Page 7 of Mob Princess

I have a couple Nova Scotian friends. Maybe they could teach me some Gaelic. What the fuck, Nikki? Teach you Gaelic? Like you’re going to see him again. Like he’s going to care.

Me

What’s your favorite pastime?

And even though I know this is going nowhere, I’m still asking questions. Fucking glutton for punishment. Masochist.

Sean

Sailing

Me

Sailboats? Catamarans? Yachts?

Sean

Sailboats mostly. I can sail catamarans. And yes, I’ve spent time on yachts.

Of course he has. There is no doubting the man is rich as sin.

Sean

You?

Me

TBH I love sailing too. Catamarans mostly but I know my way around sailboats. And yes, I’ve been on yachts before too.

I try not to be too flashy with my clothes and jewelry. But if he has an eye for custom-tailored suits, I’m certain he could tell my dress wasn’t off the rack at Nordstrom or Macy’s. It’s obvious we both have wealth. I came to mine later in life—all things relative since I’m twenty-six. I don’t know if Sean comes from it or earned it. But he’s not poor either.

Sean

I have a call coming in and I’m about to go through the Fort McHenry Tunnel. I’m going to lose you and I have to call my brother back. I’m glad we met, cailín.

Me

Me too nounours. Or was it loup?

Sean

Both Bye

Me

Bye

At least he didn’t just leave the conversation dangling. But I feel hollow now. I stare at my phone. He responded to me and went along with my banter. I doubt it’ll be anything more than this. And that blows.

I wish I were going home to Montreal, but I’m not. My home’s now in Boston, and I hate it. Not Boston, per se. It’s the reason I’m in Boston. Guilt. Plain and simple manipulated and manufactured guilt. My life had enough fucked-up parts to it growing up with a grandfather who heads the Irish mob in Quebec. But having a father who was a shitty leader of the Boston Irish only compounded every complication I faced as a teenager before my father bothered to be a father.

It's not like my paternity was a state secret. I’ve known my entire life that Rowan O’Malley was my dad. He acknowledged me, and his name is on my birth certificate. But I don’t have his last name. I’m the product of a one-night stand. Considering that’s how I came into the world, you’d think I’d never have one. But I’ve had a few. And I would have gladly included Sean on that limited list.

My dad got a woman pregnant when they were sixteen. My half-brother Ewan is twenty-seven. My dad’s parents and hers forced them to stay together, but the moment he turned eighteen, he dumped her. He thought he could do whatever he wanted because he was an adult. His dad was so pissed he sent him to meet my uncle to arrange some shipment exchange. While he was in Montreal, he hooked up with my mom, who was twenty. Apparently, he hadn’t learned his lesson about being careful. Turns out, my mom was on antibiotics to get over a sinus infection. She didn’t know they decreased her birth control pills’ efficacy. Along I came nine months later.

My dad was not only back together with Ewan’s mom, but they were also married. He knew full well he had another child on the way. His wife knew he’d impregnated another woman. My mom knew he wound up married to someone else. I know he loved my stepmother and always had. But he was an arrogant and self-centered man at eighteen and not any better at forty-five when the O’Rourkes killed him a few months ago.

He’d dumped my stepmom to spite his father and hers. He slept with my mom because he could. He’d planned to get back together with my stepmom all along. That was a convenient detail he didn’t mention to my mom. She never would have looked in his direction if she’d known.

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