Brutal Obsession

Chapter One

Maeve

The cold wind whips at my face, drowning out the drone of the priest’s voice reciting words that I would rather not know as well as I do.

I know Father McCleary himself very well. He baptized me and my brother, and my sister. Helped me choose my saint’s name at my confirmation. Presided over my sister’s wedding.

He buried my sister. Buried my father. And now, on the bleakest, rainiest day of February so far, he’s burying my brother. 

There are only a handful of mourners at the gravesite. Anyone important who once knew Desmond, who did business with him, wouldn’t dare be seen here. Not after what they say he did. 

Not after how he died.

Ronan O’Malley isn’t here today. Neither is his brother, Tristan. His father is dead, too, executed by order of the Council. His sister, Annie, is nowhere to be seen. But of course, if what everyone is saying is true, she wouldn’t be.

The thought rips at my already tattered heart.

I never thought I’d be grateful for how my father died. No violence; just illness. But Boston has been soaked in blood these past six months, and it’s put a lot in perspective for me.

Hidden under the wide black edge of my oversized umbrella, I look at the stones next to Desmond’s grave. Our father, Joel Connelly, is on one side of him, gone a month after my sister died, without ever letting us know he was sick before it was too late. On the other side, a stone with my sister’s name—bearing her maiden name, at Desmond’s insistence, not her married one. Siobhan Connelly, resting in peace, perhaps, even though nothing about her was peaceful—not her life or the woman herself.

My sister was a difficult person to live with, to know, to be related to, or bound to in any capacity. But I would never have wanted her dead. Especially not the way she went, just a few months ago: murdered, while she was in bed with her lover. A man who wasn’t her husband. Not Ronan O’Malley, who was safe in his mansion while my sister looked for comfort elsewhere.

At least, that last was how Desmond talked about it. I’m not so sure. I didn’t have the blind spot he did where Siobhan was concerned. I doubt she was looking for comfort in the man she slept with; more likely, she wanted a way to hurt the husband she was talked into marrying and didn’t like in the slightest. 

Or she was just acting with no thought for anyone else. That wouldn’t surprise me, either. 

There’s no spot for our mother—she left when I was ten, so she won’t join us here when all of the Connelly family is finally laid to rest. Just one space left, where I’ll be, eventually.

If the pattern of the way things are going is any indication, maybe that won’t be so far in the future. Right now, I don’t know that I’d mind it. It sounds peaceful, honestly. Quiet. Like I wouldn’t have to be afraid any longer.

Life wasn’t good, exactly, when the rest of my family was alive. But now it’s so much worse.

My father, dead. Siobhan, murdered. And Desmond…

If this is all true, then my brother was a villain. A stalker, an attempted rapist, and a murderer. And while he was arrogant and cold and sometimes cruel to me, I never thought he was capable of that.

I’m realizing that people are capable of a lot that they hide from others. It makes me wonder if anyone is really who they seem. If anyone can be trusted.

Not that it matters. I don’t have anyone, any longer. Only myself.

And myself isn’t enough to keep me safe in this world.

As Father McCleary finishes up, the mourners start to toss handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. Numbly, I do the same, watching it collide with the gleaming, rain-spattered black of the coffin lid. It feels unthinkable that my brother is in there. That the same man who brought me home a kitten shortly after our father died doesn’t exist anymore. That what’s in there is just a body, and Desmond is gone.

He wasn’t always kind, but he could be, sometimes—unlike Siobhan, who never was. And still, somehow, I grieved her, too. She was still my sister. I never knew how to untangle that from the kind of person she was, and now, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to.

It feels like I’ve been grieving forever. There’s no end in sight.

People dressed in black walk past, murmuring condolences, hurrying away. There will be no wake for Desmond. I’m the only one who could arrange it, and even though I feel like I’ve failed him, failed my family by not doing so, I just… couldn’t. Who would come, anyway, after what it’s said that he did? A wake with only a few people there feels worse than nothing at all. What life is there to celebrate, when it ended the way it did?

I saw the bullet hole in his forehead. I sat with Ronan and Annie O’Malley as they explained to me what happened. As they told me everything.

I should stop thinking about it as what they said he did. He did it. I don’t think they were lying. Ronan, I could have disbelieved, but not Annie. Not when I saw her face—the regret there, the grief, the hurt, the wishing that she didn’t have to be the one to tell me who my brother was. But Ronan was right to bring her along, because I wouldn’t have believed him.

I couldn’t not believe her.

Father McCleary is the last one to leave. He comes to stand next to me as I stare at the grave blankly, unable to make my feet move. Somewhere behind me, on the road that runs past the cemetery, a car is waiting for me with a driver and security. There are quite a few guards watching me, considering what’s happened over the last six months. 

A driver. Guards. Part of the staff. Household staff. I’ll have to pay them. How do I pay them? I don’t know how to get into the accounts. A flurry of thoughts runs through my head, crashing into each other as Father McCleary lays a gentle hand on my arm.

“Maeve.”

I flinch sharply, looking up at him. Concern is written all over every inch of his lined face. “Father.”

“I know…” He takes a slow breath. “This is a difficult time for you. Desmond—”

“I’m surprised you said Mass for him and agreed to bury him, considering what he did.” I turn my gaze back to the grave. The six-foot hole. The lacquered coffin. It’s not my brother. I saw him in it, but it doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real. 

Father McCleary pauses. “He wasn’t tried or convicted, Maeve. I know there’s other justice in this city, and perhaps your brother did all he was accused of. But despite my respect for Ronan O’Malley, a summary execution isn’t a lawful one. According to the Church, your brother was in good standing, so I did what I could.” He hesitates. “And I thought it might give you some peace.”

My throat tightens. So Father McCleary does believe that Desmond did it, I think, as I stare at the dirt sprinkled across the top of the coffin. Today wasn’t for Desmond. It was for me.

An attempt to give me something to cling to in the midst of all this horror. 

I force a smile. “That was thoughtful of you.” My voice sounds cracked, a doll-like whisper. “I… just need a few minutes alone with him.”

Father McCleary hesitates, then nods. “If you need anything at all, Maeve, come by the church. Or just call me. I can come to you if you need someone to talk to or if you need counsel. I mean it. Anything you need.”

I swallow hard, nodding. The umbrella shakes, sending a rain of droplets down, and I realize Father McCleary doesn’t have an umbrella of his own. He’s getting soaked, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“You should get inside, Father,” I manage. “Before you catch a cold.”

“As should you, Maeve.” He hesitates, then pats me gently on the arm before walking slowly away.

I’m left alone there, standing at my brother’s graveside. I look at the graves bracketing it, at the empty spot where I’ll someday lie. None of this feels real. It feels like a nightmare, like a horrible dream that they could all be gone.

Fear creeps through my veins, cold as the icy rain pelting my umbrella. I’m completely alone, unprotected in a dangerous world. The men who guard me don’t care for me; they care for the money they’ve been paid. I have to figure out how to run this estate now on my own, how to pay for everyone who works for my family, how to upkeep the house, how to do all of the things that I was never taught because I was the shadow, the quiet one, the one who would eventually be married off and forgotten about. The only reason I wasn’t is because my family started dropping like flies too close to when I turned eighteen.

Eighteen is too young for this. Too young for all this burden, all this responsibility. I’ve inherited everything with no idea of how to manage it, and I know there are wolves waiting for me in the dark, men who will want to take everything I have. Who will steal me, force me, drag me in front of a priest in order to claim what’s mine. Unless Ronan takes me under his protection, I’m nothing but a young, orphaned heiress with no protection, bleeding meat left out for any predator who wants it. And I can’t imagine why Ronan would protect me.

My sister hated him, mocked him, hurt him, betrayed him. My brother tried to hurt and steal—and then murder his sister. And now there’s only me.

A ghost in my own life.

There’s the sound of a throat clearing behind me, and I realize that I’ve been standing here for a long time… how long, I’m not entirely sure. The ground around Desmond’s grave has turned to mud. I’m so cold my teeth are chattering. 

“Miss Connelly.” Brian, the head of my security, is behind me. “If you need to stay longer, we can, but the weather is getting worse. We should get you home.”

A part of me doesn’t want to move. A part of me wants to stay right here, until the rain freezes me through, until I collapse, until I no longer have to deal with any of this. Not my grief, or the inheritance waiting for me, or all of the dangers waiting, gathering, teeth bared as I walk into whatever tomorrow brings.

“Okay,” I hear myself say, my voice hollow. Brian takes my arm, and I follow him up the hill to the waiting car.

The drive home passes in a blur of rain-smeared glass and bare trees reaching up to a grey sky like clawed fingers. Everything feels dark, heavy, the weather a perfect match for my mood. I feel numb all the way through as Brian opens a door for me and I walk up the gravel path to the front door of the mansion I’ve lived in all my life.

I’m so cold that my skin stings when I step into the warmth of the house, my extremities tingling as I shed my coat and boots and drop the rain-soaked umbrella onto the gleaming wood of the foyer entrance. I rub my hands together, trying to get some warmth back in them.

The house feels cavernous and empty, yawning past me into the too-large expanse of it. Despite the warmth inside, the floor feels chilly against my bare feet as I pad down the hallway that leads into the main area of the house. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking just ahead, and it feels more ominous than usual, as if it’s ticking down to the moment when someone decides to take charge of my life.

If I were another sort of person, living a different life, I’d think that I’m the someone that should be doing that. But I’ve never had any control over my life. Someone else has always been in charge of every part of it—what I eat, what I do, what I learn, what my future will be. I have my clothes and my books and a few other things that I can make my own, but for the most part, my life has been wholly shaped by others.

I hear footsteps and look to see Mrs. Brady, the housekeeper, in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. She's been with our family for twenty years—longer than I’ve been alive—and the lines around her eyes have deepened considerably in the last few months. She takes one look at me, and her expression crumples with sympathy.

"Miss Maeve, you're soaked through. Let me draw you a bath."

I shake my head, water dripping from my hair onto the gleaming floor. "I'm fine. I just need to change."

"You'll catch your death," she insists, her hands on her hips as she takes in my bedraggled appearance. "Please, let me help you."

Catch my death. The phrase strikes me as darkly funny. Death has already caught everyone else in my family. Why should I be any different?

"Really, Mrs. Brady. I'm fine." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and I see her face fall a bit. Guilt floods through me. She's only trying to help, and she's one of the few people left who knew my family, who remembers what this house was like when it was full of life instead of ghosts. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

She nods, her eyes glistening. "It's all right, dear. I understand. You've been through so much." She hesitates, then adds, "There's soup on the stove if you're hungry later."

I'm not hungry. I can't remember the last time I was truly hungry. But I nod anyway, because it's easier than explaining that I feel hollowed out, that there's nothing inside me but fear and grief and a terrible, gnawing emptiness.

I climb the stairs to my room, each step feeling like it takes more effort than the last. The house is too quiet. It's always been a large house, but when my family was alive, there was noise. Siobhan's sharp laughter and biting tongue, Desmond's heavy footsteps, my father's voice booming from his office. Even the arguments, the tension, the undercurrent of violence that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface of our lives—it was something. It was proof that we existed, that we were alive.

Now there's nothing but silence and the sound of my own breathing.

My room is exactly as I left it this morning. The bed is made, the curtains drawn back to let in the grey light filtering through the rain-streaked windows. Everything is neat and orderly, just the way I've always kept it. When you grow up in a family like mine, you learn to take up as little space as possible. You learn to be quiet, to be invisible, to never give them a reason to notice you. I never wanted to draw my father’s ire over a messy room or impose on the staff to keep it clean. I never wanted to give Siobhan a reason to cut me down or Desmond a reason to lecture. I never knew if Desmond would be kind or a bully, but Siobhan was almost always cruel. 

Shutting the door behind me, I start to peel off my wet clothes, my fingers still clumsy with cold. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of myself—pale skin, red hair plastered to my head, eyes that look too large in my thin face. I look like a ghost. I feel like one.

I leave the wet clothes in a pile on the floor—who is going to get upset at me for it now, anyway?—and go to draw my own bath. When the water is steaming hot, I slide into it, wincing with pain at the sudden heat against my cold body. But the pain feels good, in a way. Cathartic. An outward expression of what I feel inside, all of the time. 

I lie there for a long time in the darkening bathroom, until my fingers prune and the water starts to gradually turn cold. I try not to think about anything—not about Desmond’s body cold and still in his grave, next to the decomposing bodies of my sister and father, not about my empty spot next to theirs. Not about the accounts I don’t know how to access or the uncertain future that my father didn’t have time to decide for me, or the men guarding this house that might or might not remain loyal to me. 

Trying not to think about the wolves circling in the dark.

What’s stopping any one of them from coming upstairs? From finding out what liberties they could take with the Connelly heiress? Not Mrs. Brady or myself. Only loyalty and honor, and the last paycheck Desmond gave them. They’re all that’s left to protect me, and if any one of them or more decided to change their mind about it…

I’m in danger, and I know it. Possibly from the men always in and around the house, certainly from men outside it. I can’t arrange my own marriage or seek out someone to keep me safe. I don’t have access to any of the knowledge of the accounts that might help me sell this house, or find somewhere else to live, or seek out a different life. And even then, I doubt I’d be safe in this city. I’d have to go somewhere else, start out somewhere completely different, where no one knew who I was.

For a moment, as I climb out of the tub and reach for a fluffy towel, the idea sparks an adventurous warmth in my chest. Could I do that? Could I just… leave? Try to be someone else, somewhere else? 

But I don’t have money, or a driver’s license. I don’t know where any identification is that could make it possible for me to leave—no birth certificate or Social Security card. It’s all locked away in my father’s office, probably, or maybe kept somewhere else. I have no idea. And I have no money. 

That hollow, terrified feeling returns. Who am I? I’m nothing except what they decided I would be—my father, Desmond, the men who run this city. I was always too frightened, too cowed to try to be anything else, to try to fight for anything for myself. And now I’m reaping the consequences of it. 

A soft mraow distracts me as I walk into the bedroom, and Fluff emerges from under the bed, coming to wrap around my ankles. It’s a silly name for a cat, but I called her that when Desmond first brought her to me while I tried to think of a name, and it stuck. She’s a fluffy kitten with soft grey fur and blue eyes, only a little bigger than she was when Desmond brought her home. It was probably the nicest thing he ever did for me.

“Hey there,” I murmur, feeling comforted by the sensation of her rubbing against my ankles. She keeps doing it as I fish out a pair of soft leggings and an oversized taupe-colored cashmere sweater from my dresser, with a soft cranberry-colored lace bralette to go under it and a pair of fluffy wool socks in an oatmeal color to keep my feet warm. I’ve always had a tendency to dress in oversized clothing, to want to hide my shape. Not because anyone in my house ever made me feel threatened, but because I was always very aware of what my developing body would mean for me, one day. That turning eighteen would mean being passed off to whatever man could help bolster our family’s wealth and influence, exactly as Siobhan was. 

What do I do now? I reach down, scooping up Fluff and cuddling her close to my chest, tucking my chin against the softness of her head as I try to think past the fear and grief hanging over me like a heavy fog. I could call Ronan and ask him for help, as little as I want to. I could start going through my father's papers, trying to figure out how to manage the estate, how to pay the staff, how to keep this house running. I could go downstairs and start with something as simple as eating a bowl of soup.

Instead, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at nothing.

Fluff butts her head against my chin, and I keep stroking her fur absently. I’m not completely alone, I suppose. At least there's this small, warm creature who depends on me, who doesn't care about inheritances or mafia politics or the fact that my entire family is dead.

The light outside fades. I wait for Mrs. Brady to come up and knock on the door, to urge me to come out, but maybe she’s decided that it’s better to let me wallow. Maybe, after the way the last months have been, she’s finally given up and realized that there’s no help for me. That thought makes me sadder than it should, especially since it would be entirely my fault if that were true. 

The knock on the front door, when it comes, makes me jump so violently that Fluff leaps off the bed with an indignant yowl. My heart is suddenly racing, pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. For a moment, I can't move, frozen with a terror that feels both irrational and completely justified.

This is it, I think. Someone’s come for me. Someone is going to try to take me away. 

I stand up, walking to my door and stepping just out into the hall, my hands trembling. I hear Mrs. Brady's footsteps in the foyer below, hear the sound of the door opening. Voices drift up the stairs—Mrs. Brady's, and then a man's voice, deep and accented. Irish, but not from Boston. From Ireland itself, I think, though I'm not certain. It’s thicker than any accent I’ve heard here, where everyone is at least one generation removed from the family members who came over to the States.

"I'm here to see Miss Connelly," the man says. "On behalf of the Irish Council in Dublin."

The Irish Council. My blood runs cold.

I don’t know much about the inner workings of the Irish mafia or about the business dealings my father and brother had, but I do know that every Irishman in Boston who works for the mafia, from the bosses all the way down to the lowliest dockworker, answers to the Irish Council. They’re five elderly men who run everything from their seats in Dublin, overseeing Irish business both at home and abroad. 

I know that their word is law. Whatever they decide is irrefutable, be it over business or marriage or money, or death. And if they’ve come here to see me, it’s because they’ve decided something about my future. 

A part of me thinks perhaps I should be relieved. If a decision has been made for me, maybe I won’t have to be so frightened anymore. But the rest of me is so frightened I feel like I can barely breathe, all the warmth from my bath leached out of me in an instant.

I take a shaky step forward toward the stairs, smoothing down my sweater with trembling hands. Whatever this is, I can't hide from it. I can't cower in my room like a child. I'm the only one left in this family, the heiress, the last Connelly in Boston. I have to face whatever's coming.

Even if I'm terrified.

Even if I have no idea what I'm doing.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk down the stairs. At the bottom of the landing, I pause, looking out into the foyer. Mrs. Brady is standing by the open door, looking uncertain and worried. Beyond her, I can see four men standing on the doorstep.

Three men in dark suits, rain dripping from their coats—and one more, who I can’t really make out—he’s standing so far back in the darkness. But he looks huge, taller than the rest, and broader. My pulse spikes, fear pounding through my veins. 

The one in front is older, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and a weathered face. He's looking up at me now, his expression unreadable.

"Miss Connelly," he says, his thick Irish accent confirming my guess. "My name is Connor McBride. I'm here from Dublin, on behalf of the Irish Council. We need to speak with you about your family's estate and your future."

My future.

The words hang in the air like a threat.

I grip the banister, my knuckles white, and force myself to nod, trying to keep my expression calm. I don’t want to let them see how afraid I am. I don’t want to give them that.

“Can we come in, Miss Connelly?” Connor says, his voice polite, but with a firmness that tells me that no isn’t an acceptable answer. He’s trying to remain decorous, but if I did what I want to do and told them to leave, I can only imagine the consequences.

Not least of which, I’d certainly be left without any protection at all. Even if they would leave, rejecting the Council would mean that Ronan could no longer offer me any assistance if he were inclined to do so. I would be completely and utterly on my own.

I think of everything I don’t know, everything I have no idea how to access. I think of how impossible it is to begin alone from where I am. I think of the former Italian don who killed my sister, Rocco, and how he was trafficking women—of how many other men like him there must be out there.

Men who would prey on me, steal from me, force me, sell me. 

I have no choice. 

“Yes,” I manage, my voice cracking. “Come in.”

Connor steps in, followed by the two other older men, both of whom look near his age but perhaps not quite as elderly. And then the fourth man steps in, standing slightly behind the others. When I see him step into the light of the entryway, my breath catches in my throat.

He must be well over six feet tall—six and a half, maybe. The others aren’t particularly short, but he towers over them. Just looking at him makes me feel frail. His presence seems to fill the space he’s in, overwhelming everything else, and when he takes off his hat—a newsboy-style cap—I see that he has short dark hair that’s slightly damp at the edges from the rain, and a face that's all hard angles and sharp edges, stubble on his jaw. I see a scar through one eyebrow and another along the lower part of his cheek and chin on one side, and when his eyes briefly meet mine, I see that they’re a cold, piercing green. Just meeting his gaze makes my skin feel chilled.

He looks dangerous. He looks like violence personified, like death in black jeans and a leather jacket.

And he’s looking at me as if he can’t stand the sight of me.

A smirk curves one corner of his mouth as he sees me staring, but it’s not an amused smirk. There’s not an ounce of humor in him that I can see. 

“Miss Connelly,” Connor begins, drawing my attention back to him, “perhaps we can have this discussion somewhere private?”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Of course," I hear myself say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Mrs. Brady, would you show them to the sitting room? And get drinks for our guests, perhaps? Tea for me, please, and whatever they would like to have."

Mrs. Brady nods, relief crossing her face at having something to do. She ushers the men forward, and I follow, acutely aware of the tall man's gaze on me as he passes, burning into my skin like a brand.

Whatever's about to happen, I know with absolute certainty that my life is about to change.