Page 6 of My Irish Mafia King

“What are we discussing, exactly?”

“Your father’s death.”

My blood turns cold. “The car crash? The cops ruled it an accident. Icy roads. Dad had overworked himself and hadn’t gotten enough sleep.”

“Like I said, these are just whispers, but it seems somebody has let something slip. I wouldn’t give credence to it if it was coming from elsewhere. But Owen’s men are rarely wrong. Apparently, the Don may have had something to do with it.”

My blood was cold before. Now, it’s ice. I stare across the function room at Frank struggling to sit upright in his chair, his date bringing another glass to his lips because he can’t do it himself. Owen, loyal as usual, sits beside him, occasionally taking a sip of his glass, answering for my uncle when he can’t.

“That’s it? That’s all they’ve said? He might have had something to do with it? It’s not very specific.”

“I can’t get to the bottom of it without arousing suspicion,” Colm says. “You’ll always come first, Killian, but I have to think about my family. It’d be one thing if you were still actively involved as the prince. That’d offer me some protection, but?—”

“I get it,” I reply. “You need to take care of yourself. Have you heard this, too?” I turn to Ronan.

He nods. “Like Colm said, just whispers.”

“Do you believe them?”

Ronan shrugs. “Owen’s men are rarely wrong, but everyone makes mistakes.”

I run my hand through my hair, hating that I’m being pulled into this. But this is my father they’re talking about. I can’t ignore it. “Owen has served for decades, never once stepping out of line, loyal… to a fault, some men might say. Others would’ve tried to take the power for themselves.”

“He prefers sticking to the shadows,” Colm says with a shrug. “He gets all the reward but far less risk. It’s clever.”

“Leave this with me, and thank you,” I tell them sincerely.

Frank rises unsteadily from his seat and approaches me. “My handsome nephew!” he bellows, wrapping me in a bear hug and planting a slobbery kiss on my cheek. “Don’t tell me you’re all speaking that god-awfulIrish.”

“We were speaking Gaelic, yes, Uncle,” I reply, wiping my cheek. “But only to keep up the practice. Not to offend you, of course. I know you never learned, and it makes you feel left out.”

For a moment, tension slices through the interaction. Colm and Ronan stiffen beside me. Comments like these could easily provoke Uncle Frank’s rage… but not with me, not with the mafia prince, even if I’ve never wanted the crown.

He laughs and claps me on the arm. “My nephew’s a funny one, isn’t he?”

“Yes, boss,” Ronan says.

“The funniest,” Colm agrees.

Three

LUCY

Isit in my chair, Clover in my lap. My Chihuahua is sleepier than usual this evening, processing some strong medication for a doggy cold. Anna sits opposite, cross-legged, always keen to improve her yoga with a pose even when she’s not in a session. We’ve been friends since high school, the Yin to each other’s Yang.

“He doesn’t knowIknow he called me beautiful,” I whisper-yell.

“But he looks at you like he wants you,” she replies.

“If he wanted me, he would’ve made a move by now. It’s been six months.”

Anna shakes her head. “Maybe he thinks you’d find it weird.”

“Weird, how?”

“He knew you when you were a kid? He’s in his mid-thirties. You’re twenty-three.”

“That doesn’t make it weird. He didn’tknowme. We only met once. And ten years is hardly the end of the world.”

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