Chapter 8

The house is packed on a Sunday afternoon. Seamus and Declan are in the living room watching football, drinking beer, and gambling on just about every single play they can. Hundreds get tossed around like candy. Caitlin’s watching, the youngest of the Quinn clan, rolling her eyes at everything, while my oldest sister, Molly, works in the kitchen with Mom and Nolan. I go between the groups, keeping the peace, making conversations, and answering the door whenever a random neighbor, cousin, uncle, or some other obscure members of our enormous extended family decides to show up.

That’s my main job. I listen to their problems and promise to help. Mom’s got the front room converted into a simple study for the purpose since it’s Sunday dinner when most of the neighborhood can show up and take some of my time. I wish I was in front of the TV or even in the back doing dishes, but instead I listen to old Mrs. Ryan complain about her neighbor’s dog again.

“You’re a good boy, you are, Brody Quinn,” she says, patting my cheek as I walk her to the door. “Good as your father was. I really mean that. He was a great man and you will be too, just you wait.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. I’ll see what I can do about the dog.” She disappears down the driveway, teetering off into the Mt. Greenwood section of the South Side. This place is basically Irish heaven. I can’t throw a damn potato without hitting someone with ancestry stretching back to the island.

“How many does that make?” Declan asks, leaning up against the wall as I come back inside. He takes a slug of beer and grins. Thirty years old and still acts like a kid sometimes.

“Too many,” I grunt at him. Although I know the number. That’s the thirteenth petition I’ve heard in the last hour alone.

“You’d think they’d leave you alone, seeing as it’s Sunday dinner and all.” He follows me back into the study. I sit behind the desk, just wanting a second to gather myself, but he plops in the chair opposite where Mrs. Ryan sat a minute ago. “None of them would approach me out in the street to ask some little bullshit favor. It’s like they think you’re the Don from The Godfather and it’s your daughter’s wedding day or some shit.”

I sigh and rub my face. “Dad used to do this,” I say and glance over at a picture of him from when he was young. Big and strong, my old man, with black hair and a broad smile. Everyone loved old Boss Quinn, and even though I’ve worked my ass off to fill his shoes, sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m enough.

“You don’t have to keep all his routines, you know,” Declan says and his face goes serious. “You’re the head of the Quinns now. You can make those calls.”

“Give it some time. People need to get used to me, and if I start making changes all of a sudden, they’ll find more reasons to complain. I’ll ease into it.”

He shrugs and looks over his shoulder as Seamus cheers about something in the living room. “Fucker probably just won money off me,” he grumbles and gets to his feet. “By the way, Father Michaels wanted you to fix some shit at the church. I forget what it was, but he said to call him.”

“Yeah, okay.” I make a note of it in my little book of shit that has to get done. “Anything else?”

“Nah, I’m good, but I’m sure you’ll hear from the others eventually.” He grins at me. “You wanna place a bet? I’ll give you good odds.”

“Fuck off, Declan.”

He laughs and leaves me in peace. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Even though it’s been two weeks since I last saw my wife-to-be, every spare second I manage to find each day somehow finds her slipping into my head. I hear her laugh and feel her hip under my fingers and see the way her head tilted to the side as her mouth parted in that hallway at the country club, and I wonder for the thousandth time if she would’ve kissed me back.

But then there’s a knock at the door and it’s back to work.

I handle another dozen petitions before Mom finally shuts the front door and hangs a wreath on it, the universal symbol for fuck off, we’re closed. After that, I get a little calm, or what masquerades as calm in my family.

Molly and Caitlin are arguing about some stupid shit, while Seamus keeps saying Declan was cheating, and Nolan’s bugging me to give him more important jobs at the law firm, and foods get passed around, a drink is spilled, and nobody’s paying much attention to anything but themselves.

Except for me. I keep seeing Mom. Poor Orla Quinn, widow much too young. Her wrinkles look deeper and her hair seems grayer since Dad passed, and she barely eats anything, barely even lifts her head up to smile at a joke Seamus makes. Molly’s chatting at her too, and she makes little noises like she understands, but there’s been a distance in Mom.

She’s deep in grief. I think we all are. Dad was a hard man, but he was the center of our family, the star around which we orbited, and things are strange without him. I’ve contorted myself into his position, but I haven’t managed to fill the hole he left and I doubt I ever will.

But I love these people. Even if they drive me fucking crazy, I love them, and I’d take the boss role a thousand times over if it means they get to live relatively normal lives.

I don’t care how much pressure’s grinding down on my shoulders. I’m too damn stubborn to let it stop me.

But this is why I need to marry Elena. The Bianco family is powerful, and if I can make this alliance happen for real and finally get the Waterfront project moving, the project my father cared the most about but could never complete himself, I’ll be able to prove to everyone that I belong where I am.

I just have to use my sway with the CPD to help their war.

Which isn’t an easy ask. Sure, there are a ton of Irish cops, and most of them are more than happy to take my envelopes once a month, except there’s only so much they can do. My influence runs high and it runs deep, but I’m not my father. There’s more skepticism aimed my way.

After the meal, most of my siblings retreat into the living room to drink and argue some more. I help Mom clear the table and get things cleaned up, and I listen to her humming Dad’s old favorite songs, those ancient Rat Pack tunes they used to dance to in the living room while his beat-up turntable spun around and skipped half the time.

“How are you holding up?” I ask her, trying to make it sound casual.

Mom only shrugs. She doesn’t look up from where she’s wrapping the leftovers. “House gets too quiet when all of you aren’t around.”

I smile to myself. “I don’t know how you miss it. Remember when it was like when we were growing up? Six kids in a four-bedroom house.”

“All that noise was love,” she says, staring at the counter and not moving. “You know, at the time, I would’ve given anything for a little peace and quiet. Then you all got older, and started moving into your own places, but it was okay. I had your father, and he got visitors all the time. But now that stopped.”

I study my mother, how small and slow she seems. I remember her as this enormous force, this vitality, this warmth. “Maybe we can do this more often. Sundays and Thursdays.”

She shrugs. “It’s hard enough doing it once. Don’t worry about me, sweetie. You’ve got enough to deal with.”

“Mom—”

But she’s already opening the refrigerator and waving me off.

It kills me, the depths of her pain. Losing Dad was like losing a piece of herself, and I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t think I can, and that drives me crazy. I’m the head of this family—I’m the one who solves the problems. Except I can’t solve hers.

Once the kitchen’s done, I head back toward the living room, already mentally making a dinner schedule for all the siblings. If we take a night each, then all come Sundays, Mom never has to eat alone. All I have to do is juggle a bunch of egos and make sure they all commit.

My phone rings before I get a chance to start barking orders. I take it in the office and shut the door.

“Brody Quinn, this is Omar Ali.”

I sit in stunned silence for a beat. “Councilman Ali, how are you?”

“Just call me Omar.” He doesn’t sound happy to be talking to me, but he’s not cursing me out, which is an improvement. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you, Quinn. My wife’s been on my ass about having you and Elena over for dinner, which means I have to smile and be fucking nice.”

I choke back a laugh. “The things we do for the ones we love.”

“Yeah, fuck you. You’re in for this, right? We’ll eat, make small talk, make the girls happy. But I still don’t like you. Just make sure your fiancée shows up.”

“Works for me. Except she won’t be my fiancée.”

Omar’s voice gets hard. “Are you fucking around with me, right?”

“Not at all. By the time we sit down for dinner, Elena will be my wife.” I grin to myself, eyes closed, fingers rubbing my forehead. I couldn’t help myself.

I can practically hear Omar’s teeth grinding together. “Fine. Wife. Whatever. The girls will work out the details.”

He hangs up. I stare at the phone and lean my head back.

Fucking Elena. I bark out a laugh, unable to help it. God damn, that girl just worked a miracle. And all at once, my hard work and stress suddenly seem manageable.