Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(84)

The edges of his mouth curve. “I’m only asking you to help Declan as he transitions into his new role. This new assignment won’t be easy on him.”

“Because he doesn’t want it. He wants to be the head of Homicide.” I stand with my hands out, pleading. “Daddy, please reassign him. The Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit is not where someone who seeks glory belongs.”

My voice trails as I catch a glimmer of his pain. “Daddy?”

At once, his face scrunches, flushing red only to grow alarmingly pale. I race around his desk, clutching his shoulders to keep him upright as he grips his side and beads of sweat gather along his receding hairline.

It’s only because he lifts his bowed head and a healthier shade of pink returns to his cheeks that I’m not screaming for help and dialing 911. “Daddy?”

He offers me a weak smile and pats my arm. “I’m all right,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“No, you’re not,” I say, my eyes stinging. His light blue dress shirt clings with sweat along his arms and plump midsection. He’s not well. My father is . . . sick. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His hand slowly eases away from his side. For a moment his eyes search my face, as they’ve done a thousand times throughout my life. “The doctors discovered new tumors along my colon,” he finally says. “They’re planning to resection my bowel and dispose of the affected area with the hope of avoiding chemo this time around.”

Very carefully, I straighten, despite that my heart has all but stopped beating. My father was diagnosed with colon cancer years ago and barely survived the aggressive treatment. If it’s returned, now that he’s older, and not as healthy . . .

“When were you going to tell me?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice clear as it shakes, my fear likely worsening my speech impediment.

He sighs. “Friday, over dinner.”

To give me the weekend to absorb it, no doubt. “And your surgery? When is that?”

“A few weeks.” He frowns as if debating what to say. “I’ll be out of commission for a while. In my absence, Declan will lead the office as acting District Attorney.” He looks at me then. “And I ask that you help him, regardless of your feelings toward him.”




Declan



“This isn’t where I f*cking belong.” I’m beyond pissed, and started typing my resignation letter at least six times today only to delete it. Yet for as much as I don’t want to head the Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit, I’m not a quitter. “Fuck,” I mumble, dragging my hand along my face. “Fuck.”

My brother Curran crosses his arms over his chest, not caring how it creases the shirt of his Philly PD uniform. But then Curran doesn’t care about shit like that. “It’s still a promotion, Deck,” he says. “You got this D.A. spot straight out of law school and have made more of a name for yourself than most douche-bag attorneys ever will.” He holds out a hand. “No offense to the douche-bag attorneys of the world.”

“That’s my point. After all I’ve accomplished, I should be the one leading the Homicide unit.”

I shove away from my desk and pace. When Miles gave me these new digs, I thought it was just the start of all the good things coming my way. When he assigned me a county car and a personal secretary, it only reinforced that my hard work had paid off. I was on my way …until I wasn’t.

“I spent months dismantling a mafia empire, Curran.”

“I know,” he says. “I was there.”

“I brought down a major crime boss―and his second in command, and his third.”

“Yup. Saw that, too,” he agrees.

“I received international attention―the trial of the century, the media called it―and for what? To be shoved someplace I don’t belong.”

“Why don’t you think you belong there?”

Out of all my five brothers, Curran is probably one of the biggest ball busters. But he’s not messing with me now. He’s being serious.

“Do you want to hear about babies and women being hurt? Day in and day out?” I ask. “These are the cases I’m going to be dealing with.”

“Someone has to do it, Deck. It’s the right thing.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m only saying I may not be the man for the job. This shit’s disgusting, what these low-life *s are capable of.”

“Is this about Finnie?” He huffs when I straighten and don’t answer. “Christ,” he mutters.

As easy as that, my brother nails it on the head. For all he sometimes pisses me off, my brother isn’t stupid. “Finnie didn’t deserve what happened to him,” I say, feeling my anger burn down to my gut.

“Of course he didn’t,” Curran snaps. “No one does. But as his brother, you owe it to him to put monsters like the guy who hurt him away.”

I sit back in my chair and rub my jaw. “I don’t know if I can.”

Our youngest brother was sexually assaulted by a neighbor when he was ten. It screwed with his mind. What he doesn’t realize is we’ve all suffered, too―not like he has―of course, not like he has. That doesn’t mean we don’t hurt for him or haven’t spent sleepless nights worried about him.