Sparrow(4)

Then there was also the sneer. The challenging smirk plastered on his face 24/7, reminding us all just how unworthy we were in comparison.

I feared and loathed Troy Brennan. He was practically untouchable in Boston. Loved among the cops and respected by the local gangs, he was able to get away with murder.

Literally.

Three years ago, Troy had been the prime suspect in the murder of Billy “Baby Face” Crupti. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charge stick, but word on the street was the murder was payback. Supposedly Crupti was the one who’d killed Cillian Brennan. No one knew who had sent the simpleton gangster to off Troy’s father or why. The timing was odd. Cillian’s illegal activities were pretty irrelevant to gangland Boston by then. Then there was also the Father McGregor tale, about how Troy killed him too, for ratting about his father’s whereabouts to Crupti.

Yeah, Troy Brennan wasn’t one to take any prisoners.

I still remembered how, growing up, I used to wait for my turn to ride Daisy’s bike (she was the only girl in the neighborhood to have one, and with training wheels, too), and watch in awe when he ran into the cops. I swear the police patted down the boy down the street more than a newborn puppy. They were waiting impatiently for teenage Brennan to follow in his father’s footsteps. He got slammed into the hood of every patrol car that rolled by, and every cop on our beat knew the curve of his ass by heart.

Now cops were too scared to even look at him.

As I stood in the hotel suite’s bathroom, staring at his expressionless face, I realized that I had no cards to play. And even if I had cards, he owned the freaking table.

I was completely trapped, a caged bird with clipped wings.

“Can I still work?” I asked through a strangled voice. Mob wives were not allowed to, but Troy was not a mobster. Technically. He took a step closer, his breath falling on my face.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want. You have a long leash.”

I felt his lips traveling inches from the crook of my neck, and I stilled. Thankfully, he didn’t touch me.

“But let’s get one thing straight—when it comes to men, I’m the only fucking one for you. Do not test me on this subject, because the consequences will be grave for you…and for him.”

He was being deliberately obnoxious, but his words still stung. I tried to focus on the small victory I was granted. I could still work. Still get out of the house and avoid him. Now it was just a matter of finding a job to keep me busy.

“If my leash is so long, why is Connor following me around?” I lifted my chin, challenging him.

“Because I always protect what’s mine.”

“I’m not your property, Brennan.” I seethed, narrowing my eyes. Yes, I was scared, but more than anything, I was royally pissed off.

“The fact that you’re in a wedding dress and have my ring on your finger begs to fucking differ,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “But even if you weren’t, with the amount of enemies I’ve collected in this city, anyone affiliated with me needs protection. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and headed out the door.

It was only after he left my personal space that I released the breath that was trapped in my lungs for what felt like a decade. Why was he so hell-bent on reminding me how dangerous he was?

“You’re not going to get away with doing this to me, you know,” I called out after him, watching his broad back.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Red. I get away with everything. Always.” He didn’t even bother to turn around to face me.

Did he just call me Red?

“Oh, so now I have a nickname? This marriage isn’t real, Brennan. No matter what will happen in church this afternoon.”

That finally made him react. He turned his head in my direction. Our eyes locked. His frosty blues pierced through my greens, burning an imaginary hole all the way to the back of my skull.

Stupid girl. I felt my pulse—wild and manic—behind my eyes, at my throat, in my toes, pumping, pounding, my heart trying to break free out of my skin and run for its life. Why provoke the guy if you can't even handle a stare-down?

There was a brief beat, and then Brennan offered me one of his unpleasant I-Will-Destroy-You smiles.

“Dear future wife…” He smirked in a way that made me want to beg for mercy. “If you think you’re going to give me trouble, think again. I invented trouble. I stir it, I mix it, I fucking fix it. Don’t try my patience, because you’ll discover I have absolutely none.”





MY FATHER WAS giving me away at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, conveniently located in the center of the city. The guest list was full of people I didn’t know or care about. A mish-mash of high-profile businessmen, a handful of politicians, one senator and endless socialites.

A trail of black stretch limos lined up in front of the old church. Sophisticatedly clothed matrons poured out of the cars, assisted by their husbands, sons and daughters. The attire was formal and oozed power, as the men puffed on cigars, laughing with each other and patting shoulders good-naturedly, certainly enjoying the event more than I was.

By the number of security guards marching through the entrance, you’d think I was marrying the Pope.

As my gaze roamed the entrance of the church from the limo I sat in, it occurred to me that the flower arrangements flanking the doors had probably cost more than a year’s rent at the apartment Pops and I shared for the past twenty-two years. The mere thought of marrying someone so obscenely reckless with his money sent a cold shudder down my spine.

I was trying to control the hysterical emotions swirling in me when Pops took my quivering hand in his warm, rough one and squeezed it tight for reassurance.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know that, right?” Hope gleamed in his eyes.

As if I was given a choice.

But I knew what my father didn’t have to tell me. Even if he hadn't accepted Brennan’s request to take me as his wife (and Troy Brennan was undoubtedly one of those hypocritical, old-fashioned assholes who asked your dad for your hand), Brennan would have made it happen one way or the other. No was simply not in his vocabulary. What he wanted, he took.

And right now, he wanted little old me.

It made no sense at all. I wasn’t particularly beautiful, or at least not in the way to attract the attention of men of his caliber. My lips, probably my best feature, were pink, narrow and heart-shaped, but otherwise I was ordinary at best. I had a short, scrawny frame; long, fire-engine red hair; almost sickly pale skin and freckles peppering every inch of my round face. I was not Troy Brennan’s type.

I knew this with certainty, having flipped through the gossip pages of the local newspapers here and there. He was always seen with glamorous women. They were tall, curvy and gorgeous. Not mousy, ruby haired and a little on the odd side. So as I sat in the limo, about to walk into a church I’d never been inside, full of people I didn’t know, to marry a stranger I feared, a chant rang between my ears, its echo bouncing on the walls of my skull.

Why me? Why me? Why me?

“We’re up next,” I heard the limo driver announce, as the vehicle dragged leisurely forward.

My heart picked up speed, banging wildly against my sternum. A thin layer of sweat formed over my skin.

I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t have a choice.

Dear God.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was praying for God to step in and prevent the ceremony from happening, even though I was at his holy home.

A small, quiet but persistent, voice in me taunted that this was my punishment for being a bad Catholic. For not giving the Almighty the respect he deserved. I’d stopped going to church long ago, and even as a kid, I wasn’t particularly interested in faith.

All those years drifting off as a child at Sunday mass.

All those years attending youth group solely for the cookies and to ogle the young, handsome man who lectured us about God’s marvelous ways. Tobey, I think his name was.

All those years and now it was payback time. And Karma? She was well known as a hormonal, raging bitch. God was going to punish me. I was going to marry a monster.

“Here we are,” the driver said, tilting his hat forward.

I caught him eyeing me curiously from the rearview mirror, but at this point I no longer cared. Better get used to it, because once I was Brennan’s wife, people would ogle me like I was a unicorn at a magic zoo.

“Everyone’s taking their seats inside. Shouldn’t be more than a couple more minutes, ma’am.”

I looked back to my father as he handed me the purple bouquet. He leaned forward, kissing my forehead gently. He reeked of alcohol. Not the cheap kind either. Brennan must’ve spoiled him with the good stuff now that we were all about to become one big, unhappy, screwed-up family.

“I wish your mom was here to see this.” He sighed, his wrinkled forehead collapsing into a frown, his eyes two pools of grief.

“Don’t,” I cut him off flatly, relieved to hear there was not a trace of emotion in my voice anymore. “We haven’t laid eyes on that woman since I was three years old. Wherever she ran off to, she doesn’t deserve to take part in this, or anything else in my life. Besides, you did a good job taking care of me on your own.” I patted his thigh awkwardly.