Page 4 of Shattered Hearts
“To invite you to dinner.” For a second, Harper’s cheerfulness comes across as forced, but it’s gone so fast I must have imagined it. “There’s a big dinner at the estate tonight, and you’re invited.”
Once the shock fades, I search for a polite way to refuse my sister without barking out a laugh or a “hell no.”
She takes my speechless silence as an opportunity. “Please, Ry? It would mean a lot to me if you came. I need you there.”
I stand in the hallway as dread and foreboding douse me in steady waves. I’d rather stick a dirty, Hep-B infected needle in my eye than voluntarily return to the Gallagher mansion.
But despite common sense screaming at me to say no, I find myself wavering.
I always did struggle to deny my twin anything. Plus, if I go, maybe I’ll overhear something that can help identify the men who abused Charlene.
“What time?”
“Seven o’clock. I’m…I’m glad you’re coming.”
The line goes dead.
Against my better judgment, by six fifteen, my cab mushes through the snowy streets.
As usual, my chest twinges as I watch normal families huddle together on the sidewalks, their expressions brightened by holiday cheer, and couples squeezing each other’s mittened hands while pointing at window displays.
Jodi’s words return to my mind.
Put yourself out there. Move on with someone new.
It’s not as if I’ve never thought about it. Trying again.
What I can’t tell Jodi is that dating is impossible for me because of my background. I won’t risk exposing outsiders to my family, and hard pass on dating any of my family’s associates.
Besides, during the entire twenty years I spent in my family’s good graces, I only encounteredoneguy I’d ever evenconsiderdating, and?—
My mind shies away from finishing that thought.
I glance down at my outfit. In an act of defiance, I skipped dressing up and am still rocking today’s work outfit: loose, black slacks, a long-sleeved black shirt, and flat black boots. Basically, I resemble a funeral director’s emo assistant.
I lean forward in the cab. “You can drop me off over there.”
The driver pulls up to the curb in front of the estate’s east gate entrance.
The tall, bald guard does a double take when he sees me. “Riley Brennan. It’s been a minute.”
I nod. “Monty. Nice to see you again.”
He waves me through the pedestrian entrance. I follow the walkway framed by snow-covered hedges and glowing string lights until I reach the second iron gate.
With stiff, shaky fingers, I punch in the keycode, and the gate creaks open.
The ghosts of my childhood whisper across my skin as I hurry through the palatial gardens. The hedge maze triggers a memory of the time Harper and I played tag here as children. While running away, I clipped the edge of a fountain, fell, and cut myself.
When I ran to our father, teary-eyed and bleeding, he backhanded me across the face.
I shiver as I approach the enormous estate, which grows more imposing with every step. By the time I make it to the front door, the emotional reflux of this place threatens to choke me.
Coming here was a mistake. What was I thinking? That after everything, I could return unscathed to the Gallagher mansion, home of Shane Gallagher, his upper echelon, and their families? That I could saunter back into the estate housing one of the most powerful crime families in New York City—the Irish Kings’ business dealings cover drug trafficking, prostitution, real estate, clubs and illegal gambling—as if I’d never left?
I whirl to leave as the mansion’s grand front doors swing open. The figure that appears in the entryway stops me in my tracks.
The air squeezes from my lungs.