Page 5 of Forbidden Romeo

It’s my fault.

I have to take a moment to steady my breathing. There are too many witnesses, and I’ll be damned if any of them see me cry.

In better circumstances, I might even be impressed by the turnout. All the Duffy factions are represented—all the families that slowly broke away and formed their own gangs after we emigrated. Two hundred years later, their loyalty to the oldest Irish family in New York remains. A legacy Graham was going to continue proudly.

Now… I glance at Padraic. The man hasn’t spoken to me since the day I brought Graham’s body home. He’s a brute at the best of times, but today he looks borderline disgusted by the resting place of his only true-born son.

Of course, Padraic Duffy would see this primarily as an inconvenience.

The priest finally drones to a halt, and Padraic steps forward to throw a handful of dirt on top of Graham’s coffin. It hits the wood with a delicate patter. Despite the gentle sound, it seems to echo across the cemetery—finally breaking the silence of the crowds.

I watch as Padraic takes one last look at his son before he turns away, disappearing into the midst of his men. Huh. Perhaps he’s not as interested in the politics of funerals as I thought.

“Jack Duffy.”

I grit my teeth as I turn away to see Lars approaching me with a smirk slapped across his face.

I take a moment to school my expression into something more neutral.“O’Neil.”

“My condolences,” the mobster says without an ounce of feeling.

I simply nod and turn away.

Today isn’t about networking, and God knows I don’t need to be cozying up with Lars fucking O’Neil.

“It’s a pity,” Lars continues despite my apparent lack of interest. “The Duffys are left without a true heir.”

“That’s not your concern.”

“I’m not the only one wondering if Padraic’s bastard will get a nice little promotion out of all this,” he replies with a knowing look in his eye.

I bite my tongue. It’s not the first time someone’s thrown the word “bastard” around to make me uncomfortable, and it won’t be the last. “I suggest you leave the gossiping to your wife, O’Neil.”

“The hell you know about my wife?”

“Only what she told me in bed last night,” I quip back. He really walked into that one.

Lars’ face colors. “Now’s not the time to make an enemy out of me.”

I take a step forward lazily, squaring up to the man who barely reaches my chin and letting him size me up properly. “Are you seriously threatening me at my brother’s funeral? Get out of my fucking sight.”

Lars falters, torn between saving face and backing down. He barely manages to get a gulp in before an elegant hand clamps his shoulder and pushes him away.

“You wouldn’t be causing trouble now, would you, Jack?”

Kate brushes past without a second thought—the only person who’s ever been able to sneak up on me. Her mourning clothes are immaculate, refined, and probably thousands of dollars more expensive than they needed to be.

But Graham’s cousin was as close to him as the rest of us. There’s a tightness to her expression that I think only someone who knows her as well as me would notice. A strain on her otherwise perfect composure that means something is brewing under the surface. Something that, right now, makes her very fucking dangerous.

Luckily, she’s staring right at Lars O’Neil.

“Lot of nerve you’ve got, O’Neil, showing your face here.” Kate’s blonde hair swishes over her shoulder as she tilts her head at him curiously. Like a predator examining a meal.

Lars, ever the hot-blooded male, misses the cues to get the hell out of Dodge and smiles at her. “What’s wrong with my face, like?”

“The O’Neils were Maguires only a generation ago; that’s enough to get you killed these days,” Kate replies, absently stroking a fingertip over her clawlike nails.

“We split from the Maguires thirty years ago.”

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