Irish Eyes and Mafia Lies

After witnessing the brutal beating of her father at Irish Mob boss Antaine Sorley’s hand, Onóra Russo is on the run. Together with her little brother Finn she has fled the safety of her Chicago home for places unknown.

Her instincts say keep running, but loyalty says to do as Daddy instructed. Make the call to the one man who can help her. What happens when the one who answers isn’t who she expects?

Can Onóra trust this Irishman who claims neutrality? With the Irish and Italian’s looking for them does she have a choice?

Rónán knew, knew before he traced the call it was going to be trouble. Then he heard her Siren’s call and couldn’t refuse. It may put his life on the line, but he’ll help her, whatever the cost. Even if that cost is his heart.

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Copyright © 2019 J. Haney & S.I. Hayes Irish Eyes And Mafia Lies


Wet nights. I love the sound of rain. The boom of thunder. Wish little Finnigan did. He’s curled up in my bed, just like he has with every storm since he was old enough to climb out of the crib.

I look out my window seeing the Chicago skyline, all the lights, cars and people moving like ants below us. I hear the gravel crunch, looking down, I see unmarked black sedans and a grey stretched Lincoln. A visit from a Boss? This has disaster written all over it. I run out the bedroom door, heading for the stairs as the front door slams open. I’m stuck there while four of Antaine Sorlry’s men come bustin’ in wet and angry looking. They part and standing between them is Antaine himself. Why are they here? The Irish got no business here, not unless a meeting is called, and it’s just us tonight.

That’s when I see it, the Louisville Slugger as it’s passed to him. Finn comes out.

“Onóra, take your brother to bed,” my dad hollers from out of sight. His voice is shaky. He’s afraid. I swallow as the men look up at me, standing there in pink fleece pjs with yellow bananas all over them, wrapping a matching robe over my ample chest. I’m almost eighteen and quite aware these things make me look a lot older. I grab my brother and lifting him like nothing, I race back to the bedroom and lock the door. I hear the shouts, hear the breaking glass. I cover Finn’s ears and start to sing the Ballyeamon Cradle. A song my mom used to sing to me.

‘Rest tired eyes a while

Sweet is thy baby’s smile

Angels are guarding,

And they watch o’er thee

Sleep, sleep, grah mo chree

Here on you mamma’s knee

Angels are guarding

And they watch o’er thee…

After a while, the noise stops, and Finn is asleep. I put him to bed and listen at the door.

“Aye, and if we do go to war, best be believin’ we’ll be comin’ for what’s ours,” Antaine says.

“They’re my children, my blood.”

“But they be my sister’s, my niece, my nephew.”

I step away from the door. “Niece? Mom was his… Sister?” I whisper as the door slams and cars start up. No one told me. Well, screw that, I want no part of any of this Mafia crazy. Irish, Italian, I’m both and neither.

I head down to assess the damage. Dad is sitting in his favorite chair, bleeding from the head and mouth, his right hand is mangled, but his left sure is getting that whiskey to his lips with ease.

“We have to leave,” I state rather than question. I know it’s what has to happen.

Dad nods. “You need to pack up you and Finn. I can stall, say I’ve sent you to New York to look at colleges with April. It will give you time to disappear. Pack everything you can into the car, and I’ll get you some cash. Then you need to rent a U-Haul. Go south…”

Dad lays it out; he can’t come with us. We need to disappear, or the families will use us to unhappy ends. Each wants to control us to make the other fall in line. I pack the car, taking as many of Finn’s toys as I can. I clear out the closets, mostly. I leave some things behind, so it looks like we’ll be back. Of course, I hope for it, but I’m not holding my breath. I’ve seen too much, know too much already. Like Dad says, watch, remember, but don’t repeat, and never write it down. That’s what I’ve done. I memorize everything. I’m probably the only kid from my generation that doesn’t have all their numbers stored in their phone. I text like anyone else, but never the important stuff. Now I gotta lose that phone, so it’s just as well.

Dad’s Jeep can handle our luggage and the photos I’ll have to hide but were too precious to leave.

“Here.” Dad hands me a purple bowling bag. I look at him strangely.

“It’s all of Mom’s jewelry and all the cash I had on hand. I- it’s the best I can do, baby.” He’s got tears in his eyes as he pushes me into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “You take care of each other, and once you decide on a place, remember to call the number and ask for Rory. He will do everything you need done. You can trust him.” Dad kisses me, and I pull away, watching in the rearview as he hits his knees.