Page 11 of His Dark Vendetta

“It’s the garbage, dear,” she said. “We had corned beef and cabbage a few nights ago for supper. Maureen O’Sullivan brought it over. You know Maureen—from St. Mary’s? I haven’t taken it out yet.”

“Why not?” I snapped, horrified that my parents were living with rotting garbage.

“My hip’s been acting up.” She looked down and lifted her crocheting. “I didn’t want to fall,” she said, barely above a whisper. Mam had gotten her hip replaced after a tumble on an icy patch on the back porch two winters ago. The surgery had been successful, but she hadn’t been the same since.

“Why didn’t Rory take it out last night?”

“Rory didn’t come over last night. He was busy.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled.

“Watch yer tongue,” Da barked from his chair, but his eyes never left the television. “’Tis an Irish-Catholic house. We dinna use the Lard’s name in vain.”

As dementia claimed his mind, history reclaimed Da’s accent. He’d lost the thick Irish brogue after decades of living in Boston, but over the past year it had returned with a vengeance, as though his mind was rewinding to a simpler time.

“Sorry, Da,” I grumbled and went back into the kitchen.

My parents’ declining health had dragged me back to Southie two years ago. Dragged me back kicking and screaming all the way across the Atlantic to where my family—the Shaughnessys—ruled over Irish organized crime. However much I resented coming back, the overflowing garbage and a sink filled with dirty dishes were proof enough that I’d made the right decision. It had been theonlydecision.

I propped my hands on my hips, closed my eyes, and let my head fall back. I could’ve strangled Rory. Our parents needed us, and I couldn’t trust my own brother to make sure they weren’t living with rotting garbage.

Mam kept the heat on, because the cold made her hip ache, but it was cooking the trash and making the smell worse. I turned off the heat and threw open the windows. She could use one of her eight million crocheted blankets if she was cold. I gathered up the bag, took it out back, and got to work on the dishes.

Rory and I had an arrangement. He had one night, and I had the rest. I didn’t give a flying fuck about his bullshit excuses. I couldn’t do this alone. A new job would likely take me out of Boston. What then? There weren’t many high-end hotels and resorts in the area, and I refused to sacrifice a career I’d busted my ass to build because Rory couldn’t get his shit together.

Not only did Mam refuse to move closer to family or into an assisted living facility, she also refused hired help. My only recourse? Threats. I had to threaten Rory with Ciarán just to take care of his own parents. But to be completely fair, I didn’t trust Ciarán any more than I trusted any other man. The whole situation was a flaming dumpster fire.

I set the last of the dishes in the drying rack, and the back door swung open. A man who could have been my twin walked into the kitchen.

“Speak of the devil,” I grumbled and gave my cousin an irritated glare before opening the fridge.

Ciarán Shaughnessy was six feet and two inches of pure Celtic genetics. He had more gray in his blond hair than I did, but you wouldn’t know it since he buzzed his head. An explosion of freckles covered his arms, but only a sprinkle was visible across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. Just like me. His eyes were the same pale blue as mine, but his laugh lines etched deeper troughs in his face. Made sense given the rough life he led while I was in Ireland. Those differences aside, the resemblance really was uncanny.

“What did I do?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Do you smell that?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Guess who didn’t show up yesterday?” I pulled salad ingredients out of the fridge and set them on the counter.

“How is that my fault?”

“Rory works for you. I’m assuming his excuse—once he decides to grace us with his presence—will be that you had him driving somewhere or doing something more important than making sure his parents are safe, fed, and not living with rotting garbage.”

I slammed the salad dressing on the counter. My cheeks were hot, and their color no doubt matched the pitch of my voice. The Southie had come out too. The polished accent I worked so hard to curate always fell away in heated moments. Especially when those moments involved my family.

“Everything okay in there?” Mam called in her little voice.

“We’re fine, Aunt Maggie,” Ciarán called back. “Just getting supper ready.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked, my words clipped as I prepped my parents’ late meal. A meal I couldn’t even eat. After working an eleven-hour day.

Ciarán leaned against the counter and shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets. The old leather jacket he’d had since high school fell open revealing a Henley covered in grease. He must have come from Da’s shop. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said.

I chopped the half of a cucumber I’d found in the fridge. “About what?”

“About your boss.”

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