Page 28 of Iron Blade

I hated thinking about Sinead. This room reminded me of the girl who had followed me around like an annoying sister. When I thought of her, I thought of my mother. In many ways, my mother’s ghost still haunted this room, including the rose garden that could be seen from the wall-to-ceiling glass.

Malinda came, plates in hand. She served me and my father first, before returning to the kitchen for Aoibheann’s meal.

My father dug into his plate right away, as I waited. Maybe that was a small, misplaced bit of politeness, waiting until everyone was served before I ate, but it had been instilled in me by my mother. As the years wore on, and the people I loved started slipping from my grasp, these rituals became sacred.

Flanagan averted his eyes from the women. But Brock Tanner… the way he looked at Aoibheann unsettled me. He was practically licking his lips as he eyed her up. It was bizarre.

“Malinda,” I called, before she could disappear out of the butler door.

She halted in her steps, presenting me with a wide smile, before she sighed my name. “Yes, Eoghan?”

While I gave the order to Malinda, I did it as a reminder to Brock so that he knew he was being addressed.

“Next time, serve Aoibheann before me. She is the lady of the house, after all.”

I stared right at him, waiting for him to notice he had been addressed.

He caught my eye, and flinched, then looked away.

Satisfied, I finally turned my eyes to Malinda. She looked chagrined, as she glanced at my father, who chewed his food with abandon, then Aoibheann.

My stepmother looked at me with such gratitude that it made me sick. I did not want to be kind to my mother’s poor replacement - the woman shipped over by the Boston Irish before my mother was even cold.

Malinda waited, like a statue at the door, looking around.

“That’ll be all.” I dismissed her with a shake of my hand, picking up the whiskey in front of me, before placing my plate in front of my stepmother.

Malinda disappeared from the room, and Aoibheann picked up her fork.

“Thank you,” she whispered so softly that I barely heard it. It was as if she was a ventriloquist, throwing her voice for only me to hear.

“Tell me about the Italians.” My father had an old, breathy voice that was still deep, despite his growing frailty. The man’s health was beginning to decline, but he stubbornly clung to life. I couldn’t believe his habit of evening cigars hadn’t forced him to kick the bucket yet.

“We sunk their last shipments, which means that Eugenio will have to scramble to pay his debts to the bratva,” I said with the slightest sadistic glee. “The Vasilievs are growing tired of their alliance with the Durantes, as Eugenio continues to fall short of his shipments and promises.”

He was falling short because I was sinking his shipments into the ocean or lighting them on fire. But that went without saying.

“And the Russians? What’s their status?”

“The bratva heir, Anton Vasiliev, is at odds with his half siblings. Jericho has come back to protest any alliance built on a marriage with his little sister and Eugenio’s brothers.”

“On what grounds?”

“As far as my little birds have said, he’s protesting the age difference.” I brought the whiskey to my lips and took a sip. I reluctantly admired Jericho Vasiliev for standing up for his sister. “She’s in her mid-twenties, and Eugenio’s brother, Dante, is twice her age.”

“What does that matter?” My father rolled his eyes.

I didn’t miss the way Aoibheann looked askance, her hand coming up her arm, hugging herself.

Aye, my father had married a woman young enough to be his child. Of course he would not see the problem with such a gap.

“What good is the cow if she can’t birth a calf?” I heard a grumble low in his chest as he looked at Aoibheann with complete and utter derision. “Worthless women.”

Aoibheann had been barren and given him no children. No more Green heirs to secure our family’s place of power.

“As I understood, my mother was barely able to have me. Would you say she was worthless?” Why, oh why, was I sticking up for the witch? I didn’t like her. Had my resentment of my father brought me to this?

I felt the glass hit my face before I saw it. Before it even registered that something had happened.

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