Page 108 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Gabriel takes a deep breath. "A package arrived about an hour ago. From Patrick."
He holds up a Polaroid photograph, and even from across the room I can see what it shows—a body, bloodied and broken, unmistakably male.
"No," Rosalina whispers, and I feel her knees buckle.
I catch her, holding her upright as Gabriel continues, his voice steady but strained.
"Dolan is dead. Patrick killed him when he tried to sneak Erin out of the O'Connor estate." He pauses. "The message on the back says 'Do not be stupid.'"
"Erin?" Rosalina gasps, her whole body shaking. "Where is Erin? Is she?—"
"We don’t know," Dante says, moving closer. "The photograph shows only Dolan. There was nothing about Erin."
"The package," Gabriel says, gesturing to a box sitting on the hall table. "It was sitting on top of a larger box. Addressed to you. From Seamus."
Rosalina pulls away from me, stumbling toward the table like she is in a trance. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for the box, and I move to stand behind her, ready to catch her if she falls.
She opens it slowly, and I watch over her shoulder as she pulls out the contents one by one.
A leather motorcycle jacket—worn and loved, clearly well-used.
A watch—expensive, heavy, with an inscription on the back I cannot read from this angle.
And a piece of paper that makes Rosalina's breath catch in her throat.
A birth certificate.
I lean closer to read it, and my heart clenches when I see the name printed there in official type:
Rosalina Margaret O'Connor
Born: March 15, 1945
Father: Seamus Patrick O'Connor
Mother: Margaret Anne O'Connor (deceased)
"He—" Rosalina's voice breaks completely. "He made it official. He—I am really his daughter. Not adopted. His actual daughter. He changed my birth certificate. He?—"
She collapses into sobs, clutching the certificate to her chest, and I gather her into my arms while she falls apart.
"I never got to tell him I loved him," she chokes out between sobs. "I never got to say goodbye. And now Dolan is dead and Erin is—God, Erin is pregnant and alone and Dolan is dead and it is all my fault?—"
"No," I say firmly, holding her tighter. "This is not your fault. This is Patrick's fault. All of it."
But she is not listening, just crying harder, the birth certificate crumpled against my chest, her whole body wracked with grief so profound it makes my own chest ache.
Dante and Gabriel close in around us, creating a protective circle, but there is nothing we can do to shield her from this pain.
Dolan is dead.
Erin is missing.
And Seamus—Seamus left her one final gift, one final proof that she was loved and claimed and his.
And she never got to thank him for it.
I hold her while she cries, while she breaks, while she mourns everything she has lost.
