Page 4 of Broken Blood Ties

With O’Brien’s only a couple of blocks away, I get away with walking most of the time. Cormac says it’s risky, but I’m not one of those fancy mob bosses or mafia leaders requiring a driver and an entourage at my beck and call.

No.

We’re a simple organization founded on family, loyalty, and grit.

The snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk home. It’s not the fluffy stuff. It’s the mentally taxing squeaky crunch that makes your skin shiver. The gas lamp streetlights illuminate the sidewalks, and I cringe thinking about howsheenjoyed the quaint feel here.

Two more blocks of quiet, brisk walking, and a couple of sloshy snow puddles later, I key into the iron gate. Licon is on duty in the guard box. He nods when I enter before moving back to study the monitors in front of him.

There are sixty-five cameras on this property, and he scans them all every three minutes, like clockwork. The lads like to poke fun at me for how I’ll move around this city alone without protection, yet I keep my home a fortress. None of them know, though, what it’s like to have your heart walk around outside your body. I’d do anything to protect her. Aoife’s safety is all that matters.

When I looked at the property in Beacon Hill several years ago, renovation was the best option. This Asher Benjamin house rests in the heart of the neighborhood and is a Federal-style brownstone with triple-hung windows that scream more family man than Mob.

I took the nine months waiting on Aoife to renovate it and spared no expense. Gated and secure, the property is my safe place for her.

Passing the two-car detached garage and the empty planter boxes Allie typically keeps brimming with greenery during the warmer months, I key into the back with the ever-changing code and biometric scanner.

When the door finally opens, I plow into the back mudroom and run smack into a purple and pink tricycle.

Shite.

When I finally get the door closed, the lights flick on, and I grit my teeth. There, Allie stands in the doorway to the butler’s kitchen.

Separate from the main dining room off the front door, the butler’s kitchen was a massive undertaking, with its commercial-sized appliances and oversized white granite island. Most of Aoife’s and my meals take place seated here, as opposed to the formality of the dining area. If I use the room, it’s to entertain some of Boston’s wealthiest businessmen or other mafia leaders. And I don’t allow Aoife present for those. Period.

There will never be a time I expose her to the viciousness of this world. I don’t care what Cormac mutters behind my back about not having an heir—a son. That’s not the point. Let the blood ties end with me; let someone else’s line lead if it keeps her safe.

“Late night?” Allie says, floating over to the stove. She pulls out a saucepan to set on one of the ten burners. With two clicks, it lights and the flames roar to life. I stare at them, all to avoid looking at her.

I don’t owe her an explanation. She works for me. But I turn back toward the door just the same, contemplating a hasty exit. My gaze scans past the smooth stone retaining wall encasing most of the property around the house and lands back on the main security gate. Maybe Licon needs some company in the guard shack.

“Mr. O’Donnell?” Allie’s voice softens, and instead of yanking the door back open, I kick off both my shoes and bend down to grab them.

“These will need cleanin’.” I gesture to the bloodstained suede shoes in my right hand, and Allie’s face falls.

Her obvious disapproval comes through for only a second before she steels her face and nods once. “Yes, sir.”

I can’t help but internally groan and look aside. I’ve told her not to call me sir while it’s just the two of us speaking, but she does it anyway. Perhaps that’s a testament to her professionalism.

Allie was the most important hire I’ve ever made.

When the rug was snatched out from under me, I knew I needed help. It took five months of interviews and hiring numerous private investigators before finding the right person to entrust with the most important part of my life.

It wasn’t about the qualifications on paper—it was the feeling they gave me personally.

Allie had come to Boston after nannying a little boy for a wealthy family in Vermont. She was used to the security, the drivers, and the precautions. I wanted someone who could be warm, yet firm. Someone to guide Aoife in the ways I couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to. A person who would be patient and understanding of my schedule, and someone willing to work for a crime family. I had to trust she’d keep her nose out of mob business while making my daughter her number one priority.

Allie was just that.

At fifty-five and never married, she didn’t have any kids of her own to impact her job. She’s proven to be a tremendous housekeeper, nanny, and cook. Allie is everythingshecould’ve been and is all Aoife has ever known. The guys like to joke about Aoife not having a strong Irish accent, but it’s because Allie is the one who practically raises her. Between her and Aoife’s time at school, you wouldn’t know she’s mine from talking with her, and that knowledge painfully twists something in my chest.

“Do you want milk in your tea?”

Allie’s soft voice interrupts my thoughts. She stands over at the fridge, her plump figure scanning the shelves for the oat milk she already knows I prefer. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, is pulled tightly back into a low ponytail. A white robe is tied securely around her rounded waist, and I find myself appreciative that she made the effort, like most nights, to get up at 1:00 a.m. to make my needed tea. I can’t fall asleep without it.

“Aye,” I say.

She takes out the boxed milk and smiles at me. Wrinkles bunch in the corner of her mouth and it’s a smile that reaches her tawny eyes.

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