Page 14 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

Weariness settles over my shoulders like a mantle. Since Oisin, my cousin, died, I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to turn a blind eye to the dark side of the family business. I wouldn’t be where I am without it, but I’ve been thinking about legitimizing the American branch. In time. When I’m ready to settle down.

“I’ll tell her soon.”

6

MARY

They talk over each other, laughing and joking in their beautiful gentle accents, comfortable with each other because that’s what families do. They are all capable of following at least three conversations at once. Emmett’s mom Sinead ushers the boys back outside with the unlucky toad, while discussing the best month for a wedding with her sisters-in-law and asking Fianna to loan me some warm clothes for when we go out and collect the Christmas tree.

She fills a huge earthenware mug with tea and plies me with homemade gingerbread biscuits.

“She’ll need more than that.” Granny Mary, Emmett’s paternal grandmother, knocks back a crystal tumbler of liquid that looks remarkably like whiskey. “They’ve traveled halfway around the world to get here. The least ye can do is feed the poor girl.”

“I’m fine.” I honestly can’t eat with the thump-thump of my beating heart, but no one is listening to me.

“They’re feeders.” Fianna leans in and whispers in my ear. “Don’t even try to fight it. If you don’t eat my mom’sgingerbread, she’ll think you’re on a strange Hollywood-style diet, and the next thing you know they’ll be serving you extra roast tatties with your dinner to fatten you up.”

I like Fianna. There’s something serene about her, the way she doesn’t get drawn into the banter and the laughter. She’s the wallflower observing the loud and vibrant blooms in the center of the flowerbed. We could be friends, I think, in different circumstances.

I bite off the gingerbread man’s head—it’s soft on the inside and crispy on the outside, with the perfect amount of ginger, not like the brittle biscuits served in the generic cafés during the holidays.

“I knew it!” Emmett’s dad, Patrick, high-fives his brothers. “She went for the head first.”

They all look at me as laughter fills the massive kitchen.

“They’re talking about the biscuit,” Fianna says. “They probably had a wager on what part you’d eat first.”

Emmett hasn’t joined in the card game. He went outside with the twins to release the captured toad back into the wild, and since he came back, he has been leaning against the counter with a huge mug of coffee in his hands.

He’s holding back. At first, I assumed that it was because of me—he’s worried that I’ll say something I shouldn’t—but the more I watch him, the more I’m starting to think that it goes way deeper than our fake relationship. This is a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie, but he doesn’t know what role he should be playing. Has he spent so much time in New York that he has forgotten where he belongs?

No wonder his mom is so excited to plan our wedding. She wants her baby home. For good.

I wonder how she’ll react when she finds out the truth?

I feel a stab of guilt somewhere deep in my chest and try to soothe it away with a surreptitious mouthful of gingerbread. This isn’t my fault.Heproposed tometo cover up the murder on the roof when all I was trying to do was mind my own business.

But the guilt goes way deeper too. I’ve never experienced this kind of Christmas before, but as a connoisseur of cheesy movies, I recognize a close knit family when I see one. It’s the kind of Christmas I’ve always dreamed of. A huge welcoming home, homemade fruitcake, beautifully wrapped gifts around a real tree that smells of pine. All we’re missing is snow, but I’m not ruling it out.

The only problem is, I don’t belong here.

“Come on.” Fianna stands and takes my hand in hers. “I’ll find you a warm coat and some boots. This is my favorite part of Christmas.”

In the mud room—they have an actual mud room in this house complete with a selection of heavy waterproof coats, wellington boots, and thick fisherman’s socks—Fianna chooses a bottle-green coat and matching boots for me.

“How did you meet Emmett?” she asks while I try on the boots for size and add an extra pair of socks.

Here we go. Storytime.

“At a party.” It’s mostly true.

“Did Uncle Emmett choose the ring?”

Ouch. This one is going to hurt. “Yes. I had no idea that he was going to propose.”

Fianna watches me coolly, and I already hate lying to her. “It’s just, I thought he would’ve given you Granny Mary’s engagement ring. Everyone knows the ring is going to be handed down to the eldest grandchild.”

My pulse is racing a marathon. Once you start lying, you get caught in a whole sticky web of them, and it’s only a matter of time before you start forgetting what you said to begin with. Why couldn’t he have just pretended I was a quick fuck on the roof instead of his fiancée? Would’ve saved us both a whole load of hassle.

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