Page 19 of Beautiful Sinners

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hendrix mumbles, rubbing soothing circles on my back that don’t lessen my self-hate one bit.

“I think she’s in trouble. We need to find her.”

Regardless of what she’s done, she’s still my mother in every way that matters. I love her.

A masculine throat clears from ten feet away, and it’s then I notice a massive, bearded, Jolly Green Giant staring at me.

“If yer wonderin’ ‘bout Alana, she’s not in danger.”

I expel a pent-up breath I didn’t know I was holding, hoping that what he said is the truth but not trusting it.

“How do you know?”

In answer, he just smiles with straight, white teeth that gleam against the fire red of his short-cropped beard.

“It’s good to see you again, lassie.”

Not in the mood for small talk, my reply comes out clipped and harsh. “I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

His lips purse in a pout-slash-fake-grimace that I don’t find amusing at all, and he claps a hand over his heart in mock affront.

“Me ego cannae take such a hard blow. It’s a tender one.”

He’s joking while I’m free-falling, and that makes me livid. There is nothing humorous about any of this.

With a lethal step forward, my hands curl into tight claws, ready to take on every single person unlucky enough to breathe the same air as me. Cillian’s men react.

“No!” Hendrix shouts, grabbing the back of my shirt to keep me stationary, and one of those guns switches from me to him.

“Put your fecking guns away,eejits,” the man says, and the two men comply like well-trained dogs. The red-bearded giant strokes his chin with his forefinger. “You are so much like yer da.”

“What?”

“Yer da. James. Ye looked more like yer ma when yer were wee, but now yer look just yer da.” He moves his hand across his chest in the symbol of the holy cross, much like a Catholic priest does, then casts his eyes up to the ceiling.

“What?” I ask on repeat because I think he broke my brain.

Evan motions for the armed men to leave, and I wonder what role he plays in this crazy-as-hell situation. He’s still a mystery I’ve yet to solve, but one thing is crystal clear—he must have known who I was the entire time.

Removing my wary attention from Evan, I ask the giant, “You knew my father?”

“Aye.”

Con and Hendrix, who have been quiet during the entire exchange, come to either side of me, and I instinctively grab both of their hands, needing them to anchor me to this reality because it feels like every part of me is wanting to scatter into the wind like dandelion fluff.

“How?”

“James was me kin. Fourth cousin. Ma’s side of the family.”

My jaw drops open. He’s family? Papa’s cousin? He’s my relative? To a normal person, this would be great news, but it only makes me angry.

“Then where the fuck have you been my whole life?”

As far as I recall, we had no one. No grandparents. No aunts or uncles. There were no framed pictures or photo albums that I can recollect ever looking at. No one ever visited. Nothing. My family consisted of my parents and my guys.

That toothy grin appears again, and Constantine yanks on my hand when I lunge forward with a snarl.

At my threatening display, the man’s mirth-filled expression falls away. “Careful,cailín. I’m not yer enemy… unless you make me one.”

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