Page 8 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

Running my hand down my face, I stare up at the ceiling.

I get that we shouldn’t have secrets if we want this relationship to work, but take-two of me and him is still brand new, and I’m already having doubts.

Of course, I love him. I will always love him. But I know now that loving someone doesn’t mean jack shit. It doesn’t mean you’ll be together forever.

Look at me and Ace.

Look at me and Irish.

From my experience, happily-ever-afters seldom happen in this life, Disney fucking princess or not.

And even if they do, they’re short-lived. At least for me.

Eoin is possessive. He’s also protective.

I don’t like being wrapped in cotton wool. I realize if I told him my sniping secret, he’d be less likely to behave that way because he’d then know that I’m more than capable of looking after myself. But that’s not guaranteed. It could have the opposite effect.

I stare at my handset, sighing loudly as my finger hovers over the email from Cody Fletcher.

Why haven’t I opened it?

Fletch was from another life, that’s why. A life that was filled with nineteen-year-old students, back-to-back classes, and wall-to-wall study.

A life that included Irish.

Closing the door on the chapter that contained him was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. More so because, unlike Ace, he’s still alive.

I’m not sure I want to reopen it until I have no choice, and that will be if and when he ever decides to return to New York.

Not now.

Not when I’m still trying to heal from something I won’t ever be able to heal from.

CHAPTERTHREE

PADRAIG

The Ruocco Home, Agrigento, Sicily

Since moving here,I’ve had an entire suite made available for my own personal use. It means I can keep to myself, which is something I choose to do more often than not.

It’s clear that no expense was spared when fitting out this luxurious neutral-colored space, but then money will be no object. Much like my own, this family will use every available opportunity to flaunt their vast wealth.

I stare out the window of the room I use as my office. The Ruoccos own everything for as far as the eye can see and beyond, or so I’m told.

Olive groves. Vineyards. Orchards. Properties.

They’re a big name around these parts. Also, a feared name, much like the O’Connells are in New York.

I’m sure the family does extremely well for themselves off the back of their legitimate business enterprises. They have no real need to get involved in any illegal wrongdoings to top up their already amassed fortune.

But the same could be said for the Dusters.

Then again, you can never have enough money or power, or at least that’s what my da and my eldest brother think. Doing wrong is also what we do right.

In this life, we’re each born with the mobster equivalent of neonatal abstinence syndrome. It’s easier to embrace our addictive birthright rather than try to outrun the hellish withdrawal symptoms we’d be faced with if we didn’t.

I open the window and inhale air that carries hints of both sweet and salty, of fruit trees laced with the scent of the ocean.

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