Page 67 of Mad Love

“I couldn’t care less what you were to him. He did not steal me from you and my . . . my mother.”

“You’re right. He would never dare take you away from me. Otherwise, I would’ve slit his throat from ear to ear. No, sweetheart, he graciously offered to take care of you. You see, men with more firepower and manpower had set me in their sights, and no way in hell will I let harm come to my children.”

Children. Plural.

“How many of us are there? Did you give them up too? Did our mothers have a say?”

“Three, sweetheart. Yes, I did. Cassandra and Julia didn’t have a say. They were murdered.”

Two women. Three offspring.

“Was I a twin?”

“No.”

Then who was in the coffin with me?

“Are you positive?”

“One hundred percent. I was in the delivery room when your mother, Cassandra, had you.”

“Where are my siblings?”

“One you know well. My other child is dead.”

“W–Was her name Maya?”

Faster than I can blink, he grasps my jaw and forces me to look him in the eye with a forceful yank that makes my head spin.

“How do you know that?”

“My kidnapper. He buried me alive with her corpse.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” He lets go of my jaw. “I’m gonna skin that bastard alive.”

“You know who he is?” I rub at the ache he’s left behind. His hold was like a vise.

“No. If I did, he’d be six feet under the ground, rotting like the POS he is.” He runs his palms on his slacks over and over.

I follow the movements, mesmerized. Cillian touched my skin with his bare hand, and I wasn’t revulsed. Why not? Is it because I didn’t have time to anticipate or react to his temper?

“When did he tell you this?”

“A week ago.”

“Fuck me.” Cillian jams his fingers in his hair.

This is not good. It’s so not good when a mobster is scared shitless.

His next words are for the guy in the front passenger seat. He’s been listening intently. Same with the driver. I’ve caught him checking me out in the rearview mirror.

“Send a message to Six. I need him and his old lady’s help.”

“Got it, sir. And the rest of the family?”

“No need involving them yet or else we risk them burning the city to the ground searching for this motherfucker.” He addresses me next. “Excuse my language, sweetheart.”

What am I supposed to say to that? Thanks for being considerate of my feelings, Dad, but touch me again and I’ll sucker punch you in the throat? God, where is this violent side of me coming from? I’m not a violent person. What I am, though, is pissed.

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