Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
The intrigue was evident in West’s eyes, and he walked even closer until he was right in front of me. Then he held out two fingers, and I cocked a brow. Fucking word?
I handed him the smoke.
“So who is it?” he asked.
“John Murray.”
Shock flitted across his expression, and he took a quick pull from the smoke. Oh. Um, that wasn’t his first cigarette since we’d quit four years ago.
“You smoke,” I said accusingly. I couldn’t help it. He’d been all over that shit, wanting us to quit together.
“So do you. Move on. Your biological father is the former head of the Sons of Munster. Do you hear how fucking crazy that is? I’ve seen him on the news.”
Of course. They weren’t as well-known as the Italian-American mafia from back in the day, but sure, people knew of them. Thankfully, the younger generation was aiming for a lower profile. Some believed the mafia was dead.
They were wrong.
“Yeah, well.” I cleared my throat again, and I accepted the smoke back. “Like I said, I have a dad, and I have no interest in getting to know John. Which I’m sure is mutual. He paid for my mom to move to another hood when I was born. She just refused to go to another church.” I shrugged a little. “My point is, I did my best to block all that out. I have two parents, end of story. And when I moved to LA and met you, I didn’t think twice when I told you about my folks. Later on, like, sure, I assumed it would come up at some point that I was technically adopted by my dad, but…”
“Wait a second.” West suddenly looked like he was trying to solve a math problem, and he frowned, turned skeptical, and then disbelief took over. “If John Murray is your father—that cousin of yours… Jesus Christ, Alfie, that was Finnegan O’Shea on your fucking couch?”
I winced.
We have a winner.
“Can we get back to the fact that I didn’t tell you about my roots?” I asked.
Evidently not. West started pacing the driveway and acting like…like…like I’d had a mobster on my couch. “Finnegan O’Shea is your cousin,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “I can’t believe it. You’re family to mobsters. Your cousin is the actual boss of the Sons of Munster.”
I sighed and went to put the smoke out in my to-go cup. “Alleged.”
West snorted. “Right. Good one.” All of a sudden, he pivoted and stared at me with wide eyes. “You work for him, Alfie. The security company—you mentioned that it technically belonged to him but that he was rarely there. You explained how these people need to run legit businesses.”
“Well, they do.” I knitted my brows together.
“I know they do, but you work for him!” He threw out his arms, frustration and accusation bursting out. “I dare you to deny it. Your house—that fucking SUV of yours—don’t tell me you bought those with the paycheck of a security consultant.” He came over to me, one part concerned, one part angry. It was a strange combination. “Either they have something on you, or you joined voluntarily. Which is it? Are they blackmailing you? I’ll call the police—better yet, I’ll call my father. He still has—”
“Hey, easy. Christ—calm down.” I needed to do the same. I took a deep breath, and my head was fucked. We were all over the place now. He was realizing shit, I wanted to come clean about the lies of my heritage, we had the kids upstairs getting ready, and I was forgetting all the bullshit I’d delivered over the years.
So maybe I had lied more than once or twice.
Fuck.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, and in that moment, I supposed it was a good thing we were divorced. ’Cause he couldn’t divorce me twice.
Man, I was a douchebag. The lowest of the low.
“You chose this,” West stated quietly.
I looked up at him and let my silence speak. I wasn’t going to confirm anything, and these days, I didn’t have to.
He let out a chuckle and shook his head. “So what, my ex-husband is a mobster? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m trying to apologize for being a shitty husband,” I replied. “I just wanted to give you closure in case you needed that. And…in any event, I thought you deserved to know that I’m aware I screwed this up. I changed, and I lied to you. You have every right to hate me.”
His dark amusement faded. “How long have you been involved? Have you killed anyone—”
“What the fuck! What the fuck, West! What do you think the mafia does these days?” I couldn’t believe it! This wasn’t a goddamn Hollywood movie. We didn’t go around shooting people left and right. It was a last resort, one I’d never fucking be part of. Kellan said it best: Why rob the little guy when the government’s already done that? The big money was in corporate America and the government itself. “Do you think so little of me that you legit ask if I’m a murderer?”