I grimace at the insinuation and even if he’s right, it still sickens me. To hear my relationship with Fynn spoken of like it’s some tawdry, disgusting fling, like I seduced him for my own benefit, it twists my stomach and makes me want to throw up.
I remember Fynn like a pleasant dream. His kiss and touch. His voice and laughter. Even the way he bossed me around and pinned me down to the floor and spanked me roughly. I can still close my eyes and feel his hands on my body. I don’t think I’ll ever experience it again, but I’m desperate to get close to him again, even if it’s only to betray him one final time.
Because that’s the plan. Cillian’s sending me back to the Brunos to spy on them, and I only agreed because if I don’t, he’ll kill my mother. He’s holding her captive, dangling her over my head like a guillotine, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
I’m his creature now, and it kills me.
“Just because I work for you now doesn’t mean I’m your family.” I don’t look at him. I only stare at my mother’s hand. The callused knuckles, the wrinkled skin. She’s frowning at me and I can tell this is killing her.
“Ah, that’s right, you’re still holding on to the delusion that the Bruno family gives a damn about you. But that’s all right, you’ll soon find out they don’t. Do you realize that I gave them extremely reasonable terms? And they fucking negotiated.” He barks a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s how much they value you, Mirella. I asked for money, not even a lot of money, no offense, and they offered half that. You’re just an employee to Don Bruno and Fynn and all those other snakes, not even worth full price. Don’t keep sitting there, pretending that they care about you.”
I bow my head under the pressure of his words and I blink back the tears. Why does he keep doing this to me? What’s the point now? I’m broken already. I’ve given in and I’m ready to do whatever he says. There’s no reason to keep taking my face and shoving it down into the mud, grinding me there, drowning me in filth.
When I say nothing, he raps his knuckles on the table and walks off. The tears fall then, and Mom massages my palm, tutting and shaking her head, looking like she wants to give all these angry young men a piece of her mind.
An hour passes and we’re hustled into cars. We travel in a caravan through the city, three trucks filled to the brim with death. Cillian’s up front in ours, and I’m in the back with Mom. Ronan’s in the car behind, along with eight soldiers, all armed and ready, all prepared to die if ordered to. It seems so hopeless, and I can’t imagine a scenario in which I manage to escape this fate.
They have Mom. That’s all I keep thinking about. They have her, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.
Cillian keeps up a quiet chatter with his other soldiers over a radio system as they drive through town. I’m half listening as he coordinates their arrival times and sets a plan for how they’ll cover the building. The meeting’s happening in a club owned by a group of Somali gangsters. Cillian jokes that they made him agree not to spill any blood, and if it does come to violence, he has to foot the cleaning bill. His driver laughs and I exchange a look with Mom. She’s ghost-white, pale as snow.
“It’ll be okay,” I whisper to her, taking her hand and squeezing it hard. “I promise, you’ll be okay.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I should be the one making you feel better right now.”
“You’re new to the whole mafia thing. I’ve had a little while to get used to it.”
“You forget that I lived with your father for ten years.” Her smile is tight and she shakes her head. “Even during all those years, I never got used to it, not once. I hated it so much. He’d be out late and I wouldn’t know where he was, and sometimes he’d come home with these dark stains in his clothing. He’d lie and say it was wine, but it was blood he had me cleaning out of his suits. I had to throw away more than a few over the years.”
“You never told me about that.”
“It’s not a nice memory and I don’t want you thinking about your father that way.”
“Why do you defend him? Even now, after everything?”
She stares at the floor and a single tear rolls down her cheek. “I did this,” she whispers.
“Mom,” I say, but she keeps going.
“I cheated on him with another man. I kept that baby and he raised it. I never explicitly said you were his daughter, but it was assumed. Of course it was assumed. And when he found out the truth one day, he just— he lost it. He left me and I couldn’t blame him, even though it broke my heart. I still can’t blame him.”