The Mafia Boss

Ch. 37: Everything is my fault!

Conor McCarthy is every bit the reputation he beholds. Dominant. Assertive. Fucking scary. He loads the women and children onto the busses with strategic brilliance and a controlled flare. At one point, he comforts a small child and—in the very same breath—tells his men to stop dragging their balls and get on with it. He the kind of person you want on your team. The kind that gets shit done by any means necessary.

"Where's O'Brien?" he asks, slowly approaching.

His tall frame towers over me, broad shoulders blocking out the last of today's sun.

"Cleaning up," I offer.

When the busses arrived, I told him to take a shower.

"He injured?"

"No, he did witness a three-year-old get killed though."

Conor frowns. "Fuck—that's rough."

One of his men emerges, sunglasses on despite there being very little sun. "All set."

"Good," replies Conor. "We'll get going."

"Thanks," I offer.

He winks, seemingly incapable of offering a smile. "Tell O'Brien he still owes me a bottle of scotch."

I laugh. "I'll be sure to pass the message along."

He heads towards one of the busses, yelling a quick, "See ya around, Murphy!" behind his shoulder. I watch as all three busses pull away, silently wishing all the women and children on board the best of luck. Who knows what's in store for them, but I know without a doubt it's better than being held up in my brother's web of deceit.

"I'mma go nap," informs Fiona, truly exhausted.

Earlier—when I asked about her bloodied hands—she casually mentioned killing two of Shane's men. They'd passed comment on the fact women were fighting and insinuated something rather crude. Fiona is tough, but there's only so much one person can take.

"Eat something first," I order, kissing her briefly on the cheek.

"Yes, boss!"

I playfully bump her hip.

Nicole and Hunter take off with Freddie and Ana, leaving only Eva and I in the driveway. She retires shortly after the last of the busses leave, extinguishing all hope I had about talking to her about her father. I'm sad for my friend and even more so for the shell of the man her boyfriend is becoming. Reaper is currently preoccupied with a bottle of whiskey, hell bent on losing his mind for the next couple of hours. Part of me wants to join him. To drown my fucking sorrows. But—according to Nathan—he'll be home with Sofia and the girls soon and I cannot be drunk out of my mind when they arrive. I'm practically itching to get Maeve to safety. Frank—for the most part—may be all bark and no bite, but there's only so much he will take before he eventually does retaliate. So long as he keeps my daughter out of it, I'm sure I can handle it.

"Torin?"

I enter his bedroom and follow the sound of running water. His en-suite is full of steam, making it impossible to see anything beyond what is directly in front of me. Slowly, I strip out of my clothes and open the shower door, finding him with his back to me. His gaze is downcast as his arms press into the wall ahead, carrying the weight of the world.

"He was three-years-old, Imogen."

I wrap my arms around his waist and press my lips to his shoulder blade.

"He shouldn't be dead."

I respond by littering kisses across his back, needing him to know that I'm here for him. That—vocally—I have nothing to offer, but that doesn't mean I can't support him in other ways. His muscles tense as I slowly make my way along the curve of his spine, paying special attention to each tattoo. My favourite is a rose he has on his lower back. Roses always were my favourites. In fact, the more I look at his body, the more I realise it's a collage of our entire relationship. From the moment we met, until recently being reunited.