Page 21 of Alfie: Part Two

He exhaled a chuckle and peered out over the putting range. “I’m truly not.”

“Yet, you’ve been pretty damn persistent today,” I said.

He inclined his head and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and set it in front of me, and I saw the picture. Several, actually. He had a small stack of pictures, some edges poking out, but the top one was unmistakable—and it kind of smacked me in the face too, because it was that very thing I needed to talk to him about.

Loss. When shit went wrong. If someone got hurt. Death.

“Your eldest son.” I studied the photo of a young boy, Patrick O’Shea. He’d been murdered a few years ago when the syndicate had been at war with a mafia organization in Italy.

Shan nodded and grabbed his wallet again, to look at the picture. “He was just eight when this was taken. Long before my life choices sent him down a path he wouldn’t survive.”

I hummed, thinking back on all the research my reporters had presented to me. “You were born into the syndicate too. Your father was a boss.”

Not to defend him or anything, but it was difficult to call them Shan’s life choices. Well, I supposed he could’ve walked away, and as I’d already established, that wasn’t easy.

“True on both accounts,” he confirmed. “Not that it matters. It goes without saying that I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life. Any parent would. Finnegan finally understands it—he has children of his own now. But Kellan… When I have one of my depressive periods, he’ll try to remind me that Patrick was a grown man who made his own choices and he wouldn’t have left the Sons for anything.”

I understood what he meant. It didn’t matter whatsoever how true that might be. Not to a parent who’d lost their child.

“But this is why I care, West.” He pocketed his wallet again. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, and I can do more good from within the syndicate than if I walked away.” He cleared his throat. “I can’t stop anyone from joining, but I can make damn sure they’re operating under the best conditions.”

I let out a breath as everything suddenly became clear.

“It’s why I actually like that Finn is so adamant about members going to church regularly.” He chuckled a little to himself. “And I’m an atheist. So is my daughter-in-law. Kellan has issues with organized religion too.”

“But it unites the syndicate,” I murmured.

He nodded again. “More than that, it offers a port in the storm. Something that humbles a man, reminds him that there’s more to life. Family, loyalty, love, music…”

He really was two sides of a coin. I guessed they all were, to a degree, including Alfie.

I sat forward and rested my forearms on the table. “So, on the one hand, you’re a family man. You’re married, you have grandchildren, you don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

He smirked a little, probably knowing what was next.

“And on the other, you’re the adviser to your son, the boss of a mafia organization,” I went on. “Allegedly, of course.”

That made him laugh. “Right. Yes.” He threw a cursory glance around us, always careful. “That’s where we run out of explanations. At the end of the day, we can only reconcile our split personalities because we’re sufficiently fucked in the head, mate.”

Fuck, that was blunt.

I sat back again and had absolutely nothing to say. Good timing for the server to stop by, though. I watched, in a daze, as she set our beers and the wooden snack platter on the table.

…we’re sufficiently fucked in the head, mate.

And so was Alfie. I knew that deep down. The edge to him wasn’t for show. The edge I’d found captivating from the day I’d laid eyes on him.

Clearly, I had to be sufficiently fucked in the head too, considering I still found that edge utterly addictive. Always had.

His crudeness, his lack of finesse, and how he fumbled like a bull in a china shop were all things I’d fallen so hard for. Hell, when Ellie was a baby, Alfie never let go of his phone. There was always something he wanted to Google for the future. Such as the time he’d literally looked up when babies became “housebroken.”

Not an age appropriate for potty training. No, no. Housebroken.

In retrospect, perhaps I should’ve considered Alfie’s gray areas where morals were concerned too. Back in the day, I’d found his behavior equal parts shocking and amusing at times—not to mention exhilarating and refreshing. The instant justice he sought when someone was a douchebag was just so…satisfying. He and another bartender had thrown out a drunk who’d been too rough with his girlfriend. Alfie hadn’t stopped at throwing the guy out, however. He’d scratched up the dude’s car.

I supposed the most damning evidence was his love for self-checkout grocery stores. When he bought organic fruit and vegetables but paid for the cheapest version available.

Definitely mobster material.

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