Page 2 of The Mafia’s Bride (The Women of the Mafia #1)

SLOANE

I don’t have many memories from when I was little.

My mother died when I was only five and the only things I knew about her were that I inherited her red hair and her fashion sense.

I heard the stories growing up of her garden parties in the middle of the summer, how people would show up in their best outfits just to be praised by her.

Her word could make or break someone in their catty circle.

I don’t remember her voice or the feel of her hug.

Those little things children cling to when the world turns dark, I never had them.

There were times at night, right before sleep took me, that I would imagine someone coming in to tuck me into my large bed, press lips to my forehead and I would drift to sleep, silently imagining it was my mother giving me the strength to fight off the nightmares.

As I got older, those fantasies disappeared. Just like she did.

Because if my mother had been there, if she had lived, maybe she would have prevented so much from happening. Happening to me.

Staring down at the hole in the ground, the wet Boston weather turning the sky grey and heavy, I feel the weight of the atmosphere on my shoulders.

Sadness and anticipation, maybe even a few coils of anger all lash into my gut.

My dark umbrella fights off the pelting rain, the priest in front of me saying somber prayers of life and death and salvation, begging whoever is above to listen, but I don’t hear it.

I can’t take my eyes off the casket, hovering over the ground.

My father, Ferguson O’Brien, lies before me and I can’t cry.

Shifting, I shake out my feet, the Grosgrain black heels sinking into the mud. I keep my eyes down, adjust the classic black pillbox hat and matching veil and fight off a shudder as a frigid burst of air tries to take my umbrella away.

Ferguson O’Brien. He was a giant among men, with a classic Irish temper, muddy brown eyes and dark locks that had turned grey in his age. His accent, still tinged with his homeland, always came through harsher when he was angry.

Which was the only time I talked to him.

My father and I had a complicated relationship. I wasn’t his favorite—that role belonged to my older sister, Collins. I wasn’t the eldest, and therefore his heir, like my oldest sister, Maeve. And I wasn’t his only boy, like my younger brother, Briar.

I was the middle child, the one with a temper to rival his own, who couldn’t do anything right and who he reminded constantly of that fact.

I couldn’t finish college like he wanted, I couldn’t drive my car without crashing it, I couldn’t do anything in public without screwing up and getting the tabloids’ attention.

I also couldn’t just like men, like he wanted. Like a good Irish man, my father hated knowing his daughter— the one he proudly boasted had inherited his late wife’s hair—was bisexual. He hated that part of me and as the years went on, he hated me because of it.

Unfortunately, no one would see that part of our relationship.

Only Maeve knew my father would scream and yell at me for screwing up—for being different in his eyes.

For being such a sinful disaster. The verbal berating, the disgusted looks.

But only I knew how those mallet sized hands would feel as his anger would boil over, resulting in various slaps and hits shown behind closed doors.

I shudder, thinking of all the times he would hit me, slap me for my sass or my incompetence. One time, for a very compromising picture that was leaked to the press. I couldn’t leave the house for a week, my black eyes too telling that if I went out into public, everyone would know what happened.

I never questioned why the hits stopped. Just one day they did. And I was grateful for it.

Although, I have to admit, the abuse was better than the silence.

Ferguson gave me the silent treatment most of my life, only yelling if I did something really stupid, keeping me in the dark about our life—or maybe I reminded him too much of my mother that he couldn’t bear to look at me—and if anything, that was worse than the hits.

When I learned he died, I thought I’d be able to shed a few tears. He was my father, he provided a home over my head, an education, the best clothing and jewelry. But my eyes have stayed dry.

He was an awful man. The clothing and jewelry, the extravagant presents weren’t done to make me feel special—for any of us kids to feel special.

It was a way to own us, to use us as his walking trophies.

A literal billboard sign promoting his wealth.

I pawned most of what he gave me, used the money for drugs and booze or gave the stuff to my friend Danica to wear.

I never wanted anything from him. Because it was never given freely, out of love, there was always a catch.

The mahogany casket is laid with brass knobs, a few Gaelic blessings carved into the wood.

The hole is black, compacted with wet dirt, the fake grass covering the top a bright contrast to how dark everything is.

Even the sky has darkened, the grey turning charcoal, as if my father is showing his displeasure from the grave.

I wouldn’t doubt it.

For a man larger-than-life, who was used to getting everything he wanted with power or force, it’s a rather anticlimactic ending.

He deserved so much worse. A heart attack at his desk, a cigar in one hand, a glass of aged whiskey in the other? Most men would hope to go out that way. He got off easy.

I kick out my feet, willing the coldness in my limbs to leave.

A wave of pins and needles radiates up my legs and arms, pinching my nerves until my entire body shivers uncomfortably.

The congregation is silent, listening to the last remaining prayers.

Even the crows have stopped cawing, taking a moment of silence.

I’d rather be anywhere than here right now. Anywhere but here, fighting off the last bit of winter as spring tries to shine, and fighting the overwhelming urge to run; or the urge to find the closest person and fuck them until neither of us know what day it is.

My father thought women should be seen and not heard. We were meant to be married to men, produce children, and care for the home. Under no circumstances were we to enjoy sex—or God forbid—have sex outside of marriage.

Pops hated me because I am not a typical woman. I like sex, I enjoy booze and have used more drugs than I know what to do with, while having relationships with both women and men. I was the opposite of what my father wanted—and he hated that he couldn’t change me.

That hate he gave me, threw at me as if my choices, my life, were the reason for his spite, grew into something deeper than shame. Deeper than guilt. I became numb to everything. Numb to life, to his rants and abuse. Numb to the neglect and avoidance. Just numb .

Right now, that numbness is fighting for dominance as I scan the crowd, take in their weary and wet faces. The rain seems to grow harder, dousing the candles by the rows of flowers, pelting into the priest who prattles on about heaven, about how my father will be at rest.

I’m not religious, but I know that’s not the case. Not with who my father was.

I hold my mother’s simple gold cross at my throat and tuck it back into my warmth.

I don’t care that it was a woman who I don’t remember—I can pretend.

I can pretend I remember this as being hers, and pretend to feel her presence when I’m in need of comfort.

Comfort I didn’t get from anyone else in my family, comfort I need right now to not feel so alone.

As if pulled, my eyes drift, locking with Maeve in the back of the crowd.

She stands resolutely, a ghoul surrounded by mourners, staring across their heads as the wind sweeps her dark hair behind her shoulders.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t smile, just stares at me, seeing things too deep for me to cover.

I try not to shudder. Her eyes are so cold, yet she sees everything. She’s always been like that.

When I was younger, I desperately looked up to Maeve. She was strong, unflinching. I knew Pops let her into the clan business, let her know things he would never tell me. I wanted to be just like her—just as strong and unbreakable.

That was when I was little, though. Now, after Pops used his hands to try and mold me into the perfect daughter and she never stopped it? A burning ball of rage glows into my stomach whenever I see her.

She never stopped him. Never intervened. She just let him yell and hit and throw things. She never protected me and it sours all those childish fantasies that put her on a pedestal. Now, I see her for the raging bitch that she is, unable—or unwilling—to protect me from our monster of a parent.

Green eyes flash as she reads something on my face before looking back to the casket.

Cool delicate hands grip my umbrella, a slender body sliding under with me. The scent of freshly baked macarons on a warm morning overlooking a busy Parisian Street, wraps around me like a hug. I inhale, basking in the scent of my older sister, Collins, and lean into her warmth.

She’s always so warm. I wish I could suck it up and get rid of this inner numbness.

“Heard from Briar?” she asks, keeping her voice pitched low.

I sigh, kicking out my toes again. They’ve gone numb just like the ball of emotions in my gut. “No. Not since I told him about Pops.”

Briar hasn’t been home in almost four years.

My younger brother by ten months, he doesn’t remember our mother and had a tense relationship with Pops too.

I wish I knew why, but one day after he turned fifteen, he stole a bunch of stuff from Pops’ office and left.

The only reason Pops never went after him was because it would be seen as a weakness; Ferguson O’Brien couldn’t control one of his children, how would that look for his Irish clan, his criminal enterprise? He’d be ridiculed – or worse.