Page 7 of Sins of Innocence

I don't want to scare the sweet little thing in front of me though.

"Your daughter is waiting for you." That should calm her down.

It doesn't. Her eyes flare wide in horror. "My daughter? The underboss has my daughter?"

She knows Mick is the underboss? That means she's aware her employer is mobbed up. Is her husband? Is that why she knows about Mick's true role?

Most people think he's Brogan Shaughnessy's right hand man in a legitimate business empire. He even has a title: chief operations officer.

"There was an issue at school—" I start to say when strident tones from inside the house interrupt me.

"Áine! Don't stand there with the door open! You're letting all the cold air out."

Áine. I like that name because it reminds me of the Irish grandmother who died when I was eleven, almost twelve. She pronounced her name as awn-ya too.

Mick Shaughnessy guessed I had Irish blood from the very beginning. He was right. I'm a quarter Irish, a quarter Albanian and half Italian. Because my sperm donor was not the man my mother married. He was the Italian piece of shit who took advantage of a vulnerable woman working in his home.

The boss attributes my superior fighting skills and strength of will to my Irish roots though.

Their real origin is a lot more practical. If I hadn't learned to fight, and stubbornly stood my ground, I wouldn't have survived my childhood. The Army took my street fighting techniques and honed them, molding me into the perfect weapon when I became a Ranger.

"Is she alright? What does Mr. Fitzgerald have to do with it?" Áine asks in panicked tones as if her employer hadn't spoken. "Why didn't the school call me if one of my children is ill? Why—"

"Áine!" This time the woman's voice cracks like a whip.

Jumping, Áine shoots a worried look over her shoulder and steps back. "Come in."

I do, feeling the immediate drop in temperature from outside. The central air is working just fine in this place and set to winter level chill.

Áine quickly edges around me to close the door. "I'll tell Mrs. Shaughnessy what's going on and get my bag."

Relieved she's finally going to cooperate, I incline my head in acknowledgement of her words. I should have led with the news her daughter needed her, but I'm used to people following my boss's orders without a need for explanation.

Whether they are in the mob, or not, people want to keep Mick Fitzgerald happy.

Áine hurries into a room off the entryway. "Mrs. Shaughnessy, I have to go. One of the girls needs me."

She has more than one daughter?

Mysterious anger lights a fire in my gut at the knowledge she has carried not one daughter, but multiple children of another man.

She's married. She's not mine.

But the primitive warrior inside me that I got to know so well in the Army and accept as my core nature now rejects that truth with deadly intent.

A man worthy of calling himself her husband wouldn't leave her working for an asshole like Kenneth Shaughnessy.

"Nonsense. If one of the children isn't feeling well and must be picked up from school, your mother can retrieve her and take her home. You still have far too much to do to prepare for my dinner party tonight to take the time to leave and come back."

"I'm sorry, but I have to go." Áine's tone is respectful, but determined.

"No. It's impossible, but you may take a minute to call your mother to fetch her," Allison Shaugnessy (Because who else would it be?) concedes grudgingly. "Why the school didn't simply call her to begin with, I cannot guess. You have instructed them to do so during your working hours, haven't you?"

"Yes, but this—"

"You will have to remind them. However, that must wait. You need to get back to work."

Done with this useless back-and-forth, I enter the living room. "Mrs. Shaughnessy, I have orders to bring Áine to the estate."