Page 80 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

“I don’t care. I’m coming to the coast house.”

I hung up before he could say anything else. The moment the call ended, I started moving again.

I needed a car. Something quick. Something that didn’t require permission or questions.

I crossed the street toward a parking lot between two buildings. It was a valet setup, not busy at this hour. Keys hung behind a glass board inside.

A man in uniform stood near the entrance, talking on the phone. He was laughing, turned slightly away. I walked in like I belonged there.

My heart stayed steady. That was the strange part. It wasn’t racing; it had already accepted what I was doing.

I reached the key board and scanned it quickly—SUV, sedan, and hatchback.

I took a set of keys and someone spoke behind me, but not to me. I didn’t turn. I walked out without running.

Running made people remember you. I crossed the lot and found the car, a plain model that didn’t stand out. Perfect.

I got in and started the engine. I stayed still for a second longer than I needed to, hands on the wheel, listening to the city through the glass. Then I pulled out of the lot. The city stretched ahead of me, endless and indifferent, swallowing distance without caring who crossed it.

I didn’t think much about the route. I already knew where I was going.

The coast house didn’t change. It never did. It sat there like it had been waiting for me. The road curved toward the gates, and no guards were there. That should have felt wrong, but it didn’t feel dangerous.

I stopped at the entrance and turned off the engine. The air was different here, heavier, like it carried things I couldn’t name. The door opened before I reached it.

My dad stood in the doorway like he hadn’t moved in years, watching me arrive without surprise or urgency. “Maeve,” he said quietly.

I stopped a few steps away. “Dad.”

My voice stayed steady, which mattered more than I wanted it to. He looked at me for a moment, quick and measured. There was no warmth in it, no relief, just attention.

“You left the penthouse without any guards,” he said.

“I snuck out.”

His expression tightened, not into anger, but into something more focused. “Something happened?”.

“Yes,” I said.

We stayed like that for a moment. Neither of us moved.

He was still standing in the doorway, not blocking me, just occupying it in a way that made it clear he wasn’t ready to let the conversation move forward yet.

“Tell me,” he said finally.

I met his eyes. Standing there, outside the house, I realized how strange it felt not having anything clear to hold on to, even now that I’d reached him.

“I’ve been going through some old files,” I said.

His face didn’t shift, but I saw the change in his eyes. “What files?” he asked.

“All of them,” I said. A pause followed. The wind moved behind me, pressing against the side of the house. The ocean sounded closer than it should have, like it was listening.

“I found things that don’t add up,” I said. “Timelines that don’t match. Names that appear differently depending on the source. Versions of events that don’t align with each other.”

He didn’t interrupt. That silence mattered more than any reaction. It meant he was listening closely, weighing everything before deciding how to respond.

I stepped forward. Now I was almost inside the doorway, but still not past him. “Dad,” I said, lower now, “I want you to explain something to me.”