Ava
“She was pregnant Ava”
Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.
The word repeats, over and over again in my brain like an endless chant.
My mum… Our mum, was pregnant before she married our… no, my father.
Swallowing, I straighten in the log, turning to face my brother. Of all the things I expected him to say, this did not make the top ten. Or hundred. Or thousand.
I blink at him, counting down the seconds until he says, gotcha like he did when we were children, and he told me that he saw a ghost in our backyard, and I believed him. But the punchline never comes.
“is this some kind of joke?” I ask. I’m surprised at how steady my voice comes out because, on the inside, my mind is racing. He has to be wrong; he just has to be because that would mean….
I stare him straight in his eyes and the look I find there tells me that he won’t say the words I’m so desperate for him to even if I were to kneel and beg him within an inch of my life.
He wouldn’t lie to me.
Aaron remains completely motionless, watching me like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he breathes too hard. And if I’m being honest, I just might.
“This can’t be real”
It can’t.
But It is. Because try as I may, the bark of this log is digging into my butt, and the scent of damp moss remains pungent in the air, which can only mean that this is, in fact, very real.
Why would she not tell us?
Aaron reaches for me but I flinch away, stopping him before his fingertips can brush my skin. The idea that our mother had kept Aaron’s paternity a secret from either of us, hits me like a blow to the head. I mean me, I can understand, but Aaron… he had a right to know.
Why would she not tell him?
Why would she actively choose to keep Aaron away from his birth father?
“When I found out It honestly took me a while to come to terms with it. Majorly my entire teenage years, but I got there eventually” he tries to laugh, but I can hear the tightness in the sound that tells me he isn’t as over it as he thinks he is.
“How can you sound so… so…” I try to find the words but fail. “Do you at least know who your real father is?”
He leans back on his palm and lets out a low whistle before glancing at me briefly. “A year ago, on my birthday, I went up to the attic, hoping to find anything that could tell me who the man I saw in the wedding picture with mum was.”
“And? Did you find anything?”
He nods, “I found his name.”
“What is it?”
“Raican O’Sullivan.”
O’Sullivan?
My heart thuds violently in my chest. It can’t be.
“O’Sullivan? As in the O’Sullivan?”
He nods again and it feels like I’ve lost all capacity to breathe.
“You’re telling me that your biological father is head of the Irish mafia?”
“Was the head. He died about a month ago and his second in command took over.”
Oh my God. That means….
“You-” My voice comes out hoarse, trembling. “You’re the heir to the Irish mafia?”
When the three families first split Chicago between themselves, the Irish were seen as the strongest of the three, holding the largest territory and wielding the most influence in the city.
But power is never permanent. It was something the Irish had to learn the hard way.
The Russians and Italians spent years carving their empires into the very bones of this city, and eventually, they were able to overthrow the Irish. The Italians were the first and then the Russians, leaving the Irish to scrap the bottom of the barrel by forming alliances and sometimes even rivalries just to maintain their standing as part of the ruling families.
Were they still among the most powerful families to walk the streets of Chicago? Of course, they were, but over here, their power had limits. They eventually decided to only extend their operations to the US and keep major game plays within Ireland and the United States.
Raican O’Sullivan was a man whose ruthlessness proceeded his face.
Like everyone else in the city, I’d heard stories about him. How his ruthlessness was the only thing that kept the Irish from being completely swallowed up by the other families. His word was law, and anyone who dared to cross him rarely lived long enough to regret it. He was a cunning man who didn’t hesitate to twist lives as long as he got what he wanted in the end.
As far as I know, every story I’ve heard about him has been properly exaggerated or not exaggerated enough.
Except one.
Raican O’Sullivan was married at a point. To the daughter of his predecessor. Some say he was the kindest he’d ever been to his wife while others say his cruelty extended to his marriage.
Despite the irregularities of the story, there was
one thing that always linked no matter who was telling it which was that she ran away from him.
The truth crashes over me in an instant, and everything clicks into place. The picture Aaron had found was a wedding photo, and if my mother was the bride in the picture and Raican was the groom, then that could only mean one thing-my mother was Raican O’Sullivan’s runaway wife.
My breath leaves my lungs in a slow, shuddering exhale.
I press a trembling hand to my forehead, trying to make sense of the hurricane of emotions ripping through me like a fucking earthquake.
“There’s more”
More?
How could they possibly be more?
“I met my father a few months ago. He was sick, Ava, the man could barely move, but when he saw me, it felt like his entire world lit up. We sat and we talked for hours. Well, I did most of the talking, but he listened. He took in everything I had to say, absorbed it like some kind of sponge.”
I blink. Then blink again.
He’s talking like Raican O’Sullivan is some kind of doting father instead of the hardened criminal everyone knows him to be, myself included.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the gnawing feeling clawing its way up my spine. “Did he say anything to you?”
Aaron Shrugs. “He mostly asked about my life. How I was doing. He wanted to know if I was happy, which was strange because nobody had ever asked me that. And then…” His throat bobs as he swallows. “He asked if I would take my place.”
Take his place? What does he mean take his….
All at once the realization slams into me. Hot, with claws that wrapped so tightly around my throat it stopped me from breathing for a second.
His place.
“You said no right?”
“No.”
My eyes widen, “No, you didn’t say no or no; you said no, then he said no, and then you said no again.”
He exhales slowly, and it feels like time slows when he says, “No, I didn’t say no. But I didn’t say yes either.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that I’ve spent my entire life trying to figure out who I am and where I belong. When I was young, I thought that place was by our father’s side, but then I found out what kind of man he was, and I realised I never wanted to be like him. Someone who sells his daughter to save himself and runs away with his tail tucked between his legs when things get even the slightest bit confrontational.”
My heart thaws at the mention of what our father… my father did to me.
“But this is the mafia we’re talking about. It’s not some kind of fairytale life where everything will magically fall into place once you’re in charge.”
“I know but…”
“But nothing. You say you’ve spent your entire place trying to figure out who you are; well, I know exactly who you are. You’re my brother. My family. For Christ Sake, these people are criminals, murderers. You aren’t one of them and If you join them, there will be no turning back.”
Aaron exhales slowly, lowering his head.
“What if I already am one of them.”
There’s something in the way he says it, all hopeless and resigned, that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Aaron, there’s something you aren’t telling me isn’t there?”
A beat passes, the sound of my own breath filling the silence that follows. His shoulders tense, his fingers curl into fists against his thighs, and for a moment, I swear I can hear the hesitation in his tone when he says, “It’s nothing.”
But It isn’t nothing. I drop down beside him, taking his hand in mine. He looks at me then, eyes sullen as his gaze darts between his hand in mine and my face.
“Aaron if you’re in some kind of trouble, you can tell me. I’m sure I can help you somehow. If they’re threatening you, I can ask Nikolai to.
“Nikolai? As in your husband?”
I nod and he shakes his head.
“No. You can’t tell him any of this.”
I furrow my brows, “Why not.”
“Because he can’t know. Not about this and most definitely not about you meeting me. Nobody can know do you understand? Promise me that you won’t tell anyone?”
I want to ask him why. Why the secrets? Why didn’t he want help? But for some reason, my mouth refuses to form the words, so I just nod.