Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
From their perspective, I’m just another nice-looking Irishman, well-dressed in an expensive suit. They’ll forget me in ten seconds. In a city like New York, normalcy is the best mask.
As I head down the block toward my BMW, my phone starts to ring. I hesitate, but only a few people know this number. My father’s name is on the screen: Paddy Whelan.
“I hope you’re not calling to check up on me,” I say after picking it up.
“Oh, you know I wouldn’t.” Father sounds chipper as always. Paddy Whelan’s been the boss of the Whelan Clan for over thirty years now, and he’s one of the more powerful men in the city. Which is saying something. “I love all my boys equally, you know that, Cormac, but you’re the most reliable.”
“That’s good to hear. What’s going on?”
“Actually, it’s a family matter. I was hoping you’d come to dinner tonight.”
I pause at my car, head tilted to the side, trying to remember the last time he invited me over. “I’ll pass.”
“Not an option.” His voice becomes deadly cold. “It’s important.”
“Then tell me now and skip the dinner.”
“Your mother wants to see you, and Seamus has been worried you’re spiraling again. Come sit at the table, put on a happy face, and get them off my back.”
I grip the phone tightly. The metal flexes in my hand, and I wonder what it would feel like if the glass cracked and broke and cut my face to ribbons. It’d hurt, but that’s better than nothing.
“Any way I can get out of this?”
“None at all. Mom’s making shepherd’s pie.”
I get into my car. “That’s my favorite.”
“Yeah, she knows. Be here in an hour.”
“Fine.” I hang up and pause, staring at the steering wheel. I close my eyes and try to summon Jack’s last moments again. Maybe that’ll wake up the human in me. Show that there’s more than just a bleak killer hiding inside my rotten soul.
Doesn’t work.
“Fuck,” I say, leaning my head back. I had planned to drive straight to Philly like I always do after ghosting a target, but that’ll have to wait. I feel the brutal tug toward my saint, the addictive obsession burning in my chest. It’ll only get worse until I see her again. Until I make sure she’s still safe and I can take another piece of her. I satisfy myself briefly by putting on more Chapstick.
I picture her swiping it over her lovely berry lips. I picture those lips against mine, moans of pleasure and pain escaping her incredible tan throat as I wrap my palm around her aching column. I picture those lips wrapped brutally around my cock, sucking, slobbering, drooling, choking, begging for me to end her, to make her come, to fuck her into oblivion until there’s nothing left and not to stop even when she’s broken. My cock stiffens, and when I grip myself tightly, there’s nothing.
Just the dull sensation of my palm against meat.
“Fuck,” I say again and blow out a long breath.
I start the engine, already dreading this dinner and hating myself for feeling that way. Mom’s making my favorite. I should be happy. I should be proud to be the son of a powerful, loving family, with three good brothers and two solid parents.
Instead, all I feel is bitter nothing.
Mom hugs me tightly as I step into the Whelan family’s obscenely expensive penthouse overlooking Central Park. Three floors, ten bedrooms, just as many bathrooms, and millions in furnishings. It’s the height of New York luxury.
“I’m glad you came,” she says, slipping her arm through mine. “But you smell like a crack den.” Siobhan Whelan grins at me, head tilted and eyes sparkling. Nothing fazes my dear mother, not after living with our father and helping him run the business for all these years. She’s in her late fifties with auburn hair, green eyes, freckled skin, and the most tasteful surgical work imaginable. If I had a heart, I’d love her with all of it.
As it stands, she’s alright.
“I was on a job when Dad called.”
“And you couldn’t shower first?” Her nose wrinkles. “No, no, it’s okay, I know how you boys are.”
“Are the others here?”
“Everyone’s in the dining room.” She pauses and faces me. My mother touches my cheek, and for a moment, her normally light demeanor slips. Concern crosses her face. “How are you doing, Cormac?”
“I’m fine. Been busy.”
“Too busy to come visit?”
“You know how Dad can get.”
Her lips purse. “That man never met a problem he didn’t want to kill.”
“Which is why I’ve been busy.”
“You’re eating enough? Not drinking too much?” She pinches my arm lightly. “You look skinny.”
“I’m in perfect shape, Mother.”
“I don’t know. I want to see you have a double helping. I made it the way you like.”
A little piece of me thaws at that. Just a tiny flicker of feeling deep inside my chest. I give her a tight smile because I love my mother, I really do. As much as I’m capable.