Page 1 of The Hermit

Chapter 1

GRACE

Dominik Varga; 38. Grace Devlin; 32.

“My shoes are killing me,” I mutter to Ciara, my younger sister, before taking a sip of the semi-sweet wine in my glass.

I glance over the backyard that’s decorated with a ridiculous amount of pink balloons and flowers.

I hate pink.

Dad forced us to attend Kathleen’s birthday party, even though it’s her sweet sixteenth and we have nothing in common with the girl. Her father is one of Dad’s business associates, so we have no choice but to stand here and look like we’re enjoying ourselves.

“Remind me why we’re here again.” Ciara lets out a sigh, then steals my glass from my hand and drinks the last of the wine.

My eyes flick to the old brick mansion before scanning over the groups of guests.

“Because of Dad,” I mutter while letting out a sigh of my own. “We have to mingle with his business associates’ wives and daughters.”

Ciara hooks her arm through mine and tugs me toward the nearest server so she can hand him the empty glass.

Dressed in black and white uniforms, the servers are scattered between the guests, carrying trays loaded with drinks and snacks.

The teenagers have separated themselves from their mothers, leaving Ciara and me to stand awkwardly to the side.

“We’ve been here twenty minutes.” Ciara gives me a hopeful look. “That’s long enough, right?”

I shake my head. “We have to stay for an hour at the very least. Dad will notice if we’re home too soon.”

“In that case, I’m helping myself to another glass of wine,” she mutters. She signals for a server to come closer and says, “Can we have two glasses of semi-sweet wine, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl nods before walking off to get our order.

I notice Aisling McCool smiling in our direction and quickly curve my lips up into a smile so she doesn’t notice I’m not happy being here.

“Mom,” Kathleen calls out to her mother just as she begins to move toward us, drawing Mrs. McCool’s attention to the teenagers.

Thank God.

Honestly, I know very little about the McCools or any of Dad’s associates, for that matter. Even though I’ve grown up in the mafia, Dad has never allowed us to learn about the business.

Before Mom passed away from bronchitis, she used to attend all the social events. Since her death, Ciara and I have attended an event here and there.

“Are you enjoying the party?” a woman suddenly asks.

I glance over my shoulder, and it takes a moment before I’m able to recall the older woman’s name.

Turning toward her, I force a polite smile to my face as I reply, “Yes. It’s so good to see you again, Mrs. Beamish. I hope you’ve been well?”

She glances between Ciara and me, and without batting an eyelash, she flat-out asks, “How are you doing after losing your husband?”

His hand grips the back of my neck, and I’m shoved down to the floor.

I suck in a deep breath just as Ciara places a hand on my back, gently rubbing up and down.

My voice is strained as I answer, “I’m doing well.” The smile around my lips is tight, and I’m grateful for my sister’s support as I add, “Thanks for asking.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Beamish murmurs. “It must be terrible being a widow so soon after getting married.” Her gaze flicks to Ciara. “When will you get married, dear?”

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