Page 3 of Broken Blood Ties

Cormac snorts out a laugh, but she levels him with a fiery wink as well. “Not sure why you’re laughing, Cormac. Pretty sure I saw your stash of little blue pills in the back locker room the other day.”

“I’ll show ye just how wrong ye are about that, Liz,” Cormac responds, and I don’t miss the darkening of his pupils as he takes in Lizzy’s well-fitting white button-down and jeans.

I used to have my female bartenders wear less clothing, but after Aoife. Well … I don’t prefer to know someone’s daughter is prancing around half naked. Lizzy is no exception either.

Two years ago, she showed up at my doorstep claiming to be the daughter of my father from an affair long ago. Twenty-two years ago, to be exact. All I knew was being an only child, and like any self-respecting mob man, I didn’t believe her. Threatened to kill her for the implication about my father.

When it came down to it, he was a loving husband, a fearless mob leader, and an engaging father who found time to take me fishing and teach me how to be a man. That perfect picture I’ve had since childhood shattered the moment she claimed our bloodline.

She doesn’t want money, though. Won’t let me set her up in a townhouse close to my brownstone or let me replace the beater minivan she’s still driving. I spent hours monitoring the surveillance we had on her, trying to figure out her motives for inserting herself into our family. Even convinced myself she was an undercover cop or something.

That was until a simple DNA test proved she was, in fact, my half-sister.

I remember staring at those results, confused and pissed. “Run it again,” I’d said. I didn’t want to trust it—not yet. Something had to be wrong. The man I’d respected more than anyone else in the world couldn’t have stepped out on my mother. She devoted her life to him. Propped him up so he could succeed, so he could lead. She gave him an heir, me, to mold and shape into the next generation of a made mob man. He wouldn’t throw that in her face.

When I got the second results back and they confirmed the first, I drove to the cemetery that day and spit on his grave for my mother resting beside him.

Lizzy wasn’t shocked one bit. Claimed she only wanted family and a place to work since her mother passed away in a car accident. Setting her up here at O’Brien’s was the best way to keep an eye on her and get to know her. So far, she’s kept this bar running and takes her loyalty seriously. She’d rather earn her way rather than ride the benefits of being an O’Donnell. Besides Aoife, she’s one of the best people I know, and I’m grateful for the role model she is for her. Despite her conception.

“Just ye wait, Lizzy. Ye’ll be thirty-eight before ye know it,” I say.

She scrunches her nose like the very thought of being my age someday downright offends her. “Whatever, grandpa. What can I get you two to drink?”

“The black stuff,” Cormac whips out.

“Macallan, on the rocks, please.”

Lizzy nods and scoots past Oliver, knocking off his rounded glasses. His gray hair is tied back in a ponytail, and I can’t help but think at least I’m not as old as him. The old man is sixty-two and has been a mob man for as long as I can remember.

Although I don’t feel it, a nagging worry about my age lingers in the back of my mind. I don’t have a son to pass this legacy down to, and Aoife … there’s no way I want this life for her, especially as a female.

Cormac would call me a big softy, and I probably am. I’ve heard it before.

Lizzy returns to slide both our drinks in front of us, and I raise my glass to her before she bounces off to keep the bar running with Oliver. Those two are like a well-oiled machine.

Cormac takes several audible gulps of his beer. Add in the rowdy noise from what appears to be a bachelor party, who’ve practically rearranged the bar with how they’ve moved all the tables together, and I’m out.

Fisting my glass, the confetti-like lacerations across my knuckles from ourgueststretch and pull in a dull ache. There’s a phone call I need to make so I turn, sauntering back down the hallway for the fiftieth time today.

“Oye. I thought ye were going home.” Cormac yells after me as I carry my drink to my office.

“I will. I’ll be gone in five minutes,” I yell back, still moving forward.

“Ye’re fill’a shite,” Cormac laughs. “Don’t go gettin’ in that ring.”

It wasn’t in my plans for the night, but as I reach my office and key in via the pin pad, I peer at the blood on my shoes.

What’s a little more?

* * *

Winter in Boston sucks. Winter in Beacon Hill, Boston is bleeding awful.

The cobblestone streets—more like hills—are charming in the other three seasons of the year, but throw in winter and they become death traps.

I used to live downtown, near the nightlife and some of my other businesses. But after Aoife, I needed a change.

Close to the waterfront, for easy access to my yacht, our Federal-style brownstone stands surrounded by the scenic views of Charles River Park.

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