2

Siobhan

“Don’t look now, but Sean is here,” Bridget announces as she returns to the bar to dump beer mugs into the sink.

Her blonde hair is swooped into a ponytail, and she moves across the concrete floors effortlessly in her no-slip sneakers. She’s twenty-five but looks eighteen.

“Oh, bloody hell. Why does he have to turn up here every time I work?”

“You work every day, so it’s not difficult for him to find you.”

“You have a point. I need to get another job or a new one altogether. A dog can’t live off what I make, and no offense to dogs. I love dogs.”

Bridget has a flat with a loft and is looking for a roommate. I was hoping to move in with her before summer, but thanks to the asshat, Sean, who doesn’t think I need the money, my request for a raise was denied. He’s one of my father’s crews who oversees his businesses. I wonder if he’s taking money from the deposits and screwing me over to cover his ass. I’ll have to speak to my elusive father about it. I hear he’s coming in from London on business.

I live at home with my mother, who watches TV all day and does nothing. I can’t stand my brother, Ronan, and I help care for my younger brothers, Cian and Liam.

“Good luck with your family. I swear they pay you less than minimum wage to work here with all the hours you put in—and you’re the manager,” she exclaims.

“I know, but it’s the only way Sean would let me be the manager.”

“That’s because he’s a sexist pig,” Bridget snorts.

“Yeah, well, I took it. It will help me if I want to go somewhere else. I need a year’s experience.”

“That’s a year away. You’ve been working in this place since you were a kid. You didn’t need to apply for shit, in my opinion.”

“I wish. You know what I say—”

“If wishes were stars, all our dreams would come true,” we sing-song.

“It’s not happening for me, not today, anyway,” I say in a diminutive tone as Sean approaches me.

“What would you wish?” Bridget asks.

“I wish someone would lay that jackass on his ass,” I snarl.

“Good luck there. He’s over six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. You need to find a strong boyfriend with no sense of self-preservation for that to happen.”

“Yeah, like a boyfriend will ever happen. I’m always here. I’m not dating customers. Besides, most of these men have a drinking problem.”

“Or worse,” she adds as she washes the mugs in the sink beside me and places them on a drainboard to dry.

Sean approaches the bar. He’s one of the clansmen overseeing the territory where my family owns McGuire’s Irish Pub. Lucky me. I get to deal with him hitting on me all the time. The mob doesn’t know the first thing about sexual harassment in the workplace. To them, women are vaginas who should worship them and their small penises.

I wish they would return in their next life as a woman so I could watch them being grabbed and assaulted. I’m sure my request for justice is too much to ask for. I’m not a lucky person, which is the first obstacle. And, considering that all the men I know are whoring bastards, just like my father, they would probably enjoy being preyed upon for sexual favors.

“What can I get you?” I ask as Sean pulls his chair up to the bar. He is overweight because he eats fried fish and chips like it’s a food group and drinks ale like its water. As one of my father’s trusted friends, he holds rank under Declan, the man in charge, when my father isn’t here. In some hierarchy, Declan would be an underboss.

Declan uses Sean as his muscle on the streets, and he gets away with murder—literally and figuratively. If we came to blows, I’m not sure my father would support me. I’m stuck living at home and putting up with the dysfunctional family bullshit. I wish Ronan would move out because he’s the oldest and freeloads off Dad. Meanwhile, I make the least, and I have to pay rent.

“A huge beer and a blow job,” Sean says and laughs at his own joke. And because his winter jacket is open, I can see his belly shake.

His shoulders are broad, and I imagine he was a good-looking Irish bloke at one time. He could have been a boxer in his younger days. The years haven’t been good to him, and he loves to smoke. It’s a bad habit he picked up in his early twenties when he was in prison. Now, in his fifties, he’s got no family and nothing better to do than to spend his time harassing me.

“A porter, gotcha,” I reply, ignoring his rude comment. I take a mug, fill it with the dark ale, and place it before him as the beer comes to a head but settles before it overflows.

“How’s life treating you?” he asks, as if he cares. It’s just a way for him to make a conversation in his lonely world.

“Fine.” I want to escape him and decide to leave the bar to check on the kitchen, but a couple sit down, and my opportunity passes. I hand the newcomers menus and take their drink orders.

“Did you hear your half-brother was killed?” He asks as if I knew the guy. Finn was a few years older than me, and we had never met. If it wasn’t for Mom and Dad fighting over giving him money, I never would have known I had another sibling.

“I might have heard something.”

“Your father thinks the Italians did it. Finn’s girlfriend married one of those wops, a Borrelli.”

“That’s a derogatory word for an Italian,” I state, hating that he thinks anyone who isn’t Irish is a piece of shit.

“Wops, that’s what they are, greasy-haired men from the Mediterranean. And we’ve already sent a warning.”

“What do you mean ‘a warning’?”

“We nicked the Italian don’s arm a few months ago. He’s having a sit down with your father since he’ll be in town this week.

“Do you have proof it was a hit? Finn had a drug problem. He died of a drug overdose.”

“Sure, but it’s too coincidental that he came to New York, found the girl he was obsessed about, and the next thing we know, he’s dead. You don’t think it’s related?”

“I heard he nearly beat her to death in Ireland, and she survived on will alone. I’m on her side. Men shouldn’t beat women.” I’m livid that he thinks the old way is the only way, and he’s never wrong. Even if he knew he was wrong, he would never admit it unless it was to save his fat ass. My father might overlook certain transgressions if begging is involved, but I’m tired of listening to him.

“One way or another, the Borrelli’s will pay.”

I shake my head. “That’s crazy talk.”

“You seem to forget who your father is,” he says before he drinks more beer.

“No one knows my father more than me. If he wants something, he goes after it whether it’s right or wrong.”

“It’s the way of the world, and you’d better learn it. You’ll be married one day. Maybe your husband will keep you in line better than your father did.”

Hmm. He means barefoot and pregnant. Women are meant to serve men.

I don’t want to get married. I know the men in the ‘family,’ and they think women are second-class citizens. It’s ingrained in us as kids. The boys follow Dad, and the girls are to be supportive wives and turn a blind eye to other women and criminal acts.

My father is a control freak. If he wants to meet with the Borrelli’s, he’s up to no good. He’s a man who only takes action if there’s something in it for him. No one has mentioned there was any proof the Borrelli’s killed Finn.

Control. That’s why my father never let me attend college. I want to be a chef and own a restaurant one day. I’m a great cook. I started to cook for the family and made meals from nothing for all six of us. By the time I turned ten, I was expected to cook and clean for the family. I had no social life, and I still don’t. As a child, to escape my life, I buried my head in romance novels. Until I make enough money to support myself, then and only then, will I be able to leave this sick world behind.

Mom comes out of her room only to eat and make sure we’re all breathing before she returns to her room. No wonder my brothers turned out to be degenerates. They never stood a chance to become more. I try to impress upon Cian and Liam to make good grades and learn skills for a job outside of the dark one we live in but it’s all they see. We live in an area that is full of mafia players and they love to recruit kids to run drugs because they usually get off on diversion programs due to their age.

 I hope the mentoring I’ve given them will make a difference in their life. With Dad being in England more than New York, I might have a chance to get one, if not both, away from his influence. But the run-down neighborhood we live in makes us an easy target. Dad keeps us living on meager incomes in an old brownstone so we’re not raising red flags with the Feds. I suppose this might be why he prefers to stay in London more.

But it’s not just my brothers who paid the price of loving neglect. Dad had me quit the track team to help at the pub. Labor laws weren’t an issue for him. I have yet to find my father’s Achilles heel. Until that time, I’m destined to remain an indentured servant. I dream of a restaurant of my own. I’d love to be a famous French chef and am addicted to the cooking channel. The family turns their nose up at the French food, preferring plain pork sausage and potatoes.

What if I had a restaurant of my own one day? What could I call it?

I had it out with my father over the fact that Ronan has a job with him with good pay, and I’m stuck at home being the built-in truant officer for my younger brothers, who have a gift of graffiti. I get blamed for everything they fuck up, so I can’t leave them unattended. Dad relented and let me become the manager, stating that a man would do it better. Of course, no matter how hard I work and how well I do my job it’s never good enough for him.

I’m tired of the bullshit. However, McGuire’s is a great-looking bar with a loyal following. I suspect illicit money runs through it. It’s the only reason for Sean to be designated to make the bank deposits. I know what the bar makes, but I have no idea what the deposit amounts are when it hits the bank. It could be more or less. I keep the bar’s receipts in case Sean starts skimming. I don’t trust anyone, and he’s the one who is currently in a position to fuck me should he get caught. Everyone knows what happens when one steals from the mob, and I don’t believe he can be loyal to anyone for long.

“How is business?” Sean asks, taking long gulps of his beer. He should know, but I answer to keep the conversation polite and on a safe topic.

“Good, the usual.”

“Great. What’s the special today?”

“Ruben sandwich and fries, you want?”

“Sure, it’s cold outside. I can’t wait for summer.”

I place another beer in front of him and take his empty glass.

Bridget is waiting on tables but keeps an eye on me. Rush hour starts, and the pub fills up. I’m busy. I duck into the kitchen to grab an order of food, but when I turn to exit, I bump into Sean behind me. I’m unprepared for him to be so brazen in his attempts to get his grubby hands on me. I feel them run over my hips, and I suppress the urge to run. I can’t show that I’m afraid of him, or he’ll take me for everything and then some.

“You are sweet. I bet you’ve never been with a man like me.”

Ugh. I want to vomit. I move to go around him, and he puts an arm up, blocking my exit.

“You okay with this?” he asks in a hushed voice as if he wants my consent to continue fondling me.

“I need to get back to work,” I reply sternly as I push his arm. This time, he lets me leave. I escape him for now. But how long can I continue to fend him off? He’s getting bolder, and I don’t have any men working for me who can risk defending me. No one wants to face Declan or my father.

I meet Bridget’s eyes briefly and nod to let her know I’m okay. I have no one to defend me, even if the kitchen staff witnesses what Sean does. I’m sure most, if not all, know we’re mobbed up, and they would be paid off or threatened if they testified on my behalf.

My father would blame it on my firm butt and tits and say my summer swimsuits are too skimpy. In his eyes, I’m asking for it. It doesn’t matter that I wear a collared shirt and long black pants. My body is covered except for my neck and arms. If I wore more clothing, I’d be a fire hazard in the kitchen.

Dad’s response would be to defend Sean. Brotherhood takes precedence over family. However, my situation is escalating faster than I anticipated. I’m vulnerable, and I know it. Sean knows it too.

 He’s planning something. He’s a man who doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’ The fact that I don’t want him never registers. Abusers only know one thing—how to abuse. I know the type from eyeing customers over the years, and Dad’s friends hanging around me when we lived in London. As a child, I avoided Sean, and my instincts about him being a predator are justified. He’s old enough to be my father.

I won’t have sex with him. If I don’t give him what he wants, he will take it. I wonder if I should lose my virginity to someone and maybe Sean will lose interest in me. I’d be scarred forever if Sean raped me. I’ve tolerated abuse over the years, but having a piece of me being ripped out is a confrontation I wouldn’t recover from. I’m tired of living in fear. I have to get out, but I don’t know how.

The kitchen is hot, so I drink water to quench my thirst before returning to wipe down the glossy bar. Customers have left. Sean is drunk at the bar. I’d cut him off, but it only makes him angry and belligerent.

His voice grows louder, and he tells stories of the good ‘ole days to the single guys around him who listen and chime in.

I hear the doors swing open and look up to see a man who could be Latino. He’s handsome, but I find the man following him super sexy. He has coal-black hair and bedroom eyes, dark and inviting. They take off their jackets and place them on the back of the bar chairs before they sit. His chin is chiseled, and he’s in great shape, judging from how his joggers cling to his body.

“A beer for me and iced tea for my friend,” the first man says.

“Great, what kind of beer?” I ask.
       “Cold. I’m not picky.”

“Alright. I’ll give you a lighter beer. Do you want something to eat?”

“Yes, we’re starving. Give me an order of Scottish eggs and the chicken puff pastry. I like them.”

 I peer at the man sitting beside him.

“And for you, sir?”

“I’ll take the tea and the chicken thing, I guess. And thank you,” the stranger says.

His dark eyes meet mine, and my interest is piqued. He seems calm and composed. He exemplifies everything foreign to me. He says, “Thank you” and “Please.” He is not drinking alcohol, and his eyes follow me as I work, but it’s subtle and not one that conveys lusty thoughts. I kinda wish he was drooling over me and wonder if he plays for another team.

Shit. Just my luck.

I start their tab and put the food order in. I serve more customers.

“I seem to remember seeing you around,” I say to the first man as I pour more beers from the tap.

“You have. I love the food here.”

“That’s great. Thank you.” I turn to his friend.

“Do you cook?” he asks.

“I like to cook. In fact, I come in early to make the filling for the pot pies and pastries.”

“That’s a long day,” the man tugs on the arm of his jogger and looks at the face of his expensive watch.

“It is.”

“Hey, Siobhan, bring me another beer,” Sean bellows from the other end of the bar.

“Excuse me,” I say to the stranger. I deliver the beers I made and grab another for Sean. I cringe when I place it in front of him. “Thank you, darling.” His words are slurred.

I walk away. I want to say I’m not your anything but hope he’ll leave soon. A long day is stressful enough without him.

I return to the two men and ask for a name for the bar tabs.

The Latino says Ramirez, and the other says, “Niccolò.”

“That’s unusual,” I say.

“Why?”

“It just is. I don’t hear that name much,” I reply. I feel my freckles winking at him. The city is a mixture of every country, but he must be Russian or Italian.

As if he reads my mind he says, “I’m from Italy. Is that too far for you?”

“I don’t know, is it?” I give him a smile, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

I check on the food, bring the men their meals, and retreat to a dark corner of the bar. I like to be invisible. If no one sees me, they can’t hurt me. It’s also the opposite end of the bar from Sean, who is becoming more animated by the minute.

I pass by Ramirez and Niccoló.

“How is your food?” I ask, gazing at the Italian.

“Excellent as always. You are a great cook,” Ramirez says.

“I’m not much for Irish food, but it is tasty,” Niccoló says, before he drinks his iced tea.

“Where in Italy are you from?” I ask.

“Sicily,” he replies, and his accent confirms what he says.

“Are you visiting. Or do you live here?” I’m hoping I get a date.

“Or something,” he shrugs, keeping his eyes on his plate.

The man is a rock— a formidable fortress. He’s cold-hearted, unfeeling, and uncaring. Most men would swoon at my cooking.

Sean is leering my way, and it’s not lost on Niccoló, who picks up on it instantly.

“Who’s he?” Niccoló asks.

“A jerk.”

“He looks like he’s up to no good.”

“He never is,” I sigh.

Niccoló looks up at me, and my heart stops. Our eyes meet and he sees me, the real me, hiding behind a shield that’s not strong enough to protect me. He is acutely aware of the environment I’m in, and I can tell by the look in his dark brown eyes that he knows men like Sean.

Perhaps he’s got other things on his mind than getting laid. Many men don’t want virgins because they don’t want to commit, and they know that’s why we save it. It’s supposed to be special in the eyes of the church and reserved for our husbands. I’m not one for religion. I never found a man I wanted to be around long enough for it to develop into anything. I’ve had crushes, but that’s all it was.

I have no idea what makes a marriage work. It’s probably the reason I have my guard up around me. They aren’t trustworthy, and I’ve had enough hurt in my life. I have no desire to have my heart broken by a man who can’t keep his dick in his pants, and whisper lies like they are the truth. Men in the underworld are savvy with their slick talking and fast thinking. I assume they are skills they learn on the street, and it’s probably why Sean is still alive.