Page 8 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

I didn’t take the same position as before. Instead, I chose somewhere closer to the bar, not close enough to become part of the crowd, but close enough that we weren’t completely separated. I told myself I came tonight maybe just to spite her, but that excuse fell apart the moment I saw her. Maeve was there behind the bar again, moving through the night with the same confidence and control she always had.

Nothing at Murphy’s had order in the way my world usually demanded it…except her. At some point during the night, Maeve looked up. Not because someone called her nameor because anything drew her attention, but simply because she chose to. Her gaze moved across the room once and stopped on me.

She didn’t react the way most people would. There was no hesitation and no second-guessing. She simply met my gaze, fully aware of me and entirely defiant.

I didn’t move, and neither did she. The room continued around us as though nothing had changed, and I made no effort to break the moment. I was no longer the only one watching; I was being watched back now. And Maeve refused to look away.

CHAPTER THREE

Maeve

I moved through South Boston that morning the way I liked to, passing the same streets and the same corners while the familiar early noise spilled out of half-open shops as traffic slowly picked up around me. Nothing around me asked for attention and there was nothing new enough to interrupt my thoughts, and that was exactly how I liked it. My predictable routine felt safe in a way I never admitted out loud. I stepped off the street and climbed the steps toward home, reaching for the door before I realized it was already open. That meant Dad was already here, earlier than usual.

I saw him before I dropped my bag. He was sitting at the kitchen table without eating or reading or doing anything at all. He was simply there, sitting perfectly still like he’d forgotten why he entered the room. When he heard me, he looked up quickly.

“Back early,” he said.

I shut the door behind me. “Shift ended the same time as always.”

He nodded lazily. “Busy?”

“Same as always.” That should’ve ended the conversation, but he stayed seated with both hands wrapped around a mug he wasn’t drinking from while his thumb moved lightly against the ceramic. It was a small habit of his, one he probably didn’t even know he had, but I’d never liked it and couldn’t explain why.

I leaned against the counter and watched him the way I always did whenever something felt wrong. “You’re quiet,” I said.

He gave a small half-shrug. “Just tired.”

It didn’t feel completely like a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Something sat underneath the words that didn’t feel right no matter how I looked at it. He smiled then, but it didn’t reachhis eyes and it stayed on his face longer than it should have, like someone had placed it there and forgotten to take it back.

My grip on the counter tightened before I noticed I was doing it. “Dad.” That single word was enough to make him look up again, even though I didn’t raise my voice. “Is everything okay?”

There it was again, that tiny twitch crossing his face. It was small, almost invisible, but it was real.

He set the mug down carefully before answering. “Of course,” he said. “Just thinking. Lot on my mind lately.”

I held his gaze for a moment, but he looked away first.

“About what?” I asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said finally.

He stood quickly and started moving around the kitchen. He wasn’t doing anything real, just moving things around, straightening what didn’t need straightening and creating motion where there wasn’t meaning. I stayed where I was, watching him without speaking, but something inside my chest kept tightening in a way I couldn’t properly explain. It didn’t feel like imagination or overthinking so much as a quiet warning.

***

I wasn’t planning to see him again that day. I was only running errands, nothing serious or important, just going to the store to pick up bread and a few other groceries. I was whistling my favourite song as I turned a corner. But my father was there. He stood outside a small shop in a space that didn’t feel like he belonged there, as though he’d been placed there rather than having arrived on his own intention.

And he wasn’t alone. I didn’t move closer immediately. Instead, I stayed where I was and watched carefully, letting the scene settle into focus before reacting to it. There were three men around him, positioned in a way that didn’t need explanation once you looked at it properly. One stood directlyin front of him, another to the side, and a third placed behind him close enough that the distance felt controlled rather than accidental.

My father said something I couldn’t hear. The man in front responded and my father nodded. It was so quick, like the motion had been decided before the conversation even finished. Something in my chest shifted.Something is wrong.

My father always carried himself like a man who refused to be moved by anything, even when he was under pressure, even when the world worked against him. He remained steady and stubborn and pushed back against whatever tried to control him. But he looked scared. I crossed the street and stepped directly into the space between them without hesitation.

My father turned to face me. “Maeve?”

I didn’t look at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.