to your guests. They’re not here for me.”

“How will you ever cope with not being the center of attention?” I drawl as I scan the crowd.

Cillian and Molly are chatting with Rosanna and Garrett.

Liam and Darragh are deep in conversation with a few of the women Rosanna has introduced me to over the last few months.

They’re all connected to Patrick and his job, and we’ve been having a weekly coffee or lunch for them all to get to know me, and vice versa.

There’s a table with way more gifts than there are people in the room, an enormous bright pink cake that will take us months to get through, and—oh, my God.

My hands smother a garbled sob as my eyes land on a group of women I never thought I’d see again. Eabha’s got that iconic shit-eating grin plastered on her well made-up face, and she’s staring right at me with a look that says, “What the fuck took you so long?”

I look at Patrick, back at the girls to make sure they’re not a mirage, then back to my husband who steps forward to steady me with his hands on my hips.

Tears spill down my cheeks as I stare at my childhood friends, the girls who got me through my final exams in school, bad haircuts, and disastrous dye jobs.

“You did this for me?” My voice wavers, shaking as I struggle to get the words out. “You brought them here?”

“I told you, I’d do anything for you. Happy birthday, mo mhuirnín. ” His voice is raw with emotion. I stand on tiptoes and plant a hard kiss on his lips, then surge toward the group. Throwing my arms around my girls, I squeeze them so hard I can barely breathe.

“You’re here.” I cup Eabha’s face. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Like I’d miss your fucking twenty-first, you bellend. You think that arsehole could keep me away? Many have tried.” She winks, but her eyes tell me how relieved she is to see me.

We all cry, because of course they’d heard about what happened to my family, although they don’t know Patrick and his men were the ones responsible.

While no one ever came out and said it, what my da did for a living was the worst kept secret in County Kildare—and beyond.

And from the way they keep sending cursory glances at my husband, they’re well aware of what he does for a living, too.

We eat, we drink, I introduce my old friends to my new ones, and when it’s time to sing happy birthday, Bridie—the nurse I saw when I first opened my eyes in the hospital after one of Patrick’s men shot me—wheels Cathal out to join the party for a little while.

My heart is full. I don’t know what Patrick said, or how much he paid to encourage Bridie to come and live with us as part of Cathal’s care team, but I’m eternally grateful.

It’s oddly poetic that Patrick managed to convince her, considering she’s named after Kildare’s very own patron saint of healers.

Cathal couldn’t be in better hands, and she reminded me just this morning that I still owe her that tenner she loaned me to get home from the hospital.

For the first time in what feels like months, a deep sense of satisfaction washes over me as my husband approaches. He tugs me away from my friends, holds out his hand, and leans close so only I can hear. “Dance with me. You can stand on my feet again. No one will even notice.”

I give him a wry smile. What my husband doesn’t know is that, over the last few weeks, Rosanna has been taking me to secret dance lessons so that I could wow him one day with my nimble feet. I just didn’t expect today would be that day.

I’m no expert. It’ll take more than a few lessons with a professional to get me anywhere near ballroom ready, but I think I can hold my own.

I grab Patrick’s tie and lead him to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the dining room. “Try to keep up, Twinkle Toes.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s okay to be shite at something, you know? There’s no harm in just saying, ‘Patrick, I can’t dance.’?”

I shove his arm, but he draws me against his firm body and starts to lead. It takes him all of a few seconds to realize I’m not trampling all over his feet like I did the first time we danced.

“Were you faking it before? Is this another hustling situation like with the poker games?” He raises a questioning brow. “Are you just that good at faking?” There’s an undercurrent of disbelief to his voice that makes me giggle .

“No, you gobshite. I’m only a good bluffer at poker. I really was crap at dancing, still am, but I got some lessons to wow you with my dancing prowess.”