Never have I seen a dinner table so full of food. It resembles an advert I’d see splashed across my television during Thanksgiving, surrounded by a happy and wholesome family. Cormac and his family seem to fit that idea to a T, and it’s strange to see people so dangerous acting so homely.
If I didn’t know what I knew, I’d assume they were just like every other ranch family sitting down to a hearty meal at the end of a long week. There’s a roast ham at one end, and I eye it suspiciously as I take my seat next to Cormac. His mother, Clodagh, sits at the head of the table while Saoirse and Cian sit across from Cormac and me. Between us sit three kinds of potato, grilled veg, steamed veg, some chicken legs, a basket full of homemade bread, and several sauces and jams that fill the space. It’s a far cry from the two-day-old Thai food I surely would be tucking into if my life were moving on its normal path.
“Come up here, dear,” Clodagh says, waving her hand at me. “Guests carve. It’s tradition!”
Cormac shoots me an I told you so glance and then sits back as I stand and approach the head of the table.
“Don’t fuck it up,” Cian teases.
“Shut up,” Saoirse snaps, elbowing her twin. “Honestly, Evelyn, just cut a slice and then we can dig in.”
“I’ve never carved anything before,” I admit, unsure why such a thing makes me feel so shameful. It can’t be a regular skill, can it?
“Don’t you worry,” Clodagh soothes me instantly, pressing a long fork into my hand. “I’ll take you through it. Stab the ham just about here. It will give you a decent grip on the meat.”
As I oblige, Cormac stands and begins filling the empty glasses with wine and juice.
“Now this knife is sharp,” Clodagh warns. “So if you feel like you’re going to slip, then stop cutting and adjust your grip.”
“Although I’ve worked with sharper,” Saoirse comments as she sips her wine.
“We’re not carving bodies here,” Cormac remarks. “Although you butchered that last Christmas turkey. I’m surprised anyone lets you near a blade.”
“Oh, really?” Saoirse glares over her wine. “There’s a reason they call me and not you when they want real information.”
“And you’re both shite at getting the real answers first try,” Cormac replies, settling back in his seat. “Maybe you should both go back to training on birds.”
“Scared I’ll out carve you?” Cian’s eyes flash.
“You can’t even outrun me, little brother.” Cormac barks out his laugh. “I ain’t scared.”
“Oh, really? You wanna race right now? I’ll kick your ass all the way to the barn.”
“Prepare to get shit on, little brother—”
“Sit down,” Clodagh barks, placing her hand over the top of mine holding the knife. “This food isn’t going to waste because you two want to piss up the creek, alright?”
Cian and Cormac share a good-natured glare, and relief pours through me as Clodagh helps me carve my first perfect slice of ham. It’s not as difficult as I expected, but my next two slices without her help are definitely lacking. With a chuckle, she takes over and sends me back to my seat where Cormac grips my thigh under the table.
“Nicely done,” he says in a low voice.
“Thanks,” I murmur, and his praise sends a pulse of warmth through my chest.
Dinner is a wonderful affair. Plates are piled high with food, and there is only the occasional clash of spoons when two people want the next scoop of potato. Everything is cooked to perfection, and despite how heartily I eat, I keep going back for more. I’ve never tasted anything like this before, and it has to be because it’s homemade. My mother’s version of home-made was from freezer box to plate, and there was a distinct lack of love there, especially after my father passed. This table is like a whole other world and I am here for it.
Just as I swallow my final bite of corn and tell myself I can’t eat another bite, Clodagh pulls out a cheesecake and cheers rise around the table. Everyone has room for dessert. As memories are shared and the twins reminisce about the one time they tried to make their own cheesecake but failed because their father was a terrible cook, something about Clodagh’s being away for work caught my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I cut through the laughter. “Away for work, is that code for something?” Everyone else is so open about their life and work in the Mob, but the phrasing about Clodagh catches me off guard.
Cormac frowns slightly, then he nods quickly. “Sorry, force of habit around guests, I think,” he says. “Ma was the Captain.”
A crumb of cheesecake goes down the wrong way and I choke softly, quickly grasping at my glass of water. His mother was the Captain? Suddenly, my casualness around her feels very rude and I drown my embarrassment in several gulps of water.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp.
“Why?” Confusion washes over Clodagh’s face.
“I just… I thought you just worked at the ranch and stuff,” I explain quickly.
“I do.” Clodagh nods. “I always did, technically. Ask anyone who ran into this family and my husband’s name will leave their mouth before mine ever would. But you needn’t fret. There’s no special rules here about ex-Captains.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. Cormac takes my hand and squeezes.
“You’re fine.”
“That’s amazing, though,” I say once I’m over my surprise. I’d subconsciously viewed her as this homey ranch mother without a clue that she was just as powerful and as dangerous as Cormac. “I didn’t know women could…”
“Lead?” Clodagh prompts. “It’s not uncommon, but there can be pushback. The Russians, for example, have a woman in charge now, and you would think we are still in the fifties from how some of those generals acted.” She tips her glass back and forth. “In a way, my husband was my mask. I noticed pretty quickly that people defaulted to him, so I used that. He turned up and showed his face with my orders in his ears. Some families were more understanding and I could deal with them directly, but when we started building the weapons business, I had to be more careful.”
“Careful how?” I ask.
“Well, the Mexican Cartel and the Japanese Yakuza refused to deal with women. They are definitely a boys’ club. But I needed them in the beginning. Securing deals with them was key in gaining the foothold we have today, but it wouldn’t have happened if they knew they were dealing with me and not Conor. But it was a necessary sacrifice for the success of my family. It’s different now, though.” She drinks deeply and smiles. “These days, no one cares. The Italians, especially, are famous for their dangerous women. And my very own Saoirse has a reputation of her own.”
Saoirse ducks her head, her cheeks pink. “I’d rather talk about Cormac dating the woman he kidnapped,” she says, trying to throw the attention off her.
Cormac snorts and squeezes my hand. “Any complaints?”
“None,” I reply, then I tilt my head. “Though… dating? Are we?”
Cormac rolls his eyes as his mother laughs.
“To think they say the Giffords have egos when my own daughter deflects a compliment so expertly.” She chuckles. “Romance in this world is precious. I trust Cormac knows what he’s doing.”
“Kinda winging it, Ma,” Cormac admits. “Like Da.”
“Aye.” She smiles warmly. “I’m proud of you. Who would have ever foreseen me raising four amazing…” She falters suddenly at her slip of the tongue, and suddenly, it’s like the two empty chairs at the table have become large and loud. They suck up all the air and silence falls.
Cormac’s hand tightens over mine.
The two empty chairs. Conor, his father, and Brenden.
Clodagh drains her glass and firmly sets it down. “I…” Her voice quavers. Cian and Saoirse exchange a glance. In all the happiness, Brenden’s absence wasn’t touched on, and it was surely intentional to try and keep everyone’s spirits up. But grief comes in waves and there’s suddenly no avoiding it.
“It’s alright, Ma,” Cormac says, half rising out of his chair as if to comfort her.
She waves her hand and touches her napkin to her mouth. When she blinks, her eyes are like glass. “For a moment, I forgot.” She shakes her head. “Every day, I forget. Just for a moment, y’know? I’ll be doing something or I’ll see something, and I’ll think to tell him and then I remember, and it’s like being hurt all over again.”
I look around the table. Everyone shares the same sadness and pain, and my heart aches for something to say or do that can ease that pain. But this is beyond me. I place my other hand over Cormac’s in silent support.
“When the police cremate his body, I want him returned to Ireland.” Clodagh stands suddenly. “It’s where his ashes belong.”
A soft murmur of agreement moves through everyone, then Clodagh quickly excuses herself. After a second, Cian and Saoirse follow. When Cormac stands, I expect him to do the same but instead, he pulls me up with him.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
We talk in silence away from the ranch house, cashing the fading sun toward one of the larger barns out the back of the ranch. As the air grows cold and the sky turns dark, I huddle into Cormac’s arm, half for warmth and half to let him know I’m right here. The man is a locked box when it comes to anything outside of hunting Brenden’s killer and protecting me. Any time I’ve been close to seeing what makes him tick, he’s closed down quickly, and it’s happened again at the dinner table. I can tell he’s grieving, but he avoids it like I avoided my repayment letters.
“Where are we going?” I ask softly.
Cormac doesn’t reply. He just keeps walking in large strides so I have to hurry to keep up with him, two steps for every one of his until we reach the barn and he hauls the door open. Slipping from my grasp, he strides inside, and I follow as the sharp scents of hay and manure tickle my nose. Inside, there’s a farm hand who vanishes the moment they see Cormac, leaving the two of us alone.
Well, four of us if you count the horses.
There are numerous stalls in the barn, but only two of them currently hold horses. One is absolutely gigantic, with silky black hair and a long mane that disappears behind the stall door. It hangs in crimped waves, and the horse neighs sharply and starts to fuss in its stall as Cormac approaches.
He grabs a strap of the halter and pulls the horse’s head down to his own. They bump foreheads, and it’s the first time I’ve seen Cormac look small.
“This is Parsley,” he says. “My horse.”
“Wow,” I breathe out. “She’s stunning.”
“She’s a Percheron, a breed of draft horse. And that’s her brother, Angus.” The horse in the stall across is of a similar build but with a silver coat rather than black. “That’s Brenden’s horse. They’re best friends.”
“Oh.”
“We raised them together. They were inseparable, just like us. Kinda made us feel better, I think, after Cian and Saoirse were born. Twins have a special bond and we wanted one too.” He strokes Parsley’s nose and she huffs happily, nudging repeatedly at his shoulder and nibbling along the fabric.
“They’re both so beautiful,” I say, and my chest tightens like a band. “You must miss him,” I add softly.
Cormac grunts in his usual way, as if waving off my words, but something is different. His stance falters slightly, and his hands fall away from his horse. “You’ve no idea how much,” he says, and his voice shatters like a fragile vase. “I think… I think it might kill me.”
Never have I seen a larger man suddenly grow so small as grief consumes him. He sinks down to the straw-covered ground and sobs. They’re loud and open, raw pain pouring forth like a river, and the tears come so swiftly that it sounds like he can’t breathe. My heart breaks for him and I crash to my knees, joining him on the floor.
“Oh, Cormac,” I say sadly. “I’m so sorry.”
“I miss him.” Cormac chokes. “I miss him so fucking much.”
