He finally put her down again, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. “Hey, Mum. Good to see you.”
“You should’ve called to tell me you were coming!” she protested. “I was making a pie for the church bake sale. Someone has to make some decent pies.” She looked at me conspiratorially. “Mrs. Elrod overworks the dough and drowns her apple pies in cinnamon. And decent folk wouldn’t sully the word ‘pie’ by using it on the abominations Kathy Sullivan charges premium prices for.”
“Be nice, Mama,” Leon said, and I blinked at him. Be nice? The outright hypocrisy of this man left me flabbergasted. He caught my gaping stare and his expression turned utterly devious. In fact, he looked like the cat who ate the canary, blamed it on the dog, and sauntered off scot-free. “And I’m sorry about showing up unannounced with a guest, but Declan’s coming too. And probably Ryan. There’s some business we need to take care of.”
His mother looked flustered. “Is it too much for you boys to tell your mother you’re all showing up at once? I’ll need to start cooking.”
“Sorry, Mum.” Leon actually looked chagrinned. I never would’ve believed it possible: the ice-cold hitman looking sheepish. It didn’t make me like him, however. I needed to remember why I was here. It certainly wasn’t by choice.
His mother turned back to me. “Please make yourself at home. I apologize for how untidy the place is.” She shot a look at her son, and I could see where he got that dagger-stare of his.
“Please,” I said, for some reason eager to reassure her. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mrs. MacCarrick. Your home is wonderful.”
I almost said that it was very homey and comfortable but held myself in check. Strangely enough, I didn’t want to overstep or blurt something out that would blow this stupid ruse. I felt like she was paying a lot of attention to me and was highly curious about me even though she was trying not to show it. It made me uneasy. In fact, it made me feel as if I were trapped in a closet full of crystal wineglasses and any wrong move would send them all shattering to the floor.
“Why aren’t you sweet?” his mother said. “Please call me Fiona. Now, follow me.”
She led us into a little living room area. The house was done up in what I’d call grandma-chic and Christmas kitsch. Knickknacks and pictures of family were everywhere, with fake evergreen boughs and Christmas lights arranged around them. A fire burned in a brick fireplace, the mantel covered in more decorations and stockings, some of them obviously made as school projects by children. One wall was entirely covered in photographs, some of them black and white and obviously quite old. There was also a picture of Sacred Heart Jesus and JFK, which was funny because my mother had the same thing on one of the walls at my parent’s estate on Staten Island.
She saw me looking at the photo wall. “Oh, that’s just a few snaps of my boys and the extended family and such. MacCarricks and Doyles and the Murphy branch. Irish, you know. Half of us ended up in Chicago. That was before people here liked the Irish and appreciated the accent. Not that we have the accent anymore, more’s the pity.” She laughed brightly. “Listen to me. I could go on for hours once you get me started.”
Interesting. Her accent sounded vaguely Bronx—definitely New York, not New Jersey. Leon didn’t have an Irish accent either. I might’ve liked him more if he had. Then again, I didn’t have an Italian accent. My father’s father had come over from Italy. That was plenty of time for accents to be lost in successive generations. Honestly, I didn’t know why I was even thinking about it. Except that Leon MacCarrick was clearly black Irish from his coloring, and that applied to his demeanor too.
Mrs. MacCarrick herded us to the couch, shooing away a gray cat sitting on the arm and watching us imperiously. Leon and I sat down together, side by side. I was aware of his thigh pressing against mine.
“Can I get either of you anything?” Mrs. MacCarrick asked. “Perhaps something to eat or drink?”
I was starving and thirsty and hadn’t had any coffee at all. No wonder my head felt stuffed with cotton. Leon looked at me, clearly waiting on me to answer first. What a gentleman. Forgive me if I thought that with a mental sneer.
To his mother, I was all smiles. “I’d love a cup of coffee if you don’t mind, Mrs. MacCarrick.”
“Fiona, please. I insist.” She turned to Leon. “Anything for you?”
“Coffee, thanks. How long until that pie is ready?”
“You can’t eat it. I told you, it’s for the church bake sale. That would be like stealing from our Lord.”
I was convinced Leon would have no problem with that. Once you started murdering people for hire, what were a few pies stolen from Jesus?
“Maybe something else to snack on, then,” he said. “It was a rushed morning.”
“I can help,” I offered, moving to stand and follow her. I really didn’t want to be alone with Leon, sitting so close to him. It was…distracting. I didn’t like how I was starting to feel almost comfortable around the assassin who’d shoved a gun in my face and kidnapped me.
“Aren’t you sweet?” his mother said, her eyes shining. I felt as if I’d unintentionally earned some points for offering to help. “Thank you, but the kitchen’s too tiny for two, and besides, you’re a guest.”
I settled back on the couch with a frozen smile. His mother bustled out after promising to be back with coffee and something to nibble on. I started to sweat and wished Leon hadn’t dumped all my things, including my toiletries, on the ground at some construction site. I could use an antiperspirant refresh. This day had been stressful enough already, and it wasn’t even close to over.
“She likes you,” Leon announced with amusement in his eyes.
“She’s very sweet. Are you sure you’re her son?”
That made him laugh. Iwasn’tlaughing. This whole situation wasn’t funny to me.
After a moment, his grin faded, and his eyes sharpened. “You aren’t what I imagined.”
I didn’t want to be baited into asking the question I knew he was waiting for. But after a few seconds of squirming, I asked it anyway, tossing myself right into his trap. “What did you imagine?”
“A mob princess. A spoiled girl who got anything and everything she ever wanted, and it had soured her like milk left in the sun.”
