Page 22 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater loaned to me by Fianna—seriously, what would I do without her—and head downstairs to the kitchen. Everyone is there.

Apart from Emmett.

“Come on in, Mary,” Sinead calls out to me from over her shoulder.

She and Erin are cooking breakfast —Sinead flipping rashers of bacon on a griddle while her sister-in-law stirs a huge tureenfilled with scrambled eggs. Granny Nina is still knitting. There’s a deck of cards on the table between the brothers. The twins are spooning porridge into their mouths, their asses half off their seats in their eagerness to get outside and explore.

No one is nursing a hangover.

I take a seat beside Fianna while Patrick fills a mug with steaming tea from a pot that’s wearing a Christmas-pudding tea cozy. “Where’s Emmett?” Jeez, when did I start sounding so needy?

“He had some business stuff to attend to. He’ll be back soon.” Patrick dunks a shortbread biscuit into his own gigantic mug of tea.

On Christmas Eve? So, he’s a hot,workaholicasshole.

“Fianna, why don’t you show Mary around after breakfast?” Sinead sets a plate down in front of me piled high with bacon, sausages, eggs, fried tomatoes, hash browns, and something else that I think might be black pudding. “Toast is coming.”

“On it,” Erin calls out.

I can’t help smiling. I know I’m an outsider, but they’ve all accepted me as if there was a Mary-shaped hole just waiting to be filled. The only person treating me like an outsider is the person who’s supposed to be in love with me.

After breakfast and two more mugs of tea, Fianna gives me a tour of the rest of the house. There’s a games room complete with a snooker table, pinball machine, air hockey table, and mini putting green. There’s a small cinema room with twelve plush, red velvet seats and a popcorn machine; a sauna room; an indoor pool; a gym; and an art studio.

Fianna smiles at me. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but Auntie Sinead and Uncle Patrick are the most down-to-earth people you’ll ever meet.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if Emmett is the same, but I manage to stop myself in time. I don’t know what happened between us last night or how Emmett will be with me when he gets back, and I don’t want to make things any more strained than they already are.

“Who uses the art studio?” It’s a bright, airy room overlooking the rear garden—forest—with several easels set up, and stacks of paintings stored under white sheets.

“Auntie Sinead paints; she says it’s therapeutic even if she never lets anyone see her work. Emmett used to paint before… Well, before he moved out permanently.”

Emmett used to paint?

“Let me show you something.” Fianna removes a sheet from an easel to reveal a portrait of a young man. “My brother, Oisin.” Her voice cracks. “Emmett painted this shortly before my brother died.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I can feel my heart ripping open with hers, and I tell myself that it’s okay to be heartbroken over someone I never knew. “What happened?”

Before she can reply, the door opens, and Emmett is standing there, staring at the portrait, with an expression I can’t read. Then he’s gone.

9

EMMETT

“Emmett?”

It’s Mary. I don’t stop and wait for her. I can’t face all the questions or the fake sympathy. Fianna should never have shown her the portrait; she knows how important it is to me, and until today, she was the only other person who has ever seen it.

Why? What was she thinking, showing Mary Oisin’s portrait when she knows nothing about her? I can answer my own goddamned question. She was thinking that Mary is part of our lives now, which means that she should know all there is to know about us, including what happened to Oisin.

“Emmett! Wait! Can I talk to you?”

She’s still fucking following me. I head through the mud room and out the back of the house, pulling a waxed coat off the hook as I go.

The door bangs open behind me. “Emmett! Can we please talk?”

“Go back inside, Mary!” I glance over my shoulder at her, framed by the mud room doorway, her mane of red hair all wild around her face.

Big mistake. I’m half tempted to turn around, go back, and tell her everything, but what’s the point in forming a connection when this will all be over in nine days’ time?

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