My mother is standing in the alley.
There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind. It’s the mother I remember, but a decade and a half older. Her hair is the same, the brown of her eyes the same. Her skin looks older; there are marks there that have never been there before.
Wrinkles. Lines. Spots. Things I don’t remember.
But no scars.
That I can see.
She’s got her arms folded across her chest, and her head tilted. I step away from Marco, who keeps trying to stand in front of me.
The expression on her face isn’t anger, or loss, or surprise, even.
It’s a kind of mild amusement that reminds me of the time I’d covered a hallway in a crayon mural when I was four.
Having one’s mum catch them making out is never good.
But finding her like this, while I’m wrapped up in Marco’s arms?
I feel so shocked, I’m numb.
“Well, my little Rosie. I’m glad you’re okay.”
My jaw is on the floor. “Mum. Is… are you…”
A smile breaks across her face then.
“Aye, darling. ‘Tis me.”
I stumble forward and fall into her arms.
When I smell her familiar perfume, violets and vanilla, I start to cry.
I don’t know how long I spend blubbering in that foul alley, wrapped up in my mother’s arms. But by the time I’ve cried everything I have, her hands gently stroking my hair, I feel a thousand years older.
I feel empty.
But mostly I feel…
Confused.
I pull back. “How are you alive?” I whisper.
Sadness tugs at my mum’s face, pulling the corners of her eyes down. Instinctively, I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay. That I can take care of whatever is bothering her.
But, I can’t. I don’t know what’s making her sad. And now that all my tears have left my body, I sense something else, simmering deep underneath all the sorrow and worry I’ve carried for years.
Anger.
“This isn’t a conversation for a place like this,” she murmurs, her eyes darting around the alley. “Come. Bring your young man, and let’s go back to my place.”
I resist the urge to tell her that he’s not mine. Marco and I aren’t beholden to each other, in any way.
Except, apparently, for the fact that we can’t stop kissing each other.
I can’t think about that right now.
If I think about kissing Marco again, I’m going to melt into a puddle of emotions and I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to put myself back together.
You need to stop kissing him.
I’ll figure that out later.
My mum turns, and I look at Marco. His face is tight, a silent question etched into his brown eyes.
Do you trust her?
“I think I do,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare. I can tell he’s about to protest.
I shake my head. “She’s my mum, Marco.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mum stands at the edge of the alley, waiting. I look at Marco. “Kieran… my dad… they did something to her. Or that’s what I thought. It’s why I lived with them. My dad found me, and my mom had to give me to him.”
Marco’s lips thin. “I don’t know.”
“She’s my mum, Marco,” I plead.
I hate the desperation in my voice.
He looks at her, then gives a sharp snort.
“Will you go to Switzerland after this?”
I don’t have any intention of leaving Ireland. However, I need to go with her. I need answers.
So I look at Marco, and I lie straight to his face.
“Yes.”
Mum leads us to a townhouse, one of the little sea-facing ones that are stacked like rainbow-colored blocks vertically along the Irish shore. It’s quaint; the town is small, and the townhouse is tiny. Marco has to duck to get through the door, and I can tell instantly that he doesn’t like the inside.
Too fucking bad.
I also know what his protests will be. It’s not easy to defend. You can set the entire row of houses on fire to get to this one. There’s only one way in and out. I know them, because I have them too.
This is screaming—according to all my instincts—dangerous, but I can’t stop.
She’s my mum.
And I haven’t seen her since I was ten years old.
Inside, Marco is loath to separate from me. Mum seats me on a worn couch, looking at Marco, who is looming like an overgrown crow.
“I’ll make us some tea,” she finally says.
It feels so normal. Like something a mother would do, if they were meeting their daughter’s partner for the first time.
She disappears, and Marco gives me a sharp nod.
“I’m going to check out the house. If anything happens, scream,” he whispers.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need to do that.”
He gives me a meaningful look. But I like that he thinks I can take care of myself.
I think.
My feelings about Marco are in turmoil. I’m relieved that he found out what happened to my brother and Stassi. I’m annoyed that he keeps trying to push me to go to Switzerland. I’m relieved that he thinks I can be alone in a dangerous environment, even if it is with my mother.
I’m annoyed that he thinks I need to scream for help.
It’s a rollercoaster. One that isn’t helped by the fact that every time he kisses me, my brain becomes completely scrambled and I can’t remember who I am.
Or what I’m doing.
My mum comes back, a classic tea service, chipped cups and all, on a tray. Her hands shake, slightly, as she sets it down.
Marco drifts back in, ready to hover behind my shoulder, a threatening shadow.
She gives him a look. “Tea?”
“No,” he rumbles.
Her lips tilt up in a smile. “Ah. American.”
“I hate tea. And coffee,” he grumbles.
Well. That’s not true. He drank plenty of tea when I made it for him at the cottage…
“I was wondering, um…” my mom gives Marco a meaningful look, waiting for him to supply his name.
“Marco,” he grunts.
“Marco. If I might have a moment alone with my daughter?”
“Whatever you say to Roisin, you can say in front of me,” he rasps.
Her eyebrows raise. “I think she’s the one who is supposed to tell me that.”
There’s steel under her voice.
Marco’s jaw clenches, but I wave him off. “It’s fine, Mum. Whatever you want to say, Marco can hear.”
Her eyes flash to him. “What’s his last name, love?”
I’m not about to give away that Marco is a DeLuca. For some reason, part of me wants to hold that back. The part of my brain that’s been conditioned for years by Interpol kicks in.
She might not tell me everything if she knows Marco is mafia too.
“Smith,” he supplies.
I don’t react.
Her eyes narrow. “Marco Smith? You’re expecting me to believe a man who is clearly more bloody Italian than a box of pasta at Tesco is named Marco Smith?”
“Family name. Dad’s English,” he says with a hint of a sneer.
“Lord have mercy. He even talks like one of them,” she sighs.
“Talks like who, Mum?” I ask.
My mother looks at me. She hands me a cup of tea, and I sip.
“He talks like your father.”
The tea freezes in my hand.
Mum sighs. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t fall for it too. I don’t know who your family is, boy,” she gives him a look that’s pure venom. “But I assure you, if you hurt my daughter, then there will be hell to pay.”
“Mum. From who?” I whisper.
She shuts her eyes.
“Well, I suppose you’ll want some answers then.”
The teacup rattles slightly against the saucer as I set it down.
My mom nods. “I made a bargain with your father, the night… before you were born. If I bore him a child, I could choose which portion of their life I wanted. A ten-year span. I chose the first ten, because I had met men like him before. I was in university at the time, and I studied child development. The first ten years of a child’s life are the most important, you know,” she says, her voice taking on a flat tone. “It’s when you learn the skills that make you into the person you are.”
I breathe. “Why the hell did my father do this to all his children?”
She shrugs. “He was an evil man, love. Evil men love to destroy things.”
The fact that he couldn’t just raise a child, all on his own, isn’t shocking to me. William MacAntyre was a horrific man.
Well. I suppose he did raise Kieran.
Marco, behind me, grunts. “What do you mean, made a bargain.”
My mom looks down, her fingers twisting the scrap of fabric that she’d been using as a napkin.
Her silence makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Mum…”
“The bargain was… God. Just know that I love you, Roisin. My Rosie. I’ve always loved you. Every second of it. And when I walked away, it killed me,” she says.
There are tears in her eyes.
“What do you mean, walked away?” I whisper.
My mum looks down at the tea service. “The bargain was… he paid me to have you. To have a child. I got to pick which of the child’s life I wanted for ten years. I got to decide, and I decided the first ten, and then after that…” she stops, her throat thick with tears.
“After that, the terms of the contract were fulfilled,” Marco growls from behind me.
The realization of what’s being said sinks into me.
“You… sold me?”
My mum’s crying now, tears falling down her face. “It wasn’t… I didn’t… it was already done…”
“But you left me with him,” I say.
My voice sounds small. So, so incredibly small.
“I… it was the contract,” she whispers.
“You could have fought him. We could have left.”
They’re not suggestions. They’re accusations. I know what I would have done in her position. She was fully aware of who my father was. Of what she was doing.
She made a deal with my father to bear him a child. An heir, of some kind. Someone for him to destroy, just like he’d destroyed Liam and Killian.
She made me because he paid her to.
Then she sold me, when the time came.
My heart, which broke the night she brought me to him, feels like it’s shattering all over again.
My mom looks up, her fingers stilling. “He was William MacAntyre, love. He was the bogeyman, the monster that everyone around here has always been afraid of. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he or one of his evil sons would kill me.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I sit back, the tea nearly forgotten. “You knew about Kieran?”
She snorts. “Everyone knew about Kieran. He was only a teenager, but he was vile,” she whispers.
“And you left me with him anyway?”
Her eyes get round. “Roisin…”
I stand, looking at Marco. “I think I’d like to go now.”
My mother starts to protest. “No, love, I’m so sorry. I just… when I saw your face on the news, I decided to start heading back toward the manor, just to see if you were there…”
“We’re a several hour’s boat ride from that place,” I say dully. “Were you planning on staying here forever?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not like that, darling, please, you have to believe me…”
“I don’t,” I say sharply.
She inhales.
“I want to go. Please don’t follow me. Don’t contact me. And don’t ever try to find me again.”
I let Marco hold the door for me. I step outside, into what’s become a freezing coastal storm. I look back at Marco.
“Take me to fucking Switzerland.”
