‘All night that phone has been going in your office, Michael, but you won’t answer it. You just sit here like a nun at a stag do. You make me nervous. Answer the fucking thing, and do what’s needed.’ She grabbed his hand tightly. ‘I know how difficult it’s been for you. Patrick left a big hole. You have a lot to contend with, so will you just get on with it? I feel like I’m keeping you from your business. I don’t want that, Michael, and, if you’re really honest, neither do you.’

The office phone was ringing again, and she could see that Michael was torn once more. ‘Answer the fucking thing, will you, Michael? Put us all out of our misery.’

He laughed despite himself. He knew how lucky he was to have her. She never asked anything of him, she just accepted him for who he was. She wasn’t a fool either, she knew the score – knew what he was all about. He stood up, and walked from the room to answer the phone.

Josephine laid back against the sofa cushions, and sighed in relief. She cupped her belly with her hands, content with the new life she had inside her, and the promise of some well-needed peace and quiet. Michael had to let her deal with this in her own way. She didn’t need a babysitter, she just needed to feel in control of her own life. She closed her eyes, tired out. She just wanted her bed and some sleep.

Michael came back into the room a few minutes later, and she could see he was worried about something.

‘I have to nip out, darling.’

She smiled gently. ‘All I can say is, thank fuck for that!’

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-One

Declan was seriously worried. He had never had to deal with a situation like this before – his brother had made sure of that. Patrick knew the value of speed in these kind of situations. Michael was finally on his way, but it just wasn’t good enough. He should have been here ages ago, and he would tell him that as well. Michael was like a fucking ghost these days, drifting in and out at his leisure. It was a travesty. He was supposed to be the big boss now, and it seemed to Declan that Michael Flynn had dropped the fucking ball. He needed to up his game, because the people he dealt with looked for weakness and, if they found it, they went in for the kill.

He sat down. The Portakabin was too hot, stuffy, and it fucking stank. He lit a cigar, and puffed on it deeply. The smell of his big Churchill would mask anything and, as this place stank like a Turkish wrestler’s jockstrap, he welcomed the tobacco’s distinct aroma.