Page 41 of Starting Over

How did she even find it?

It was a tiny little town with less than two thousand people. In this whole fucking country, she left and found the one small town they lived in.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

If my father taught me anything, it was to never believe in coincidences.

“Duane did this.”

I looked at my friend. I loved him, but his fucking paranoia was a constant headache. Tyran was the type of man who thought danger lurked in every corner. And around every corner was someone waiting to take me out.

I was smart enough to know he wasn’t completely far off, but Jesus Christ, he was exhausting.

“Duane was a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t let Duncan hear you say that,” he murmured.

“There is no way Duane knew where they were. They moved thirty-eight fucking years ago. My father didn’t even know where they went. Hell, I didn’t fucking know until they died.”

Standing from my seat, I walked across the room to the bar. Pouring myself a glass of Midleton whiskey, I quickly emptied the glass before pouring a second.

When I sat back down, Tyran raised an eyebrow. A silent question as to why I didn’t offer him any.

“Buy your own fucking whiskey.”

Instead, he stood, walked over, and poured himself a glass, before sitting back down and waiting for an order.

He looked ridiculous sitting on my couch. His six-foot eight-inch frame dwarfed the brown leather sofa, leaving barely enough room for another person, much less the two that should’ve been able to fit beside him.

I questioned why I allowed my sister Caitlin to talk me into letting her decorate my office.

Because she’s your sister and you love her.

I did love her. Caitlin was one of the few people in my life that made me smile. Her and my niece, Maddie. When I found Caitlin’s fucking husband, well my sister might not like me much after what I had planned for him.

Growing up with a sister that lived in a different home was interesting. We didn’t spend a lot of time together, but thankfully our mothers got along well. Despite that, I was closer to her then I was to the brother I lived with for twelve years.

And then there was the brother I’d never met.

And let’s not forget, the brother who betrayed us.

You see, people called me the Irish Bastard.

But it didn’t offend me, because that’s exactly what I was—a bastard.

My father was a dirty son of a bitch and spread his seed anywhere he could.

This meant I had a half-sister and a half-brother.

Those were the ones I knew about.

My mom met and married a decent man, a mechanic. She wanted someone who made an honest living. I always wondered why she’d gotten involved with the head of the Irish Mob, but I never asked.

Knowing who my father was, I was afraid to learn the truth.

After getting married, my mother had another son. Then, when I was seventeen, she moved away.

She didn’t ask me to go.

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