Page 36 of Sinful Sacrifice

Cernach is her fucking uncle?

“My sweet Pippa.”

When he reaches out to hug her, she backs away. He’s unfazed by her reaction.

His hardened eyes center on her for a moment before traveling to me. “You two know each other?”

“Uh …” Pippa stammers.

“Yes,” I answer, my tone laced with a touch of impatience as I state the obvious.

I hold back my curiosity about this newly learned connection with Boston’s infamous crime lord. I’m pissed at myself for not doing better research and missing that. But I act casual, concealing that this is new news.

“Interesting.” He taps his chubby finger along the edge of his mouth.

One of his men steps behind him. I recognize his face but can’t put a name to it. We rarely engage in business dealings with the Irish.

“Excuse us,” I tell them. “We have somewhere to be.”

When I place my touch on Pippa’s lower back, the stiffness in her body eases. Nodding at both men, I quickly guide her away. I’ll question her about this in private.

And I have plenty of goddamn questions.

I might work for the Lombardi family, but my trust in them isn’t unconditional. When it comes to complete trust, only Julian and Antonio make the cut. So did my father before his death.

Trust is sacred to me.

It must be earned.

Proven over time.

I take Pippa home after the funeral before attending the repast. As soon as we reach her apartment building, she unbuckles her seat belt and rushes inside. I want to chase her, but I have to be at the reception. Julian needs me. Saying goodbye to our family is tearing pieces of our hearts out.

Pippa being with me at the funeral made a difference. When she’s around, some of my loneliness fades away. She brings me a sense of calm. She’s the person I didn’t realize I needed during moments of grief.

It’s past midnight when I silently drive back to her apartment. I park my SUV, buzz myself in, and take the stairs two at a time. As I gently rap on the door, I can’t help but think about the inconvenience of not having a key. If she won’t provide me with one, I’ll pay her landlord to make me a copy.

After the third knock, she answers, as if expecting me. She’s dressed in black pajamas with small coffee cups printed on them. Her hair is thrown back in a messy bun, strands flying in every direction, and her eyes look tired.

“You never told me your relation to Cernach,” I say, walking inside.

She scrambles back a few steps so we don’t run into each other, and I catch a whiff of her sweet body wash as I pass.

She shuts the door behind us. “I didn’t know it was necessary.”

I turn to face her. “He’s the head of the Boston Irish mob.”

“Who I have no relationship with.”

“I assume the relation is on your mother’s side?”

No fucking way is Paul affiliated with Cernach. He’d kill him before allowing a family member to bring shame with unpaid debt and gambling addictions.

She nods. “He’s my mother’s brother.”

Ah. I’ve heard stories of Cernach’s sister. Cernach ousted her for running off to Vegas and marrying some loser. The loser being Paul. He already had her contracted to marry another man, and she broke that agreement. Cernach cut her off from the family and all allowances. If one family takes arranged marriage seriously, it’s the Koglins.

“Today is the first time I’ve seen him in years.” She crosses her arms.

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