“When I was eight, me and my mammy moved from Ireland with Sean Fitzpatrick and his family. My pa was Sean’s brother.”
Everyone in Boston knows who Sean Fitzpatrick is. He’s the head of the Irish Mafia here and was sitting across the aisle from me at Lauren’s wedding. There was something about his ice-blue eyes that were wicked unnerving. Wait. He’s Connor’suncle. I’m not just in any mobster’s house. This is… a lot to process.
“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” I murmur, unsure what else I’m supposed to say to his random tidbit of information.
Clearly, his father was killed in some mafiaincidentin Ireland before they all came here. I didn’t know Sean Fitzpatrick wasn’t originally from Boston. It makes sense he came from Ireland, but the head of the Bianchi Crime Family, Gianni Manchetti, is from Boston. That’s common knowledge.
I know more about the Italian mafia than the Irish one. I’m from Dot and the Italian mafia control Dot. The Italians have an alliance with the Irish. Well, they did. I’m not sure how that’s all going after everything to do with Lauren and Paddy Flynn.
“Thank ye, lass,” Connor mutters, the Irish tingeing his tone in a way that has my stomach clenching. Yeah, my stomach. I’ll keep telling myself that.
My stomach is churning with all this new knowledge. I push my food around my plate until Connor places his fork on his cleared plate.
Throwing him an absent smile, I stand and clear away our plates, bringing over the cinnamon scrolls and another beer for Connor.
His eyes light up, eagerly reaching for a pastry as I take my seat again.
“I’ve been waiting for this since I walked in that door.”
My lips press together. It’s nice having someone who shows their appreciation of my baking. Hamish always took it for granted. He never thanked me and never told me if it was nice.
When Connor bites into the scroll, his eyes flutter closed as he lets out a moan of appreciation, shoving Hamish as far as possible from my mind.
It’s definitely not mystomachclenching at the sight and sound.
“Feck, these are good, lass,” he breathes between bites. My stomach is churning again, but for a completely different reason as I smile proudly, reaching for a scroll myself.
CONNOR
My hand fists my dick, a groan ripping from my throat as I jack myself off, the hot water cascading over my back. I shouldn’t have played footsies with the lass, but her breathing hitched after I did it the first time, which left me rock fucking hard.
The second time, she swallowed the sound, but I could see her pupils dilate, which had the blood singing in my veins. It’s been a week, and Paddy was partially right today. Andie’s baking isn’t the only reason I’m working over my punching bag daily.
The sound of her breath hitching and how her pupils dilated and her cheeks pinked floats through my mind as another groan rumbles out, and I come, breathing heavily.
The water washes away the evidence as I lift my head to soak in the spray. Shutting off the shower, I step out, toweling myself dry and moving into my bedroom to select a navy suit. I have to head back to Oracle to watch over the tables.
My fingers deftly tie my tie as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Seamus will be home with Tiggy tonight. They’ll probably be curled up on the sofa watching a movie. Paddy will be at home with Lauren. He watches the lass read. He’s a weird bastard, but it seems to make him happy.
I’ve never minded working the tables most nights, but a small part of me wonders what Andie does when I’m not here. Does she watch movies? Listen to music? Read books?
Shaking my head, I turn away from the mirror, shrugging into my jacket, and head downstairs into the kitchen. I shouldn’t be wondering what the lass does with her time. It’s none of my business. Apart from her cooking and cleaning, nothing about the lass is my business, as much as I’m intrigued by her story.
When I move through the kitchen to leave, Andie has already cleaned up and gone upstairs. I can hear her moving around above me in her sitting room. It was my mammy’s sitting room, and she decorated it.
I’ll have to let Andie know she can buy some different furniture and put it on her checking account card if she wants. That level is her home, and I want her to be able to dress it up the way she likes.
Anthony, the other computer whiz, who does the night shift, is taking over from Michael when I stick my head in for a rundown.
“The usual, boss,” Michael says as he collects his coat. Anthony slides into his chair, tapping on the keyboard, bringing up a box of random symbols. Code means nothing to me.
Nodding, I leave the cottage. Michael turns to give Anthony some more specific information as I slide into my SUV and head to West Boston.
I spot the unmarked Crown Vic out the front of the club, the two vice cops sitting in it, like always. Nosy bastards.
Flipping them off, I jog up the front steps and inside, straight upstairs to oversee the tables being set. We’re expecting a large crowd tonight.
The Russians contacted me to say they have some guests from the motherland who want a night of drinking and gambling. With that in mind, we’ve arranged for extra security on the club’s front and back doors, two men for the bottom of the stairs, and another two for the door up here.