“Here, let me help,” I say instead of the apology she deserves to hear.
She might as well get used to men who don’t give a fuck about her feelings. If Iris is to survive in Vegas, she needs to start practicing the discipline of hiding her true emotions. Not that I’m worried she won’t be able to pull it off, since acting like we don’t give a fuck, when in reality our blood is boiling, is another family skill passed down through the generations. We can be hot one minute and cold the next. You never know what any of us Kellys are really thinking. We can be laughing and chugging Guinness with you one minute, only to slice you open the next. It keeps everyone on their toes. And frankly, I quite prefer it that way.
‘Always keep them guessing,’ Athair is fond of saying.
And that is something each one of his children have been able to do.
All but one, that is.
I shrug that thought away and pick up my baby sister’s luggage.
“I’ll take this downstairs so I can give you a moment alone.”
“I don’t need one. I’m all set.”
My forehead wrinkles in disappointment that she doesn’t want to say goodbye to all the memories her room holds. But it wouldn’t be Iris if she didn’t pull the band-aid off in one quick yank.
She trails behind me as I walk down the stairs with her luggage in hand. I drop the bags in the foyer and head to the kitchen at the back of the house, knowing that our parents are undoubtedly drinking their morning tea there, just waiting to say their goodbyes to my sister before she leaves. Iris continues to keep to her mute form as she follows me down the long corridor. Knowing she’s pissed at me is eating me alive, but I also know it’s the only way she will heed the warning I gave her upstairs.
Yet, her silent treatment doesn’t sit well with me.
I know it’s normal for siblings to fight. I’ve had the occasional fistfight with Shay to prove it. But Iris has always been different. Maybe it’s the fact she’s the only girl in a house full of unruly men, or maybe it’s because she’s the baby of the family. Whatever the reason, I’ve never liked to see her upset. And I fucking hate that I’m the reason she feels that way now.
“There’s my a stór,” our father exclaims the minute we enter the kitchen, getting up from his seat so he can hug his only daughter.
Iris’s foul mood instantly vanishes as she snuggles into our father’s embrace.
She would kill me if I ever said these words aloud, but Iris has always been a daddy’s girl. When she was younger, we could always find her glued to his hip, and in turn, Athair doted on her at every opportunity.
That all changed, of course, when the treaty was put in place.
Suddenly, we all became too busy to give her our undivided attention. Especially Athair and I. We were too caught up in trying to make sure all the families’ demands were set in place so that when the clock ran out ten years later, none of them would have reason to fall back on their promise.
And then when Patrick…
Well…
Things just grew worse for all of us after that.
I know it must have hurt Iris a great deal to be cast aside in such a fashion, to suddenly become a footnote in our grief, but she never once complained. Even right from the beginning when Athair sat her down and explained that her future would be sacrificed for the greater good, she didn’t bat an eye and accepted her fate willingly.
Like I said.
My sister is made of the purest steel.
If she had been born a man, then maybe Athair would have named her his true heir to our family empire.
And I would have followed her lead with the most loyal of hearts.
Still, I made sure that through the years, I prepared Iris for her true destiny. I taught her how to defend herself whenever I could, and when the time came that she wanted to be educated by a professional, I made sure to step back and let her control her own life. It’s the least I could have done, since I’m not sure if she’ll ever have free will again to make her own decisions once she’s made a Bratva bride.
“Is tú mo stóirín. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he whispers to her, our father’s blue eyes starting to glisten with unshed tears as he proclaims his love for his dearest and only daughter.
Athair reluctantly releases her from his hug, placing a tender kiss on her temple.
“I love you too, Athair,” she croaks, her gaze falling to the floor to hide the desolation embedded in her eyes.
“That will be enough out of you two. I will not have tears in my kitchen. Shed what you will in a confessional to a priest like normal folk, and not where I cook,” our Máthair reprimands, drying her hands on a kitchen towel as she stares them both down.
“Aye, Saoirse is right. Apologies, dear daughter, for being such an emotional old fool. I just miss ye already, child. This house will not be the same without ye.”
“It sure will be quieter. My ears will finally have some peace from that racket you call music,” our mother adds with a teasing tone.
Iris steps away from our father, bridging the gap between her and our mother, with her hands on her hips.
“Aye, but you won’t have anyone helping you in this kitchen either. You’ll miss my racket then, won’t ye?”
“Maybe I will,” our mother retorts, her gaze—the same bright green color as Iris’—taking a softening glow. “Not that I’ll ever admit it to your face, girl. Who knows? Maybe I’ll ask Tiernan’s lass to help me out and take your place in the kitchen.”
Iris cackles at that statement.
“Thanks for the laugh, Máthair. I needed it.”
“I didn’t realize I made a joke,” our mother retorts with mirth in her tone.
“Oh dear, Saint Brigid.” Iris continues to chuckle. “No way will any Hernandez spend their time peeling potatoes for you, Ma. I heard they have servants for everything. Even to wipe their arses when they go to the toilet. Fat chance Tiernan’s fiancé even knows what a pot looks like.”