Page 30 of Captive Heart: Armani
“I was thinking maybe you could help me with the online baby registry?” I say. “Not the computer part, just the list of things I’ll need to add to it. Obviously it’s kind of early—I know you’re not supposed to get too excited before the twelve-week mark—but I thought you might have some ideas. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Sure. I can do that. Been through it enough times myself.”
“Thank you.”
She takes a few chips and thinks as she eats them one at a time, and then says, “People are gonna bombard you with cutesie clothes and toys once the baby comes, and for every holiday after that, so don’t ask for any of those things in advance. Ask for the stuff you really need. Diapers, mountains of ‘em, plus wipes and burping cloths and onesies and socks. Those socks will be disappearing left and right, believe me. You can never have enough.”
“This is great,” I say, nodding as I hurriedly dig a pen out of my purse and start writing down notes on my napkin.
By the time the waiter drops off our food, we’ve made some really solid progress.
About two bites into the meal, Mom’s phone rings. Her purse is hanging on the back of her chair and the ringing won’t stop, so she fishes it out of her bag and winces before answering. It’s probably my dad. I can’t imagine any other name popping up on her screen would elicit that kind of reaction, and if it was a bill collector, she wouldn’t feel the need to pick up.
“Hello?”
Even with all the ambient noise of the restaurant, I can hear the rumbling sound of my father’s voice on the other end. She covers her other ear and tilts her head, squinting her eyes.
“Say that again,” she says. “Sean what?”
I see it on her face the instant she comprehends whatever my dad is telling her. It’s something bad. Something that has her turning white as a sheet.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” I ask.
“He’s…dead,” she chokes out, her tear-filled eyes lifting to mine.
“What?”
The phone slips from her grasp, clanking onto the table. My mother just stares at it like it’s a figment of her imagination. Somehow, I grab the phone. My hands are shaking. My mouth is dry. My heart is slamming so hard in my chest, I can feel each thump like a hammer blow.
“Dad? What happened to Sean?”
My father sobs, then rambles on.
“He got shot by some fucking Russian. Shot him point blank, right in front of the house.” His hoarse voice breaks off as another sob wracks him. “‘God gave, God took back.’ That’s what he said when he killed my boy. I rode in the ambulance with him so he wasn’t alone. All the way to the hospital, they tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late. There was so much blood.”
There’s a roaring in my ears, a numbness that has taken over my entire body. The restaurant goes blurry all around me. I can’t process this. This can’t be right.
My brother Sean. The only one of my brothers who ever let me walk to school with him. He was the youngest Gallagher before I came along, so he probably felt like he owed me one for taking his place as the family scapegoat. I remember when he was twelve or thirteen and joined the Boy Scouts, he started camping out in the backyard on Friday nights. Sometimes—not always, but sometimes—he’d let me drag my pillow and a flashlight into the tent and then he’d tell me scary stories until I got so scared I had to run back to the house to hide under the covers.
I just can’t believe it. He’s…gone. Dead. Sean is dead.
Murdered by a Russian.
Pain lances through my chest as the realization blooms. This wasn’t some random hit. This was the Bratva’s retaliation for the fire at the Bruno bakery.
My husband, the father of my child, started the fight that just killed my brother.
12
CANDI
My brother’sfuneral is a sparse affair. An overcast sky leaves the church interior dim and gloomy, and a mere handful of people are in attendance—including a few that I’ve never met. A group of young men who I assume are his friends take up the back row of seats, leaving the middle pews mostly bare and the front occupied by myself, my parents, and my three other brothers. Conor, Patrick, and Liam are red-eyed but their expressions are grim, not sorrowful.
I wonder if they’re afraid of who might be next. I know I’m thinking about it.
I’ve heard a few coughs and sniffles, but I haven’t seen a single guest shed a tear. Not my mother. Certainly not my dad; he’s always been the stoic type. My brothers mostly stare at their feet during the service, while my mother fidgets with the strap of her black purse. The church is eerily silent during the pauses in Father Murphy’s sermon, which has me feeling even more on edge. I’ve been to funerals before where emotions seem to drip from the walls and surround you with an almost palpable air of grief.
Not today. Not this funeral. There’s something else brewing in this room.
