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He nods without looking at me. When Little Seamus’s mother told me about his allergy, she assured me he knows how to use his EpiPen, but I still taught myself how to administer the shot. Just in case.

“Do you have your EpiPen with you?” I ask him.

“Yeah, but the baggie was closed,” he says, as if I’m the one who needs comforting. “He was just trying to scare me. It didn’t work.” Seamus lifts his chin.

“That’s my guy.” I want to pat him on the back, but it’d make him look weak in front of the other kids. Instead I thump his table twice, the way the O’Sullivan brothers thump the bar in front of each other in solidarity.

In the hallway, Nyle has no excuse for himself. He hangs his head as I ask him why he was trying to hurt Seamus.

“Aw, I wasn’t trying to hurt him,” he says. “Not really.”

He was just trying to scare me.

Nyle looks up, his shining eyes pleading for me to believe him. Scare tactics. All children are capable of being mean, but allergy bullying with deathly consequences feels like its own level of cruelty, a scare tactic in the extreme.

My mind flashes to the blur of Harrison’s face outside the window. I imagine what my ex must’ve been like at Nyle’s age, and I picture an inhumane version of the boy in front of me.

How early did Harrison’s mom realize her son lacked empathy? Because she must’ve known. Given that she lives in Columbus, I’d only met her a handful of times, but I could tell right away she was smart. Wise enough to be afraid of her son.

When Nyle and I return to the room, he apologizes to Seamus. He sounds surprisingly sincere, and I breathe a little easier. This boy won’t grow up into another Harrison. He may have a child’s meanness in him, but I can’t believe he intended true harm against another soul.

Without wanting to, I remember Liam at the airfield, red-faced with cruelty as he intimidated Gus. Where is the line where true harm begins? I can justify what I’ve seen of Liam’s actions as a leader, but there must be a limit at some point. Has my fiancé ever crossed it?

In the basement of the church, I pray for a clarity that doesn’t come.

Chapter 29

Brioni

Sunday Mass only brings me more confusion. As I listen to Father Naughton’s sermon, all I can think about is how he’s a troubled soul, just like me. Does he also feel a certain thrill about it? It’s obvious that regarding his love for Estelle, Father Naughton enjoys things he shouldn’t. Does he repent for everything? Or, like me, does he omit large swaths of sin when he confesses? And how is it sin if it feels so right?

I sit between Liam and his mam in our usual front pew. On Orla’s other side, Kieran keeps jerking himself awake.

Our pew feels empty with just the four of us, desolate stretches of blank wood to either side. Brady and Finn haven’t attended Mass for years, but Declan only stopped coming a few weeks ago. I think his faith was shaken by the death of his oldest friend, Fergal. But when I tried to talk to Liam about it, my fiancé didn’t want to discuss the sudden change in his da.

I try not to slouch as Father Naughton’s voice drones over the crowd. I know that Declan’s decline makes Liam’s responsibilities that much greater, and he’s already bearing so much. I want so badly to ease his burden, to help my best friend however I can. For now, that means getting married to him in two weeks and mentally preparing myself for him seeking out his true mafia bride.

When I glance at him next to me in the pew, he gives me a faint smile, but there’s a tiredness to it that makes my heart twist.

After Mass, Liam excuses himself, and when I take a step to follow him, he places his large hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Stay here, that grip says.

I feel a hollow ache in my chest as I watch my fiancé walk away. I know it’s ridiculous, because he’s still in the nave, directly in my line of sight. And he’s not even my real fiancé. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that?

Beside me, Orla flicks her gaze between me and her eldest son. I feel the tips of my ears redden, as if we’ve been caught, and those gray-green eyes of hers have seen through our charade. But before either of us says anything, Father Naughton approaches Orla to pay his respects, bowing deferentially to her, the colorful light from the stained glass bouncing off his shiny head.

As the other congregants mill around us in subdued conversations of their own, Father Naughton expresses his regret at Declan’s absence. By the way Orla purses her lips, I get the sense that Father Naughton’s words are meant to chastise rather than sympathize.

Over the old priest’s shoulder, I see Liam stride up to Father Ryan. The assisting priest greets him with a confident handshake, then gestures toward the side chapel, a private space tucked into the transept. The two thirtysomething men move toward it together. Father Ryan is shorter and less fit than Liam, but he’s still hale in his looks, especially compared to the sixtysomething Father Naughton.

I watch as Father Ryan opens the private door for Liam. Then, before following Liam inside, the assisting priest casts a surreptitious look over his shoulder. My gut sinks down to my toes. It’s mafia business, I know it is. And while it hurts that Liam kept me away, the real blow is seeing that darker side of our lives extend here into the church, this sacred space.

The chapel door swings closed behind them.

When I drag my attention back to Father Naughton, he’s speaking with passion about the young not knowing their place, always getting ahead of themselves. For a moment, I’m horrified he might be talking about Kieran beside him, but the youngest O’Sullivan looks completely blank, nodding his auburn head as Father Naughton carries on.

Orla continues to look displeased with him, and I realize he must be talking about Liam, not Kieran. Liam getting ahead of himself, stepping into his leadership role too soon.

My sympathy for Father Naughton’s inner troubles drains away. With my cheeks burning hot, I clench my fists at my sides. Liam is more than ready to lead the family. All he does is take on more and more grave responsibilities each day, handling each of them on his own with skill and dedication. And Father Naughton has the nerve to imply he’s not ready.