Page 15 of Scarred Bride

She’s so damn vulnerable. Yet I saw the strength I used to know in her when we argued. Neither of us are completely changed, yet we’re not the same either.

But dammit, we still fit together.

And that’s what has me hesitating to form any other plan besides staying here in this cabin with her.

Needing to take some action, I walk to my bag that’s still sitting by the front door. Quietly, I carry it to the small kitchen table and unzip it. When in doubt, take stock of your arsenal.

I’ve seen my father and his men do this more times than I can count. I remember standing next to the big table in our dining room, watching my old man, who they call Con—short for Connolly but also a play on his skillset—lay out all the weapons and stack boxes of ammo next to them.

Before we could count well, my brothers and I argued over how many guns were on that table.

I pull out a Sig, a Glock and a Beretta. The trifecta of any Connolly. I lay them side by side on the table and reach for my sidearm I’m never far from. Before pulling my jeans down enough to fuck, I’d slipped the weapon out of my jeans and picked it back up the minute I was done.

I haven’t stayed alive this long without being cautious. Or at least suspicious.

After stacking the ammo just like dear old pops does, I stand back to eye the only thing I truly put my trust in—weapons.

But I’ve got another idea. Since the cabin doesn’t have the security cameras my condo does, I need an extra security measure.

Casting another look at my sleeping charge, I grab a sweatshirt from my duffel, slip on my jacket and head outside to take a look around. Snow is still falling, but it’s slowed down. The few flakes swirling in the air never seem to land as I walk the perimeter of the cabin.

All windows and doors are closed and locked. No chance of someone forcing entry unless they kick in one of the doors or smash out a window. Both events would have me on my feet and my gun in hand before any intruder could get inside.

But I want to know if someone is lurking around out herebeforethey decide to come in.

Walking around this place that’s so far away from the concrete jungle of my hometown feeds a lot of memories into my brain. Fishing trips when we were young with our old man. He isn’t always fatherly. Hell, I’d say he’s pretty far from it. But when he took the time to devote to us boys, he did it in style.

The day he told us to get in the car—we were going fishing—my brothers and I couldn’t believe our ears. When he drove up to this place and knocked on the door, we didn’t know what was to come. Then we watched him pull out a wad of cash and peel off thousands of dollars to buy the cabin from the owner outright, and we understood, maybe for the first time ever, what power really comes with having money.

From that day forward, we got in line with all the guys who hustled for “Con.” Linc learned to be one hell of a pickpocket and would come home with bags filled with everything from Rolex watches to credit cards. Patrick got pretty good at scamming people. That summer, he racked up a fat piggy bank.

And I got straight into sales. Nobody suspects a ten-year-old of selling top quality pharmaceuticals on the streets. I stashed shoebox after shoebox stuffed with cash under my bed.

If any of the money had been made legally, we might have thought to do something smart with it, like invest. But that’s not how money works in a mafia family. You make dough with an illegal activity. Eventually, the money runs out and you go back and hustle some more. Now my little pharmaceutical trade has grown to include several states and cross international borders.

Our Rossi cousins in Chicago might have the market cornered on weapons, but the Connollys move more prescription drugs than anyone else in this part of the country.

I prowl the property, looking for signs of any trespassers. I already know the locals keep off our land—they’d never dream of crossing a Connolly.

As I reach the back yard with a small deck, I drift down memory lane to the parties my brothers and I threw here in our early twenties. More like drunken benders.

Once in a while one of us would bring a girl with us too, but women never last long in our world. We fuck them and send them home.

The last girl who made it through these doors was a stunning redhead that my brothers fought over for a whole damn week until they finally wound up sharing her.

What can I say? We might share identical DNA, but they got the freak factor that I didn’t. The last thing I want to do is stick my dick in some used-up ho.

I prowl around the front of the cabin, listening for sounds coming from inside, but I hear nothing. Serenity is still asleep. No wonder after all the shit she’s endured today.

PlusI gave hertwo orgasms.

We Connollys work hard, but we play hard too. I haven’t yet decided if Serenity is work or play for me.

Next to the grill I find exactly what I wanted. There’s a huge bag of crumpled aluminum beer cans sitting on the ground.

I head to the shed for a spool of string. It takes me a while, but I loop a bunch of cans onto the string through the pop-up tabs and lay the line out a few feet from the house.

If a person hits the line, all the cans will jangle together, creating enough of an alarm that we’ll hear the racket inside.

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