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love for them. Mostly, though, it was just me and him.
    Well, me, him and the alcohol.
    Even though I loved him, I knew my father wasn’t a good man. When I was growing up and he worked for Cillian Brennan, too often he came home bruised from fights. I dealt with surprise visits from the cops, and I brought him fresh clothes and cigarettes plenty of times when he was arrested. He was now employed by Troy, probably doing something just as illegal.
    Pops was an alcoholic and a terrible Casanova with the ladies, but he was also the only person who loved me, who cared, who burnt himself on the stove trying to make chicken noodle soup for me—not the canned type, the real deal—when I caught pneumonia.
    He deserved a little happiness, even if it was on my account.
    “I love you, Birdie.” He let a single, fat tear roll down his wrinkle-mapped cheek as he pressed both his paws to my face.
    I nodded, leaning my face into one of his palms. I stroked his forehead with the pads of my fingers. “Love you too, Pops.”
    “Alrighty-o. Ready? Here we go.” The cheery driver pushed his door open and walked around the limo, opening the door for me.
    I slid out carefully, noting that the front yard of the church was mostly empty, other than few elderly men scattered around, still caught up in business talk. Pops followed behind, but broke to the left where he spotted the small group of washed-up men.
    “I need to catch a word with Benny. I’ll be back in a minute. Let the groom wait a little while. Be right back, little darlin’.” He winked and marched toward the herd of suited men at the corner of the cobblestone church.
    I frowned, adjusting my dress. It was an uncharacteristically cold June day, but I knew better than to think goose bumps broke on my skin because of the chill. I eyed the opening in the high stone wall beside me and spotted a tiny garden with a bench. I wished I could hide there.
    Then I heard him.
    A man speaking softly to his son on the other side of the wall. His voice was gentle, but still throaty and gruff at the same time. I’m not sure why, but the sound of him seeped into my body like warm liquor on a stormy night.
    “Of course, Abraham wasn’t a bad man, but he did what he thought he had to do, and that was to sacrifice his child to God.”
    A trail of cold sweat dripped down my spine, and I leaned forward on one heeled foot toward the voices, straining my ears.
    “But Daddy, dads love their children, right?”
    “They do. More than anything else in the world, Sam.”
    “And God loves his children?”
    The man paused briefly. “Very much.”
    “So how come God did what they did to Isaac?”
    “Well, God wanted to test Abraham’s faith. Isaac was okay at the end of the day, remember, but God received proof that Abraham would put his adored son at the altar for him.”
    “Do you think,” the little boy pondered, and by his voice, he couldn’t have been much older than five, “that God is just testing our Abraham? Maybe his daughter and Mr. Troy won’t get married today.”
    The man chuckled to himself humorlessly, and I felt my heart sinking.
    “No. That’s not a test, little champ. People want to marry each other. It’s not punishment.”
    “Did you want to marry Mommy?” Sam asked.
    Another silence filled the air before the man answered.
    “Yes, I wanted to marry Mommy. Which reminds me, where is our mommy?”
    Just then, the man’s strode through the opening in the wall and his hard body bumped into mine. I squeaked, almost falling flat on my ass, but managed to grab the wall with my hand that wasn’t clutching the bouquet.
    “Shit, sorry,” he said.
    I straightened, raising my head, and my eyes bugged out and my mouth dried up instantly. He was handsome. No, scratch handsome. He was a masterpiece in a sharp black suit, stealing my breath and momentarily shaking me free of my mental breakdown.
    He was about six two, a little shorter than Brennan, and just like my husband-to-be,