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Dad was always generous. Sometimes to a fault. The people in his organization loved him, and anyone outside thought he was a monster. That was for good reason. Dad showed extreme benevolence and kindness to anyone on his side, but he was ruthless to anyone that stood up against him.
Like the Bianco Famiglia. They were his primary targets and his main enemies, and half the time he spent figuring out ways to fight them while working to take care of his own.
I remember those mornings. I think about them all the time. Back then, I felt like I had a family, like I had people that cared about me. I had a reason to wake up.
Now that’s all gone, and I’m really not sure I can face that scene all over again but knowing I’m on the outside.
I’m about to turn around and leave when a knock at the passenger door window makes me yelp. I look over and it’s Niall grinning down at me. “Crap,” I hiss to myself and roll down the window.
“Not coming inside to say hello?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the roof and looking down at me.
“I just—” I glance over at the men smoking on the stoop. “I don’t know. It’s a lot, and I can tell he’s busy?—”
Niall’s expression softens. “He told you to come, didn’t he? I was just walking over when I saw you park. I’ll escort you inside, yeah?”
“What a gentleman.”
“Just like at Bloody Strike.” He beams, and I realize there’s no escape. I kill the engine and get out, feeling wildly self-conscious, but Niall distracts me with a steady stream of meaningless chatter about some upcoming fights, right up until we reach the stoop.
“Who’s this then?” one of the older men asks. “Got yourself an Italian wife, Niall?”
“Easy, uncle,” Niall says and gestures at me. “This is Valentina Santoro. She’s here to see the boss.”
The man’s eyebrows shoot up and all the men around him look surprised. I say hello and let Niall drag me into the house.
It’s exactly what I feared, and it’s completely what I expected. People are everywhere: men on the couches, women sitting between them, some young and some old, more people wandering between the rooms, men and women in the kitchen; laughter, shouting, more laughter, and lots of food piled on tables everywhere. Niall’s assaulted right away with greetings, and I figure he’s about to abandon me to his people, but instead he shows me around.
“I know, it’s a parade of Irish faces,” he says after introducing me to the tenth cousin. “But don’t worry. I doubt Ronan expects you to remember them.”
“Where is he anyway?”
“In his office. I’ll take you there in a sec, got to show you off to the most important people in the house.” He leads me into the kitchen where a dozen older Irish women with wrinkled faces and hard eyes say hello and offer me more food than I could possibly eat. A few weeks ago, I would’ve taken them up on it all and tried to sneak some home—but thanks to Ronan, I’m not hungry anymore.
“And this is the boss’s mother, Deirdre Hayes, the most important person in the entire house. Isn’t that right, Aunt Deirdre?”
“That’s right, you thin-skulled monkey, and don’t forget it. Lovely to meet you, dear, did you get something to eat?” Ronan’s mother is a thin woman, around my height, with silver hair anda lined and wrinkled face. Her deep blue eyes smile at me, and I feel extremely comfortable with her right away, but a piece of me feels brokenhearted as I accept a cup of coffee in lieu of a full Irish breakfast.
I miss my aunts and uncles. I miss my fake cousins. I miss this noise, this commotion, this community. It breaks my heart, but it also fills me back up again in a way I didn’t even know I needed until right now.
Finally, we reach the office. Niall dumps me at the door. “He’s alone now, I think,” he says before walking off.
I consider knocking, but since Ronan’s a fan of breaking into my apartment, I decide to return the favor and barge through the door.
He looks up in surprise. Ronan’s sitting in an old chair behind a big wooden desk with his feet up on the top. He’s got a file open in his lap and thin glasses are perched on his nose. He blinks at me in surprise, the prescription making his pupils look enormous, before he rips them off and scowls.
“Knocking would be nice,” he grumbles as I shut the door.
“You wear glasses? Big, strong, powerful Ronan Hayes wearsglasses?” I cackle at him, delighted by my discovery.
“Reading glasses,” he corrects. “And you’re perfect then, are you?”
“Compared to you, absolutely.” I saunter over and take a seat in a chair across from him. The office is relatively small but fairly nice. Wooden bookshelves are crammed with volumes, a couch against the wall, a stack of filing cabinets, and Ronan’s desk.Pictures line the walls, and I recognize a few famous Chicagoans. Most are in black and white.
“Did you do the rounds out there? If you had called, I would’ve come out and given you the tour.”
“Niall beat you to it.”
His lips press together, and I can tell he doesn’t like that. Is he actually jealous of his cousin right now?
