Sadie's Game (Ashby Crime Family)

“The fabric is beautiful, without a doubt,” she said.

I waited for the but.”

And then it came. “But I want to look beautiful, Ma, not like I’m wearing my great-grandma’s dress.”

She fingered the silk fabric, her mind racing with thoughts on how to change it, I was sure. “Besides all that, I’m five inches taller than you, and I don’t really want to wear a mini-skirt on my wedding day.”

I’d had my heart set on her getting married in that dress, but she had a point. “It’s something to consider,” I said, my heart not in it.

She held the dress up to her body with a wistful sigh as she examined her reflection. “It’s too bad Grandpa Ashby isn’t around to see me get married. I miss him so much.” She let out a low, nostalgic laugh. “He was so strong, so formidable, but when it came to us, he always had a few dollar bills and a handful of candy.”

Kat wasn’t wrong in her memories of Cillian. He’d been the father I was denied by birth, teaching me the things I needed to know to make it in the real world. “I miss him too.”

My feelings for Cillian were complicated. He was a good man, a strong man, but he was also the man who raised Colm, and I couldn’t think about one without remembering the other.

In November of 1982, just months after my sixteenth birthday, I was out with Uncle Seamus, my new best friend. We were sampling a new brand of rot-gut whiskey because drinking with my uncle was my favorite pastime in the aftermath of Owen Doyle.

But that night I wasn’t drinking to forget. I drank because it was Friday night, and I was with the one person who loved me without condition. Without judgment.

“If you have to drink this swill, I recommend a splash of cola. Not too much, or it’ll end up sweet, but just enough to mask that bitter, cheap taste.”

I soaked up every tidbit of knowledge Seamus shared with me, nodding like I was as wise to the ways of the world as he was. “Why not just order the good stuff?”

Seamus threw his head back and laughed. “Because some days, I just wanna get shit-faced, lass, and when those days cross paths with the days my pockets are empty, well, I have two choices. Deal with reality or get shit-faced on cheap whiskey. I choose the latter.” He chuckled to himself.

“Makes sense.” I smiled and held up the glass with the dark amber liquid. “To delaying reality, at least for a little while.”

Seamus raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He finished his drink and spotted a friend on the other side of the bar, leaving me on my own while he went over to say hello. Saying hello for Seamus could take ten seconds or three hours, so I turned on my barstool to people-watch. The Oak Barrel was the definition of a dive bar, with dark wood everywhere, fake leather in green and black, with black & white photos on the wall of men and women who looked to be old Irish gangsters.

Most of the people at the bar, according to Seamus, worked for one of the Irish gangs in town. Some sat at the bar alone, drinking away their sorrows or their sins, while others laughed it up at the tables, enjoying wings and fried mushrooms to soak up some of the booze. The younger gangsters drew my attention most because they were loud and boisterous, and they were never idle.

That night there was a broad-shouldered man wearing a leather jacket to perfection. He had thick black hair slicked back to highlight his pale skin and deep blue eyes. Despite the toothy white smile, this man was a bad boy through and through. It oozed from his pores, from the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth to the expert way he held the pool stick as he hustled a group of young wannabe thugs and the distracted smile he wore while he did it.

I watched him for more than an hour, transfixed by his beauty but in awe of the way he wore his confidence. Better than he wore that leather jacket. Deep down, I knew he was trouble, but I couldn’t look away. I wasn’t afraid of the kind of trouble he represented. I was probably looking for that exact brand of trouble.

I didn’t think he’d noticed me because I wasn’t dressed like the few women inside the bar. They all wore tight jeans or denim skirts, half-shirts and big hair. I wasn’t allowed to have big hair. My mother told me big hair was for whores. Well, I didn’t want to be a whore at all. So when those blue eyes settled on me, and he winked, my cheeks flushed. Warmth covered me, and I sucked in a deep breath, shy but still unable to look away.