Shaking these confusing thoughts from my head, I decide to spend most of the day in the kitchen with Oona. I help where I can, though mostly that consists of staying out of the way as she barks orders at the staff.
Apparently, Ronan’s father refused to let any of the staff off for Christmas after all. But she does let it slip to me that she’s been approved for two weeks after New Year’s.
“First time in three years I’m takin’ off,” she boasts in her weighty accent. “All thanks to you and Ronan, love. Oi, you—yeah, you! What in God’s name do you think you’re doin’ with that turkey? Have you never dressed one in your life? For Christ’s sake, will I have to do everything meself in this house?”
Oona disappears from my side to go hassle one of the cooks on the other side of the kitchen. He profusely apologizes, nodding his head fervently and promising to do better.
I’m not sure whether to be a little amused by Oona’s brash and no-nonsense approach or sympathetic to the stuttering cook trying to appease her.
I don’t get a chance to make up my mind before a scream pierces the air. It’s so sudden, loud, and shrill it makes me jump and spin around, realizing the sound is coming from the kitchen doorway.
It’s Cara, Ronan’s sister-in-law and his brother’s wife, standing horror-stricken with her phone limp in her hand and tears misting her eyes.
Both Oona and I are startled enough it takes us another second to start toward her. But before we can ever ask what’s wrong, she’s weeping in hysterics and telling us.
“It can’t be true,” she babbles. “It can’t be true.”
“Love, what is it? What can’t be true?” Oona asks.
“L-Lochlan,” she cries out. “The warden just called. He’s been stabbed to death. A prison brawl. My husband is dead!”
NINETEEN
Ronan
The whiskey burns slidingdown my throat, the heat more than welcomed.
I’m on my fourth glass, staring at the far wall of my office. It’s late in the evening, and I’m busy turning things over and over in my head.
Lochlan’s dead.
My only brother, stabbed to death in some massive prison brawl. Forty-eight hours have passed and it still doesn’t feel real.
A knock at the door pulls me out of the spiral.
“Yeah?”
Eddie pokes his head in, his expression an uncertain mix of knitted brows and a half-frown. He’s still got a baby face, exuding eager-to-please energy that reminds me he’s only twenty years old and greener than fresh-cut grass.
But he’s dedicated to the clan—his father just died and already he’s thrown himself back into work for the family.
“Uncle Ronan, you got a minute?”
“Make it fast.”
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Just reporting back from the meet up. You know, the one you sent me and Cian on? We talked to the Ferreras like you asked.”
I take another sip of whiskey. “And?”
“They, uh, swear they had nothing to do with the promenade hit or the prison brawl. Said they got no beef with us and no reason to start one.”
“Who’d you speak with?”
“Their capo. The one who runs their Brooklyn operation.”
My right brow cocks higher than the left. “You gonna tell me his name or do I have to guess?”
“Uh… shit. It was… Vincenzo? No wait. Vittorio?” he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Definitely something with a V.”