Page 5 of Broken Blood Ties

I move to pull out one of the backless barstools around the island, and Allie slides the mug of hot chamomile and valerian root tea in front of me. Then she moves to clean up the stove and wash the single pot in the sink.

Allie is meticulous about her cleaning, and I often wonder how she can get everything done and still have plenty of time for Aoife.

“She missed you at dinner,” Allie says, not facing me. She gazes out the window over the white porcelain sink as her hands work to lather the pan.

Guilt gnaws at me, and despite the scalding beverage, I sip it anyway, grimacing.

“I left a folder of some papers you need to sign before she goes back to school tomorrow. They’re on your desk in the office.”

“Okay.” I blow on my tea and take another drink. Allie turns the water off and places a hand on her hip.

“Maybe you’ll be here for dinner tomorrow?”

“Aye. Maybe.”

Her lips form a tight line, and she gives me a clipped nod before saying good night and walking through the glass French doors that lead into the rest of the house.

It’s the same every night. I miss dinner due to work or the bars, and when I come home Allie asks if I’ll make dinner work the next night. It’s the same answer each time. Maybe.

Truth is, I want to be here. But I don’t know how.

Pushing back, I take my empty cup to the sink and wash it out. Allie already does enough for me. Leaving dirty dishes in the sink for her to wake up to doesn’t seem fair. After drying it, I place the mug back in the glass cabinet and stride out the doors into the long main hallway. My office and the formal dining room are both on the left, and I bypass each room, heading for the wooden staircase on the opposite side.

Rows of Irish family photos hang on the wall as I ascend the steps. It’s like a mini history lesson of the Irish Mob. My great-grand da, grand da, and da are in all the photos with their wives and children. The O’Donnell family has been the leaders of the Mob for generations.

However, at the top of the stairs, the lineage of males breaks. In its place is a photo of me holding Aoife. She’s but a wee thing—six months at most. You can hardly tell she’s a girl, except for the tiny pink bow clipped into the few strands of hair she had at that age.

It’s only us, though. No wife. No siblings. Just Aoife and me.

I want more for her, and selfishly for myself. But it took months and months to vet a nanny. How do I find someone I can trust to come into this family? A mob family. How do I explain that to someone?

I allow myself to linger at the old photo before continuing on. The second floor of the house isn’t anything riveting. To the left is my bedroom and bathroom. To the right is the rest of the level—two guest rooms, Aoife’s room, and her bathroom. Allie has her own suite downstairs.

The old cherry wood flooring squeaks as I move right. Despite the high security, each night I methodically check each guest room. They’re identical copies. Queen beds with fresh white linens and a deep forest green armchair in the corner by the windows overlooking the front shrubs and narrow street.

I sling open the closets, ruffle the cream curtains, and glance under the bed by plastering myself on the rough hand-woven rug with a disgusting floral pattern. Aoife fell in love with them at a fundraiser auction. I bought one for each room.

Satisfied with the empty occupancy of both rooms, I shuffle to Aoife’s room. Hand on the knob, I hover there, chest tight. My shoulders slump, and my chin dips to my chest as I will myself to go in.

Get your shite together.

Gently, I turn the knob, pushing the door open. It’s dark aside from the rabbit star light on her nightstand that looks like a cartoon bunny filled with helium. A twin bed sits in the middle of the wall farthest from the door, her petite frame lying scrunched into a ball. Steady breathing moves the pink floral quilt up and down.

Her favorite books fill the floating bookshelves lining the wall close to the floor. The pink puff beanbag sitting in the corner has a recent imprint of her body and several books are tossed on the floor next to it.

Aoife’s room is simple, too simple for a four-year-old if you ask me, but Allie claims the neutral tones promote a calming environment after a stimulating day at school, and I never want to be the one to add more stress to her life.

Stepping in, I pick up the six books and place them back on the shelves before moving to stare at the biggest shake-up my life has ever had.

Her rounded face has blonde hair tangled around it, and her wide cerulean eyes hide from the world. I get sick to my stomach thinking I prefer it this way. They’re the same as her mother’s. As well as her hair and natural charisma, with an effortless ability to draw others in with magnetic energy.

Her mother was a one-night stand turned five weeks of pure bliss. She was the blonde bombshell who wandered into my bar late one evening with her friends for a girls’ night out. She was young and full of life in her third year at Harvard. Her parents were some high-rolling business folk from Connecticut, and she was addicting. Flirtatious and coming on strong, she ended up in my bed that night and almost every night after that. On the weekends when she wasn’t studying for exams, I took her out on the yacht. I wined and dined her.

It was more than the young, hot blonde that Cormac berated me about. She was high on life and offered joy after some of the more depressing days in my position. For the first time in my life, I felt optimistic about spending my life with someone. I was infatuated.

Then, she found out she was pregnant.

Over five weeks into our trysts, she chucked a pregnancy test at me from the bathroom door, blaming me for her ruined life. In tears, she ran down the steps of my old downtown condo, telling me she had to take care of it. She couldn’t be burdened with a child during her last year of law school before she moved on to medical school.

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