Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 126485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Soon, the first churchgoers arrived, crossing themselves and nodding a welcome in my direction. As expected, there was a ridiculously high number of broad-shouldered, scarred men with tattoos peeking out under their nice dress shirts. They scanned me from head to toe as they passed, and their expressions weren’t fitting for church. Either they were blatantly hostile—strangers obviously weren’t welcome—or leering. I ignored their attention and pretended to be focused on the bible in my lap —until something in the atmosphere changed. It was difficult to explain but I simply had to look.
Gulliver still welcomed every visitor, but his demeanor had changed—he became submissive. Up until this point, he’d invited everyone in, but now the man towering over him made my uncle appear like a guest in his own church, as if Gulliver had to ask for permission to be here at all.
I recognized the man from photos in the newspaper.
Lorcan Devaney talked to Gulliver with a benevolent smile that didn’t reach his cautious, dark eyes. He was a tall, broad man who looked imposing in his charcoal suit, but would have generated the same respect if he’d been dressed in a tracksuit. His complexion was sun-kissed, matching his dark brown hair. The stubble on his chin and cheeks only added to his rugged charm. Some people thought Irish blood meant red hair and freckles, but Irish came in many shapes and forms, and many dark haired folks had Celtic blood running through them.
If I recalled the stories making the rounds at Merchant’s Arch correctly, he had just turned thirty recently and had a huge birthday bash in a pub in the Bronx.
His gaze scanned the pews, and I quickly ducked my head, focusing on the bible. I could only hope his attention passed by me. If he thought I was interested in him, he’d only get suspicious. But if Imogen had really looked for sponsors in the wrong corners, then the Irish mob—specifically their clan chief, Devaney were the people she would have most likely approached. Uncle Gulliver’s secrecy regarding the confessions he’d taken only fired up my suspicions.
After service, I stayed in my seat and watched Lorcan Devaney disappear into the confessional box. I had to stifle a scoff. Did he really think confessing made things better? Hopefully the sale of indulgences was a long abandoned practice in the Catholic church, but who could say when Gulliver bowed to the mob?
I got up and inconspicuously strolled closer to the confessional booth. It was built from pine and stained a deep red with three doors, each topped by a little roof. Lorcan had disappeared behind the door on the right. There was room for another penitent behind the left door, but no one had gotten in line for confession. Maybe it was an unwritten rule that no one was allowed near the confessional on the day that Lorcan confessed. Gulliver’s place was in the middle. Maybe that was a good analogy for his position in life in general; he was caught between two stools. Unfortunately, the door of the confessional swung open before I could get close enough to eavesdrop, and Lorcan stepped out. My uncle left the confessional as well, and both men stared my way—Uncle Gulliver with a reprimanding expression but Lorcan’s gaze held an intense curiosity as he scanned my face. Without taking his eyes off me, in a deep voice he asked, “Your niece, Priest?”
“Yes, please meet Aislinn Killeen.” He motioned me forward, and I reluctantly approached the two men, intimidated by the piercing stare of the mobster.
“She looks like your sister when she was young.”
Lorcan knew my mum? I sent Gulliver a questioning look but he ignored me.
“She inherited the looks but fortunately not the temper or sinful disposition.”
I scoffed. Uncle Gulliver hardly knew me.
Lorcan nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Killeen.” His deep drawl sent a—not entirely unpleasant—shiver down my spine. He extended a big, strong hand covered in scars. I hesitated briefly, and his mouth twitched with an expression I had trouble deciphering. I had to look away from his too personal stare.
The moment my palm touched his, my pulse quickened and I tingled in the most confusing way. I quickly pulled back and gave him a small smile. “Aislinn will do.”
His lips twisted in what I thought was a smile, but it never came. “Aislinn then.”
Gulliver watched us like a hawk. Maybe he disapproved of me interacting with the mob as much as Mum did.
“Lorcan, we need to leave in five if we want to make the first meeting in Sodom,” a gorilla of a man said in a heavy Kerry accent. His blond hair was closely cropped and he was heavily muscled. I’d put him at around fifty.
Lorcan nodded and stepped back, allowing me to breathe more freely. His presence had been like a weight on my chest.