“How long?” he presses.
It’s been three months, two weeks, and five fucking days.
“Few months,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Christ, Keenan,” he mutters. “Come with me to the club tonight, and we’ll get you right fixed.”
I snort. “All set there.”
I’ve no interest in visiting the seedy club Nolan and Boner frequent. I went once, and it was enough for me.
Boner shakes his head. “You’ve only been to the anteroom, Keenan,” he says with a knowing waggle of his eyebrows. “You’ve never been past there. Not to where the real crowd gathers.”
“All set,” I repeat, though I don’t admit my curiosity’s piqued.
The rocky pathway leading to the family estate is paved with large, roughly hewn granite, the steep incline part of our design to keep our home and headquarters private. Thirty-five stones in the pathway, which I count every time I walk to the cliffs that overlook the bay, lead to a thick, wrought-iron gate, the entrance to our house. With twelve bedrooms, five reception rooms, one massive kitchen, a finished basement with our workout rooms, library, and private interrogation rooms, the estate my father inherited from his father is worth an estimated eleven million euros. The men in The Clan outside our family tree live within a mile of our estate, all property owned by the brotherhood, but my brothers and I reside here.
When I marry—a requirement before I assume the throne as Clan Chief—I’ll inherit the entire third floor, and my mother and father will retire to the east wing, as my father’s parents did before them.
When I marry. For fuck’s sake. The requirement hangs over my head like the sharpened edge of an executioner’s blade. No wedding, no rightful inheritance. And I can’t even think of such a thing, not when my ex-girlfriend’s betrayal’s still fresh on my mind.
I wave my I.D. at the large, heavy black gate that borders our house, and with a click and whirr, the gates open. When my great grandfather bought this house, he kept the original Tuscan structure in place. The millionaire who had it built hailed from Tuscany, Italy, and to this day, the original Tuscan-inspired garden is kept in perfect shape. Lined with willow trees and bordered with well-trimmed hedges, benches and archways made from stone lend a majestic, age-old air. In May, the flowers are in full bloom, lilacs, irises, and the exotic violet hawthorn, the combined fragrances enchanting. The low murmur of the fountain my mother had built soothes me when I’m riled up or troubled. I’ve washed blood-soaked hands in that fountain, and I laid my head on the cold stones that surround it when Riley, my father’s youngest brother and my favorite uncle, was buried.
We walk past the garden, and I listen to Boner yammer on about the club and the pretty little Welsh blonde he spanked, tied up, and banged last night, but when he reaches for his flask again, I yank it out of his hand and decidedly shove it in my pocket.
“Keenan, for fuck’s—”
“You can have it after the meeting,” I tell him. “No more fucking around, Boner. This is serious business, and you aren’t going into this half-arsed, you hear?”
Though he clenches his jaw, he doesn’t respond, and finally reluctantly nods. I’m saving him from punishment ordered by my father and saving myself from having to administer it. We trot up the large stairs to the front door, but before we can open it, the massive entryway door swings open, and Nolan stands in the doorway, grinning.
“Fancy meetin’ you two here,” he says in a high-pitched falsetto. “We won’t be needin’ any of yer wares today.”
He pretends to shut the door, but I shove past him and enter the house. He says something under his breath to Boner, and I swear Boner says something about me getting laid again. For once in my life, I fucking hope my father assigns me to issue a beating after this meeting. I’m so wound up. I could use a good fucking fight.
“Keenan.” I’m so in my head, I don’t notice Father Finn standing in the darkened doorway to our meeting room. He’s wearing his collar, and his black priest’s clothes are neatly pressed, the overhead light gleaming on his shiny black shoes. Though he’s dressed for the day, his eyes are tired. It seems Boner isn’t the only one who’s pulled an all-nighter.
“Father.”
Though Father Finn’s my father’s younger brother, I’ve never called him uncle. My mother taught me at a young age that a man of the cloth, even kin, is to be addressed as Father. It doesn’t surprise me to see him here. He’s as much a part of the McCarthy family as my father is, and he’s privy to much, though not all, of what we do. It troubles him, though, as he’s never reconciled his loyalty to the church and to our family.