Even though I loved him, I knew my father wasn’t a good man. When I was growing up and he worked for Cillian Brennan, too often he came home bruised from fights. I dealt with surprise visits from the cops, and I brought him fresh clothes and cigarettes plenty of times when he was arrested. He was now employed by Troy, probably doing something just as illegal.
Pops was an alcoholic and a terrible Casanova with the ladies, but he was also the only person who loved me, who cared, who burnt himself on the stove trying to make chicken noodle soup for me—not the canned type, the real deal—when I caught pneumonia.
He deserved a little happiness, even if it was on my account.
“I love you, Birdie.” He let a single, fat tear roll down his wrinkle-mapped cheek as he pressed both his paws to my face.
I nodded, leaning my face into one of his palms. I stroked his forehead with the pads of my fingers. “Love you too, Pops.”
“Alrighty-o. Ready? Here we go.” The cheery driver pushed his door open and walked around the limo, opening the door for me.
I slid out carefully, noting that the front yard of the church was mostly empty, other than few elderly men scattered around, still caught up in business talk. Pops followed behind, but broke to the left where he spotted the small group of washed-up men.
“I need to catch a word with Benny. I’ll be back in a minute. Let the groom wait a little while. Be right back, little darlin’.” He winked and marched toward the herd of suited men at the corner of the cobblestone church.
I frowned, adjusting my dress. It was an uncharacteristically cold June day, but I knew better than to think goose bumps broke on my skin because of the chill. I eyed the opening in the high stone wall beside me and spotted a tiny garden with a bench. I wished I could hide there.
Then I heard him.
A man speaking softly to his son on the other side of the wall. His voice was gentle, but still throaty and gruff at the same time. I’m not sure why, but the sound of him seeped into my body like warm liquor on a stormy night.
“Of course, Abraham wasn’t a bad man, but he did what he thought he had to do, and that was to sacrifice his child to God.”
A trail of cold sweat dripped down my spine, and I leaned forward on one heeled foot toward the voices, straining my ears.
“But Daddy, dads love their children, right?”
“They do. More than anything else in the world, Sam.”
“And God loves his children?”
The man paused briefly. “Very much.”
“So how come God did what they did to Isaac?”
“Well, God wanted to test Abraham’s faith. Isaac was okay at the end of the day, remember, but God received proof that Abraham would put his adored son at the altar for him.”
“Do you think,” the little boy pondered, and by his voice, he couldn’t have been much older than five, “that God is just testing our Abraham? Maybe his daughter and Mr. Troy won’t get married today.”
The man chuckled to himself humorlessly, and I felt my heart sinking.
“No. That’s not a test, little champ. People want to marry each other. It’s not punishment.”
“Did you want to marry Mommy?” Sam asked.
Another silence filled the air before the man answered.
“Yes, I wanted to marry Mommy. Which reminds me, where is our mommy?”
Just then, the man’s strode through the opening in the wall and his hard body bumped into mine. I squeaked, almost falling flat on my ass, but managed to grab the wall with my hand that wasn’t clutching the bouquet.
“Shit, sorry,” he said.
I straightened, raising my head, and my eyes bugged out and my mouth dried up instantly. He was handsome. No, scratch handsome. He was a masterpiece in a sharp black suit, stealing my breath and momentarily shaking me free of my mental breakdown.
He was about six two, a little shorter than Brennan, and just like my husband-to-be, the way he filled his custom-made outfit told me he made it a point to work out at least four times a week. His chestnut-brown hair, wavy and thick, tousled and soft, stuck out in a few directions, despite his best effort to slick it back. His gray eyes studied me, narrow and intelligent, as he rubbed his strong jawline.
“You said a bad word!” His son practically bounced with happiness, waving a little blue truck in his hand. “You need to put a dollar in the jar when we get back home.”
But Sam’s dad seemed to have been sent to a parallel universe, judging by the way his gaze held mine. He looked surprised to see me, and I wondered how much he knew. I froze, trying to shake off the weird effect he had on me.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” I hurried to explain, smoothing my dress. His eyes dropped to where my hand stroked the fabric of my vintage Valen-something, and I immediately jerked it away, feeling self-conscious.
“I wasn’t accusing,” he answered serenely. That voice. That authority. He was one of Troy’s crew, I immediately knew.
“Of course you weren’t.” I blushed, turning away toward the church door. “It’s my wedding in there. So, you know, I better…” My dumb mouth kept spitting out stupidity. Yes, Sparrow. It is your wedding. Otherwise, you just showed up in the most inappropriate dress on the planet.
“It is. And I’m sorry,” he said gravely, his meaning clear.
More emotions stormed inside me, and my stomach flipped at his minor act of kindness.
He was married, with a son, I reminded myself. Oh, and also, I was about to get married in approximately five minutes to one of the most dangerous men in Boston. This made him firmly off limits. And me, a raging idiot.