It's been so long since I've seen him, yet my body reacts in the same way it did when I was eighteen. He hasn't changed much. His luscious hair is the same shade of dark brown, though his once bouncy curls are now tamed by some miracle hair product. His build is sturdier and—for obvious reasons—he's mastered the art of growing facial hair. His eyes showcase an experience not even I possess. A pain I can't even begin to understand. The Torin I remember is still there, just with a few additions.

"You're dead."

His words shock me.

"So are you."

This can't be real.

My attacker comes rushing over, keen to serve his king.

"Shall I get Reaper, boss?"

"Boss," I repeat, quirking a brow.

Torin shows no emotion. His gaze is impenetrable. Unnerving.

"That won't be necessary," he states.

"You're the boss?" I ask, seeking clarification.

How the hell does someone as kind and soft-natured as Torin become a mafia boss?

"Yes."

His harsh tone shuts me up.

"Mama?"

My attention is brought back to Maeve, realigning my priorities.

"Can I please have my daughter back?" I question.

Torin doesn't hesitate.

"Is she—"

"Yes," I say, holding her close to my chest. "It's okay, baby. Mummy's got you."

He stares at the small figure in my arms, no doubt processing the fact he's suddenly a father to a four-year-old. Perhaps I'd take pity on his situation had he not just kidnapped us. Maeve is traumatised and I'm not sure how I'm supposed to explain this to her. Her father—who she knows is dead—is suddenly... not.

"She needs food," I snap. "And a warm bed."

I sound short, but I don't care. The Torin I know would never knowingly put a child through any kind of trauma. Why on earth would he order his men to do such a thing?

"Ryan, see to Imogen's every need. Put them in one of the guest bedrooms."

"Yes, boss."

What the fuck?

"Is that it?" I ask.

"I have business to attend."

"Fuck business, Torin!" I shout. "You just kidnapped me and our daughter, and I want to know why!"

Torin side-eyes Ryan.

"I didn't know it was you," he assures. "And I didn't—"

"Didn't what?"

He sighs. "I didn't order them to take your kid."

"Our kid," I correct.

Both he and Ryan remain silent.

"Who did you think we were?" I question.

Nothing.

"Tell me!"

"That's none of your concern," he warns, firing me a look of distain.

I slyly cover Maeve's ears and step further into his space. "Of course it's my concern." I speak. "She's your daughter, Torin. I'm your—"

"Your what?" he enquires.

I'm lost for words.

"You left me!" he bellows.

He's not at all upset by the fact. Just angry.

"My father told me you were dead," I defend.

"Your father lied."

I have no way to counter that. To explain why my father would tell me such a thing.

"Torin—"

"The damage is done, Imogen. No point dwelling over it."

I grasp his arm with my spare hand, desperate to see a glimpse of the old him. The version of him who would never turn his back on me. "I'm happy you're alive."

He scoffs and for the first time ever, I see evil intent behind his eyes. "I'm not. I wish I did die that night."

He rejects my touch and walks away, leaving me with a million and one unanswered questions. I sure as hell never expected my kidnap to result in this. A reunion. So much has changed in five years. Torin is boss of what I can only assume is the newly reformed O'Brien family and appears to hate me for having ran.

"I'll show you to your room," offers Ryan.

I turn in my stance, quick to inflict my interrogation on him. "Why did you kidnap us?"

He ignores my question.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Granted, I did kick the guy in the face, but I don't appreciate being blanked.

"That's business talk, sweetheart. Nothing you need to worry about."

I square up to him. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

He shrugs. "I dunno? Some ex-girlfriend of Torin's."

"I'm Imogen Murphy," I state. "Patrick Murphy's daughter."

A mixture of both fear and respect appears in his eyes.

"Patrick's two daughters died," he argues.

I sigh. "It appears not."

He stares at me a moment, no doubt assessing how much of what I'm saying is the truth.

"Well, this complicates things."

"How so?"

He's reluctant to share.

"I thought you were the O'Neil's," I offer, hoping that if I share my theories, he'll either confirm or deny them. "Coming to finish what they started five years ago."

He laughs. "The O'Neil's weren't the ones responsible for that night."

I don't understand.

"Frank O'Neil was my father's biggest rival," I argue. "If not him, then who?"

I wrack my brains for any clues as to who this new threat could be. There are only five families powerful enough to be feared in the mafia world. The O'Neil's, the Lowes', The McCarthy's, the Gallagher's, and—of course—the Murphy's before we fell.

"If not the O'Neil's, then who?" I ask.

"Your brother. Shane."

"My brother is dead."

Ryan smirks. "Think again."

I squeeze Maeve closer to my chest, needing her presence to ground me. To ease the nausea spreading through me like wildfire.

"Wh—I—"

I feel sick. My own brother turned on us. Killed our family.

"Why?" I ask. "Why would he do that?"

Ryan shrugs, like we're discussing this evening's weather. "He wanted what your father had. Status."

Fuck!

"Are you lying to me?" I ask, staggering slightly.

He takes hold of my arm, steadying me. "No, I'm not. But I shouldn't have said anything. Torin will kill me for opening my mouth."

"Does he do that often?" I ask, unsure I even want the answer. "Kill people?"

He ignores my question. "You've had a long day. Why don't I show to your bedroom?"

I nod, despite feeling morbid as fuck.

"Where is Shane?" I question.

Ryan leads us up the basement stairs and into the main house. The foyer is just as grand as it is big, covered head to toe in marble.

"Kensington."

My father's mansion.

"And where are we?" I ask.

"North London."

Torin must've moved from Ireland shortly after the attack.

But why?

"I can't believe he's still alive," I admit.

Maeve silently tugs on my sleeve. "I'm hungry, Mama."

Ryan stops by the kitchen.

"Do you like strawberries?" he asks, adopting a slightly softer tone now that he's speaking to a child.

Maeve nods.

He places a small plate in front of her.

"What do we say, Maeve?"

"Thank you."

Her tiny hands grab a strawberry, her smile a little strained due to her tiredness.

"You can take them up to your bedroom, if you like?" he offers.

We're made to follow him back into the foyer and up the stairs. Smothering thoughts rush through my mind, each one painful to explore. Maeve carefully carries her plate of strawberries up each step, the cream carpet beneath us mocking me.

"Make yourself comfortable," offers Ryan, showing us into a huge room and leaving shortly after.

I quickly tuck Maeve into the gigantic double bed and sing her a song to help her drift off. I contemplate leaving the bedroom to go in search of Torin but decide against it. I don't want Maeve waking up without me here to explain a few things. Besides, Torin probably needs some space tonight. So instead, I spend my time inspecting my surroundings. As far as guest bedrooms go, this one is by far the nicest one I've stayed in. My apartment back in Yorkshire was hardly Beverly Hills, but it was clean and safe. This house—Torin's house—is stunning. I didn't get much of a chance to look at the other rooms on my way in, but there are a lot of them. It's much bigger than the one I grew up in and I find myself questioning how he can afford it all. I have my own bathroom and balcony. Hell, I even have a fireplace. The four-poster beds are a little on the eccentric side, but I can't deny their beauty, nor their comfort. The walls are painted a neutral beige, but what it lacks in colour, it makes up for in textures. Knitted throws and gorgeous furniture sets the perfect vibe for a comfortable stay. Like a gothic hotel, only homely.

"What happened to you?" I quietly speculate.

The Torin I know would never have a house like this.

I pull out my grandmother's necklace from underneath my jumper and twist the locket around my finger. My attention soon turns to Shane and his apparent betrayal. He always was intense growing up, but do I really believe he went above our father and killed our entire family? He's certainly capable, but that doesn't mean he did it. And I can't rely on information fed to me by a man I kicked in the face and met thirty minutes ago.

"Imogen?"

A gentle tap sounds from the guest bedroom door.

"Come in."

A woman roughly my age enters, carrying what looks to be toiletries and spare clothing. "Torin sent us up with these."

Another—slightly younger—woman follows behind her, timid.

"Thank you."

It bothers me that Torin can't come himself, but I don't burden these women with my problems.

"Do you work here?" I ask.

The two share a glance. "We live here."

Oh?

"I'm Olivia."

Olivia's smile is by far the brightest thing I've ever seen. She's a gorgeous blonde with rosy cheeks and saltwater eyes. I can detect a slight Spanish accent, but time spent in the U.K seems to have diluted it.

"And this is Tilly."

Tilly cringes, cowering away from any and all attention brought to her. She's shy—that much is obvious—but there's more to her sheepish ways. She appears... scared.

"Nice to meet you both. I'm Imogen and this is Maeve."

Olivia's smile broadens as she glances towards Maeve's sleeping body. "Is that your daughter? She's gorgeous."

"Don't let her angelic looks be deceiving. She can throw a tantrum like there's no tomorrow."

"Don't I know it!" She laughs. "My two-year-old girl thinks it's the end of the world if she doesn't get her own way."

"You have a daughter?" I ask.

I don't know why, but it's nice talking to another Mum. I never really bothered with the other Mum's at Maeve's nursery. Part of living under the radar means no social life beyond the conversations I have with my child.

Sad, but true.

"Yes. Katalina."

"That's a beautiful name," I tell her.

Tilly says nothing and, in an attempt to bring her into our conversation, I pay her a compliment.

"I like your dress."

Olivia faces her quiet friend and starts signing to her.

"Shit, I've forgotten the sign for dress," she says, furrowing her brows.

She thinks for a moment before eventually giving up and ruffling Tilly's skirt. Tilly doesn't respond, though does make brief eye contact with me.

"We're new to sign language," explains Olivia. "Tilly recently lost hearing in both ears."

I nod, keeping my face as passive as possible. Tilly may be a quiet soul, but I get the feeling she's not a fan of sympathy.

"Who did that to her?" I ask, facing Olivia.

Burns run the length of her left cheek and stop just short of the collarbone. An attempt has been made to hide it with a side braid, but it's still noticeable.

"A bad man."

"Shane Murphy?"

I don't know what possesses me to ask that, but my gut feeling is telling me to get clarity. Closure. Unfortunately, I don't get either. Tilly makes a sudden movement and starts having what looks to be a panic attack on my bedroom floor. Strange noises leave her lips as she clings to Olivia, gasping for breath. Her distress is hard to watch, and her actions cause Maeve to stir.

"Mama?"

"I'm right here, baby."

"We'll leave you to it," offers Olivia, calming a frantic Tilly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset her."

Olivia smiles. "It's okay. She can sometimes lipread and that name brings up a lot of bad memories."

I'm desperate to know why, but don't push it.

"We'll talk properly tomorrow," she assures.

Once they're gone, I crawl into bed beside Maeve, holding her close to my chest. Today—no matter the outcome—has been traumatic for the both of us. I still don't know the full details behind Shane's betrayal, other than what Ryan, Olivia and Tilly have shared. Tilly's injuries are linked to him somehow. Her reaction to his name being brought up is pretty damming evidence.

As if that wasn't bad enough, Torin—the man I love for his kind heart and deep compassion—is now a mafia boss and is showing no sign of ever wanting to talk to me.

"Mama, is Daddy back from heaven?" asks Maeve, drunk with sleep.

She's too observant for her own good.

"Yes."

"And does he not love us?"

"He loves us very much," I insist. "He's just a little surprised, that's all."

"Maybe if I draw him a picture, he'll love me."

I pull her closer to my body, feeding off of her innocence.

"He already does love you, baby," I reply. "Very much."

My eyes grow heavier the longer I stare at the ceiling, contemplating things. So much is going on inside my head that eventually, my brain switches off as a way of coping. Still, I dream about that night. The night of my eighteenth birthday party. Only this time, Torin isn't dead. He's alive, screaming my name. Begging me to come back.

Begging me not to leave him.