Page 63 of Craving Sin

That is why I’ll always trust Conan. He’s honest, even when he’s being brutal. The only time he’s ever lied to me was about Sloan, and that was for Fia.

And the truth is, he’s right. “I won’t let him hurt Cillian.” My son will always come first.

“I know,” Conan replies.

I rub my forehead, then sit back, ignoring the ache in my shoulder. “I want those brothers dead, Conan. Why can’t we find them? I thought we were close.”

“I thought we were too,” he says. “We’ll get it done, though. I promise you. And it’s good that you’re back. We want to make sure everyone in Boston knows that Rian O’Shea doesn’t run.”

No. No, he fucking doesn’t. “I’m in the mood for a little carnage,” I say. Maybe that’s what I need. Maybe getting back to my life will help me get over Abbott and whatever it is he’s done to me.

Conan smiles. “Now you sound like Rory.”

I chuckle. “Well, he is like a son to me.”

Conan laughs too. It feels good to be back here, with him. Yes. Getting into my life again will make everything easier. I won’t want Abbott anymore, and next time, if it comes down to it, I’ll be able to do what needs to be done.

“I need to go to Paradise.” Conan stands. “I’m going to be watching him. You know that, right, Rian? I won’t move on him because I respect you too much as a boss and a friend, but I’m watching him, and I don’t trust him.”

I can’t stop my hands from tightening into fists again. Hearing anyone, even my friend, say he doesn’t trust Abbott and knowing that he’ll move on him if he thinks he needs to, makes all my protective instincts flare to life—makes me want to eliminate the threat. But the threat is someone I love and someone who I logically know is doing the right thing. My head is a fucking mess, and I don’t like it.

“I have final say. I told you I’ll do what needs to be done.”

He nods. “No offense, but you said that before I left the cabin. I trust you, Rian, but be smart. Get your head on straight, figure out what the hell you want from that man and make it happen.” Silently, Conan turns and walks out of the house, the door not making a sound behind him.

“Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face.

I need to get back to my normalcy, to forget I ever dragged Abbott into my life, but how can I when I also need to keep an eye on him to make sure my family stays safe? Does it really matter if I watch that stupid fucking dot on the app so we’ll know if he goes to the police station? Conan’s contacts will let us know the second our names are so much as whispered about anything.

I do my best to push thoughts of him out of my head.

The O’Shea family has our hands in many things, making sure we have a legal front for the money we’re pulling in. One of those is real estate, which has always been an unexpected passion of mine.

We keep an office downtown, so I head there and spend a few hours getting some work done. It’s easy to hide money in things like this, and it’s also just another way for our family to put money into our pockets. We do both residential and commercial real estate, but most of the money comes from commercial.

I search listings in Boston that would fit what I’m looking for. I want it to be the most beautiful, state-of-the-art concert hall in Massachusetts, to bring music to the city—and yes, launder money too, but no one is perfect.

It does its job, keeping me busy for a while, and puts me out and about around Boston, making sure that my enemies know I’m not hiding away in fear.

Finally, I return home, to the large two-story, that’s now filled with more memories than people—just this big, quiet space where Cillian, Rory, Aislin, and Tiernan played as children, where they laughed and cursed and got into trouble. Where Cillian and Moira played piano, which they loved doing together so much.

I’m standing in my quiet living room, glass of bourbon in hand, when I realize that I miss the sound of my son’s voice. I haven’t spoken with him since they left for college.

Call him. Take a risk. That’s what Abbott said I should do.

I down the brown liquid from my glass in two gulps, then pull out my phone and take a chance. If I want our relationship to improve, these are the kinds of things I need to do more often.

Cillian answers on the second ring. “What’s wrong?” he asks, deep panic in his voice. How sad is it that his first thought is to think something is wrong?

“Nothing. I just…” Say it. That’s the whole point. It’s shocking how the pain of losing Moira had locked me up so tightly, had taught me to keep my feelings buried deep to feel safe, but all that did was hurt my son…hurt me. I’m so fucking tired of everything hurting. I’m the one who ruined our relationship, and it’s on me to continue to be the one to fix it. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” I tell him, and hear nothing but the sound of his breathing in return.

It stretches so long between us, I don’t think he’s ever going to answer until he says, “Oh. You’re sure everything is okay?”

“Yes. I’m back home now.”

“Good…so…your gunshot is still doing okay?”

I smile. “Yeah. I had a good doctor,” slips out, flashes of Abbott bouncing around in my head.