“I heard that.”
“You were meant to!” She tugged at Rooney’s ponytail out of frustration.
I leaned against the kitchen island, watching Sparrow taking out bottles of cabernet from the wine fridge to go with the roast, pouring the sky-high Yorkshire pudding, mashed sweet potatoes, and balsamic mushrooms into fancy serving bowls.
“There’s something different about you,” Sparrow observed, studying me through her sharp green eyes.
“Different how?” I took a pull of my beer.
“Different … pensive.” She shoved the Yorkshire pudding tray into my hands. “Put this on the table.”
I did as she said. I may have been a murderer, an underground mob boss, and a savage with no morals to speak of, but I was also whipped to the bone where my adoptive mother was concerned.
“I’m the same usual shade of fucked-up as I’ve always been,” I drawled, reappearing in the kitchen. She wasn’t wrong, though. I had a lot of shit on my plate with a side of diarrhea and an appetizer of stale manure.
The Russians in Brookline were running amok, desperately trying to unshackle themselves from my claws. Operation Ruin Gerald was in full swing, and then there was his little monster of a daughter, who despite everything ran circles in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about Thanksgiving. The mystery surrounding Aisling.
Sure, I could get all the answers in the world if I just put surveillance on her, as I did on so many other people in the city, but that was admitting defeat and succumbing to the idea that I gave a fuck, and I didn’t give a fuck.
Fuck, I gave a fuck.
Well, half a fuck.
Definitely not enough of a fuck to fuck up my entire working relationship with the Brennans, that was for sure.
Sparrow pushed Dijon-covered Brussels sprouts and a pile of sweet mashed potatoes into my hands. I went back to the dining room to unload the food. When I came back, she cornered me between the fridge and the kitchen island.
“Are you sure it’s not about Cat?”
“Positive. And by the way, buying her a tombstone? Dumb move. Grow a fucking spine, Spar.”
“I have a spine. I also have a son who is so deeply in denial about his feelings, he can’t see straight. Have you ever heard of Selichot?” She tried—and failed—to tuck her crazy ginger curls behind her ear.
“No.” I reached to the loose tendril, helping her.
“Every year, practicing Jews recite penitential poems and prayers leading to the High Holidays. The thirteen attributes of mercy are a central theme throughout these prayers. Instead of going to a Catholic confession, the Jews go to the people they have wronged individually and ask for their forgiveness. It’s soul cleansing, they say. I have a feeling one day you’ll wake up and realize you need to atone—to receive forgiveness—for your sins. I think this day is fast approaching, and having a tombstone to go visit will serve you well.”
“Ask for forgiveness from Cat?” I stroked my chin, pretending to mull this over. “Forgiveness for what? Being the fastest sperm who was unfortunate enough to bump into her egg … or expecting her to perform her motherly duties for the half second she raised me?”
“For hating her,” Sparrow said, her voice steady, her chin high. “A son cannot hate his mother.”
“This one can and does. Actually, it’s not even hate. I’m indifferent, which is so much more humiliating.”
“Neutral men are the Devil’s allies.” She snatched my hand from her face, squeezing, refusing to let me go.
“The Devil and I get along fine.” I smirked, amused by her display of emotions, arching one eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“What are you not indifferent about?” she demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing matters to me.”
“Bull, meet shit,” she hissed. “Something is bothering you.”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“And it’s not yours either, right? Big Sam Brennan doesn’t care about things. He is above emotions,” Sparrow poked. I saw what she was trying to do. Make me take action, pursue what I wanted, blah blah fucking blah.
The only thing that bugged me, remotely, was the Nix thing, and I wasn’t going to pursue it.
Knowing what Aisling did for a living wasn’t going to make any difference. The more I knew about her, the more I wanted to get to know her, and there was no point in that because soon enough, I was going to kill her father.
“Mom!” Sailor called from the dining room. “Hurry up, Roon Loon is starving.”
Sparrow brushed past me but not before pinning me with a look.
Dinner was uneventful. Hunter talked shop, Troy talked basketball and football, and Rooney tried to sneak scraps of food under the table for her imaginary, friendly monster. Afterward, Sailor and Troy served dessert while I crawled around on all fours. Rooney rode me, using my hair as reins, her laughter rolling down my back.
Three hours later, I was on my way to the door after completing my familial duties for the week. Sparrow grabbed my arm on my way out—because why the fuck not?—and flashed me an I’m-about-to-give-you-a-mouthful-and-there’s-jack-shit-you-can-do-about-it look.