Page 31 of The Mafia Assassin’s Redemption (Mafia Obsession #2)

TWENTY-FOUR

harry

“Churches make me nervous,” Lucie says, looking around St. Jane’s as we sit in one of the pews watching women filter in for confession.

Interesting. Most of the mafia women I come across love church, even the nonbelievers. They like the feel of having a haven, a place where they can whisper their sins, or even ask for help.

If they do the latter, Father Luigi acts na?ve but suggests working things out or, perhaps, trying to have coffee or tea at a place to make friends outside their world, a place where as long as they don’t spill anything but actual tea or coffee, they might feel better.

It’s not code, exactly, but they’re places known to find the start of help. His gentle push helps protect St. Jane’s and the underground network.

But Lucie isn’t looking for help. She’s as enamored with Callahan as he is with her.

I’m the one stuck with the big, scary brother. Seamus is too charming and Declan’s too young, maybe older than me by only a couple of years. I have no doubt they’re as deadly as they want to be, but they at least hide it.

But for me, the deadliest is the scariest brother.

Torin.

Handsome. Tall. Killer smile when he uses it, which isn’t often. Stone-cold killer underneath hot flesh and hotter blood.

Worse, he’s a man who’s making it harder to remember the words I hate you.

I sound like a brat when I say them, but I say them to remind myself.

I can’t forgive him. I just can’t. No matter what he says. No matter what my heart thinks.

“Really? It’s just church.”

“But, Harry, you’re not religious. I see religion in some of the people who’ve come for confession today. But I don’t see it in you. No offense.”

“I’m not here to confess anything.”

I ignore the fact she called me Harry, not Hazel. It seems that more and more, the Murphy family has been calling me Harry.

“You know what I mean.” She yawns as a mafia woman in her early twenties walks in, dark-haired, head bowed.

Then another, older woman approaches, and finally, a young woman in a big hat. She sits at the end of the pew, away from the others.

“I grew up in the Holy Mary School for Orphans. So… maybe it rubbed off,” I say. “Maybe it brings me comfort.”

“Or,” Lucie says, eyes dancing, “you like to hide as much as Torin does.”

My spine stiffens. “I’m nothing like him.”

“You’re totally the yin to his yang, and you like him.”

I bite down on the familiar words that have looped through my own mind more times than I care to count as I sigh. “Do you want a drink? There’s altar wine or water or?—”

“I’m good,” Lucie says, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt. “If you’ve got work, go for it. I might go out to get some cupcakes… I can bring some back for you and Father Luigi if you want?”

“He’d love that, but I’m betting Mrs. Martin, who’s the housekeeper, already made some. She always makes sure his cupboards and fridges are filled with sweets.”

“Wait, you’re not the housekeeper?” Lucie says with a playful gasp. Then she leans toward me with a conspiratorial smile. “You know the Murphy men are very jealous.”

“I just do bookkeeping work and help with the flowers… actually, I arrange them.” I can’t keep pride from my voice.

But then I falter. I like Lucie. I wish this were all different, that I was normal and made friends, but I haven’t been anything close to normal since I left Ireland as a child.

“Speaking of flowers and bookkeeping work, I need to get moving.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“I have to change out the bouquets, but I really hate wasting the flowers. Before, I used to take some home and put them in a solution that my mom told me about that would keep them fresher for longer, but…”

“They go in the trash?” she asks. “Tell you what, there’s gotta be somewhere that wants them. Put them aside, and if there isn’t a place, we’ll give them away. I’ll make calls from the car and then pick up the cupcakes.” She winks. “I think we’ll be a great team, Harry.”

The bodyguard that lurks behind us steps out of the shadows to speak to her and I watch her leave with Mikey, who used to be her old driver back before the Murphys absorbed her family’s business. He’s taken on new roles within the Murphy organization since then, but apparently still drives her.

I get up from the pew and walk toward the office.

The Murphy family seems to be respected. Even Father Luigi, for all his talk about scary and powerful, seems to like Torin. Enough to make a bet with him.

I throw myself into my work, the quiet of the church working over me, through me, and it even slows the chaotic thoughts, smoothing the edges of my hatred and all the complicated feelings that go with it… the ones that are dangerously close to looking like love.

And I can’t escape them even though I desperately want to.

He’s my enemy on a bone-deep level.

I let that thought marinate.

It melts away.

I hate him.

Dammit, I can’t hold on to it anymore.

“Torin killed your family,” I say out loud.

But there’s no rise of fury inside me, just sadness and a whole lot of questions that sit uncomfortably in my mind. I get up and, tucking my hair behind my ears, I start collecting the vases and flowers.

When I’m ready to leave, the confessional line is down to two people. There’s someone in there, and when she leaves, the dark-haired beauty goes in. That just leaves the lady in the hat remaining.

Worry seeps in. Normally I’ll hear from or see at least one of the Murphy brothers while I’m here working.

I’d see Torin.

And so I wait for relief that doesn’t come. Worry snakes through my insides, and the fact that Lucie doesn’t share the same concern doesn’t matter.

I push out a breath. What’s happening to me?

I should be worried about what Torin might do to Uncle Anthony. I should be?—

“Stop it,” I whisper under my breath, taking the first vase out to an empty spot to the right of the pews where light pours in from the stained glass.

It’s where the prettiest bouquet always sits because it’s a focal point in the church.

Then I carry out the flowers and focus on building a theme.

White, cream, and green. Wintery welcome with a touch of color is perfect for the colder weather we’re getting this week. And?—

“Those are real pretty.”

I turn to look at the woman behind me. Her drawl sounds southern. Under her large-brimmed hat, she’s gorgeous with big dark eyes, pale skin, red lips, and long black hair.

She’s mafia, I think. But she doesn’t give off mafia vibes, which is weird. “I get them in from a commercial flower warehouse on Canal.”

“Do you have the address?” she asks as she studies me, a curious look on her face. “You know, you’re really not what I expected.”

Frowning, I lead her to the back of the church to write down the address, then hand it to her. “Not what you expected?”

“Then again, I’ve been gone a long time…” She grabs my hand, pulling me closer. “My name’s Joan. Oh, those are gorgeous rings.”

She touches my wedding band and the engagement ring I want to hate, even though they are beautiful. I just smile, not quite sure I’m getting what she’s giving off.

I’m not sure I like her, but then again, I’ve helped all kinds of women… those who’ve made my skin crawl, as well as utterly self-entitled creatures. No one should be trapped in a dangerous situation, and in the scheme of things, this Joan person just rubs me the wrong way, that’s all .

Nerves. That’s what it is.

Joan’s nervous like most women who come seeking help.

That’s the air around her, someone who’s trying to find a way in, so I do what I normally do and just let her speak.

She’s confident, way more so than many of them, and I do wonder if a mafia man caught her eye, married her, and when she came out of the love fog—as one woman I helped put it—she realized what she got herself into.

It happens.

Probably more often than most people realize.

At least I’m one of the other ones, the ones with eyes wide open.

And maybe, I concede, I’m lucky in that my husband’s not as horrifying as I thought.

Then again, I set that bar pretty fucking low.

“These roses are so pretty.” She runs her fingers along one and then the tiny tea roses. The cream orchids were a lucky find.

“They definitely are. The flower warehouse is perfect. If I run into you there, I’ll give you a tour, show you the best tubs to pick from… Some are always better than others.” It’s a lame offer, but if she’s looking for help, she’ll agree and nod.

Which she does.

But then she leans in. “I’m looking to get out of this life. My friend Lara told me about you.”

Terror rips through me, clawing at my insides. No one’s supposed to tell anyone about this network. It’s not a word-of-mouth operation. That would be way too deadly… for everyone involved.

I swallow hard. “I think I met a nice woman called Lina or Lara a while back. She came by. Well, I hope to run into you again.”

She smiles, then turns and saunters down the aisle, a woman of confidence.

It makes me nervous that she’d been so bold, and I let out a soft sigh that she’s gone. It’s something I do when this helping business feels a little too out of control.

But I’m not worried about her. A woman like that would be resourceful.

It’s the ones who feel downtrodden and have nowhere to go that I worry most about, and if I’m ever caught or, worse, the important people deep in the movement are compromised, then there’ll be really desperate women and children trapped.

But then again, a woman like that won’t let it slip.

I’m just on edge because of my life at the moment.

That has to be it.

I continue arranging the flowers, and when I’m about to pass into the sacristy, Father Luigi comes out of the confessional.

“The lady who is about to come out is feeling a little faint. Can you get her a drink of water? Or maybe something stronger?” He goes back into the confessional.

When the other door finally opens, I’m still working out the little displays for either side of the confessional. The dark-haired beauty sits and waits.

I smile at her. “Would you like to come to the kitchen? I’ll get you a drink.”

She nods and offers a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you. I’m Ava, by the way.”

“I’m Hazel.”

In the kitchen, I clear a spot on the table for her.

“Confession can be a lot,” she says.

I half smile, noting the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. I’ve seen it before .

She’s bratva.

But it’s all the same, I guess.

Maybe she’s Italian and was sold to the Russians through marriage. I can relate to that in a way. I suck in a breath. “Water, tea? Coffee?”

“Something,” she says, “stronger?”

I open the cupboard and pull out the whiskey and two coffee mugs. And I slosh some into both.

“Your tattoo’s a pretty color,” I say. It’s an easy opener to see how she responds.

“My family married me off. So that’s what that is.” And she laughs and shakes her head, her eyes still dark and brooding. “Sometimes it sucks to be female.”

“The Russian Orthodox church not your jam?”

“Italian, actually,” she says. I just smile and nod.

She tells me a meandering story about her poor father, how her brother was murdered, and she was married off as an asset, but he could be worse.

I don’t know if it’s the truth or it’s made up, and I don’t care because I never expect the truth from someone scared or wanting out. She wants something, though. I know that. So she probably wants out and is making up her mind about how serious she is about running.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She eyes my rings, too. “Same boat?”

“Different ship completely,” I say.

Then she sighs. “I just wanted to breathe, to be somewhere that isn’t mafia or bratva and is Italian.”

“This church is loved by the mafia. It doesn’t take much research to know that. I just help out. But… Father Luigi is wonderful.”

Her eyes widen.

“I know that. I just meant… it feels free here, more so than being watched all the time. It’s a nice break.”

I just nod and continue with the flowers in the kitchen.

And I make small talk, the kind that I can weave my spiel into, about a coffee or tea house and the best ones, the best book stores, and my favorite ones.

All the right moves, the right words to subtly offer a beginning step on a path to freedom.

If that’s what she wants.

But she sits, sipping her whiskey, helping herself to another before she says in a soft voice, “Ever wanted to hunt someone down and kill them?”

I think of Torin and my entire body immediately responds. “Yes.” Shit, I realize what I’ve said and I twist the rings as I turn to her. “I’m sure everyone has. Jokingly.”

“Hmm,” she says, sipping her whiskey. “Sometimes I dream of hunting down and killing the man responsible for my brother’s death.”

Once I would have agreed with her, but now, it turns my stomach.

And it hits me.

I don’t want to kill Torin.

I don’t want to harm him.

I’m finding it impossible to even lie to myself about hating him now.

I don’t know what that makes me.

But…

“Dreams are just dreams,” she says. Then she finishes the whiskey, right as my senses spark and the church door slams.

Ava jumps.

Torin storms in.

They lock eyes.

“Get out,” he says .

She suddenly drops her mug and runs out, and I know I’ve just lost a potential woman who needed to be saved.

I might not hate him, but I’m furious.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I demand. “Do you realize what you just did?”