Page 12 of If You Go
I drain the rest of my wine, slamming the bottle down with a hollow clunk. My hands shake. My breath won’t even out. Before I have set it down for the long, Riche is handing me his, I didn’teven notice he had walked over. He squeezes my arm and kisses the top of my head before going to the couch and sitting with Alisha.
My mom’s voice cuts through, soft but firm. “Ye’ll stay here. Don’t leave. Not until we say.”
I nod, because what else can I do?
Ding.
The elevator. Darragh and Finley move instantly, weapons drawn, aimed at the door.
A woman screams. A man swears. “Fuck, what the hell, guys?”
“Sorry, sir. Sorry, miss,” Darragh mutters in his thick brogue.
Then—“SISSY!” My sister’s voice pierces through. Selene barrels into me, knocking me back until my shins touch the couch and I fall back with her on top of me. Alisha piles on top, hugging us both, silent tears cutting down her cheeks. She’s angry at me, yes—but she’s terrified for me, too. Always has been. Always will be.
Samuel enters behind them, broad-shouldered, steady. “Sorry we’re late. Selene had to pack.” He smirks when she rolls her eyes.
Then he looks at me. Just one word: “Surry.”
The sound of it breaks me. I squeeze out of the group hug and stumble into his arms and cry harder than I have in years, my brother whispering low Gaelic words into my ear, so soft I doubt anyone else hears. Words only meant for me.
Mom joins, wrapping us both, Selene too, then Dad. Hazel and Richie pile in before he cracks a filthy joke about threesomes at the club that makes us laugh through tears. Everyone is used to his quips by now.
Wine flows again when we break apart. Thankfully, we keep a well-stocked liquor cabinet. Selene hands out bottles like communion. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Until Richie asks, “Okay, so now what? I’ll go stir-crazy sittin’ here.”
My dad clears his throat. “We’ll cover bills. Hazel, lass, ye’ll not worry about the shop. My men’ll see t’ it. We’ll take three days t’ gather intel. Then we’ll act. Gavin’s made moves. Word is he’s taken over the Russians. We’ll find out if it makes him stronger—or easier t’ burn.”
Talking about the Irish mafia and the Russian mafia brings me back to the time I had told everyone in the sacred bathroom about my dad being the head of the Irish. It was a hard conversation, but something they needed to know. To know that I’m not normal.
The memory hits me like cold water.
The bathroom. Our sanctuary, our confessional. Steam still clung to the mirrors that night, curling around the edges as if the walls themselves were listening. We’d been sitting in our usual spots—Alisha perched on the counter, Hazel cross-legged on the floor with her makeup scattered around her, Richie fussing over his brows in the mirror. All of it the way it is every morning, basically. I’d been leaning against the sink, silent, chewing the inside of my cheek until I finally blurted it out.
“My family isn’t… normal,” my voice shaking in a way that wasn’t like me. Their chatter died instantly. Alisha leans forward, brows knitting, Richie frozen mid-pluck, Hazel sets her mascara wand down so slowly you can barely hear the tiny clink against the tile. I tell them about my father. About the O’Briens. About what Mafia meant in real life—not the polished movies, not the glamor, but the weight, the blood, the expectations. My words tangle, heavy and raw, until the silence in the room was louder than anything I’d ever heard.
Alisha already knew. Her dad works for my dad, so the truth had lived in her house long before I ever admitted it in mine. She kept quiet while I spoke, calm and steady, never once interrupting. When my words faltered, she smoothed them over for me, filling in the blanks I couldn’t manage to say out loud. She added how she was connected, filling Richie and Hazel in on her life as well. Her quiet nods, her unshaken presence, told the others this wasn’t just some wild confession—it was real. And because she stayed grounded, I did too.
They didn’t run. They didn’t look at me like a monster. Hazel’s lip trembled, Richie muttered, “Well, that explains a lot.” But I could see it in their eyes—that shift. They finally understood why I always carried shadows on my back. Why danger followed me like smoke. And for the first time, I let them see me for what I was: the daughter of a king. A kingdom of crime.
I’m brought back to the present by the clap of my brothers hands. Samuel speaks. “What about the Russians? How do you know?”
Papa looks at him gravely. “I sent ye an email. Ye can watch it now if ye like. But be warned, son—it’s graphic. Disturbing. Not all o’ ye will stomach it. An’ I wouldn’t blame ye if ye didn’t.”
Safe here. Safe here. I keep chanting it in my head like a prayer.
CHAPTER FOUR
“TELL ME MOREabout what the connection to Surry is,” Juniper presses, arms crossed, her tone sharp enough to cut through the wreckage as we step deeper into what used to be Tattoos On The Bay.
Joshua drifts closer to her side, a silent wall ready to grab and run if shit hits the fan. He’s coiled tight, like he’s waiting for the first crack of thunder. My gut agrees. This isn’t a shop break-in anymore. It’s war walking in the front door.
I’ve heard the name Surry before—Hazel mentioned her, and I’d seen one picture at Sam’s house years back. Pretty girl. Sister. Protected. That was all I knew. I never bothered asking more, because Sam O’Brien’s family was Sam’s business. Now, standing here in the ruins of June’s shop, her name’s the only one on anyone’s lips.
The Irishman clears his throat. Broad shoulders, a suit that actually fits, and a look in his eye that says he’s used to walking into blood and walking back out of it.
“Aye, Ms. Hall. First off, de name’s Kegan. I work fer Mr. O’Brien. Dere was a threat made agains’ Miss Surry dis mornin’ as well. We believe de incidents are connected.” This guy, Kellan or whatever, is confirming what Joshua heard from Sam.
