Honorable Sins

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Honorable Sins Excerpt
(c) 2026 Lucy Monroe
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Chapter 1: Cocoa and Heartfelt Confessions

KARA

 

Mick’s going to be back from his meeting with da any minute, and it can’t come soon enough for me. This Christmas-in-July thing is chaos wrapped in twinkle lights.

It sounded like a good idea at the time.

That’s going to be my epitaph because it’s entirely possible I’m not going to survive this mayhem.

But how could I tell Fitz no? He wants to do it for his little brother. The year the twins were born on Christmas Eve, Cormac thought they were his special presents.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that newborns don’t make the best playmates and they demand a lot of attention from the family he was used to being the center of. His acting out was normal and he settled, like moma said he would.

Until the twins turned one on Christmas Eve and they got both a birthday party, complete with smashing cakes (which Mavie was having none of) and Christmas to celebrate.

Fitz found his little brother crying in his room that night because he wasn’t special like the twins. He was only born in July. God must like Mavie and Sorcha more because he gave them a birthday to share with Jesus.

He didn’t get that from his da or me, but we’re an Irish Catholic family. People say things like that, even moma, without realizing how hurtful they can be. She would never has said that God likes the girls more than Cormac, but she did say they’re special because they share their birthday with the Son of God.

Fitz tried explaining to Cormac that Jesus wasn’t really born in December, because even at eight, he was smarter than a lot of adults. Our youngest son wasn’t consoled. Not then, and not when Mick and talked to him.

Usually Mick can get through to our kids when I can’t and vice versa, but this idea had been brewing in our two-and-a-half-year-old’s brain for months and it wasn’t going anywhere.

While Mick and I tried to figure out how to help our son see how important he is to all of us—and my grandmother, father and even Hope, told us he’d grow out of what they termed his sibling rivalry—Fitz came up with the idea of celebrating Christmas-in-July.

Loving the holidays, I jumped on board with both feet and not a lot of forethought, but Cormac loved it and his confidence really seemed to come back after his third birthday.

We do the whole thing now. A Christmas tree goes up mid-June, we bake Christmas cookies and one week after Cormac’s birthday on July 18^th, there are lots of presents on the 25^th. That’s Mick’s favorite part. He loves buying things for me and our children. Although half my presents from him can’t be opened in front of them.

Even if the kids didn’t love this new family tradition, all the uproar would be worth the creative gifts my obsessed husband comes up with.

But this year? I’ve got a special gift planned for him that is going to rock his world.

And mine.

MICK

Semi controlled chaos reigns in our pine scented living room when I come in after my meeting with Brogan.

Because Cormac got to feeling wee about it, we celebrate Christmas twice a year now. Brogan thinks it’s daft, but the chisselers love it and Kara gets all gooey-eyed when I participate. That look is worth everything.

And I will never allow it to dim again.

I inhale deeply, letting the rightness of being with my family in our own space settle over me.

I don’t know how Kara is going to react to her father’s decision to officially hand over the mantle of boss to me nearly a decade ahead of schedule, but right now, my precious wife is in her element. Softly singing along to carols playing at low volume from the smart speaker, she helps Fitz put the lights on the Christmas tree.

I wince. That’s supposed to be my job, but my meeting with Brogan kept me late.

Like a lot of things have been lately and once I take over as boss, it’s only going to get worse if I don’t do something to change it.

This right here? Is for our chisselers.

Two of which are better at causing Mayhem than Gobby. Mavie, our sunshine girl, is giggling as she pulls ornaments from the boxes, tears away their packing wrap and drops them on the ever-growing pile around her on the floor.

She shoves the wrap at her two-year-old twin sister. “Here.”

Expressionless, Sorcha takes the crumpled paper, flattens it and adds it to her own pile, this one as neat and tidy as a nun’s room at the convent.

Miles, the mutt with a big dose of bulldog in his ancestry Kara adopted from a shelter for Fitz while she was pregnant with Cormac, keeps a dozy eye on his people from a spot by the fireplace. Gobby, our son’s cat, is nowhere to be seen.

He’s probably hiding one of the ornaments somewhere in Fitz’s room as homage to his favorite person. Although the cat is surprisingly tolerant of the littles.

Cormac, our four-year-old, is waging war with miniature nutcracker ornaments. Two have already lost their heads and the tip of the spear of another doesn’t look long for this world.

Kara keeps a set of them hung around the bottom branches of the tree for the chisselers to play with, gluing heads and parts back on as needed. There’s an entire box of tree decorations she’s accumulated that double as toys.

Figurines that used to be Fitz’s favorites. Miniature stuffies from a Christmas movie. All of the deer from Rudolph’s movie have red noses courtesy of Fitz because Cormac cried about Rudolph being different.

That’s our twelve-year-old all over. He sees a problem and he fixes it, but especially for his younger brother and sisters.

Kara brushes her hand over the top of Sorcha’s head after passing the string of lights to Fitz who is standing at the top of the step ladder beside the tree. Our dour daughter doesn’t react, but she doesn’t flinch away from her mam’s touch like she does anyone outside our immediate family either.

That’s something, I guess.

I don’t remember distinguishing between my parents and siblings and the rest of the world as a child. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Maybe it would have been different if I’d been born a twin.

Mavie is Sorcha’s person and she acts as a conduit to the rest of us.

Kara bends down to redistribute a lump of ornaments all hanging on a single branch close to Mavie.

As she straightens, I pull her into my arms and kiss her temple, inhaling her scent and letting it settle me. “Aren’t we supposed to get the lights on before you start decorating?”

Kara turns in my arms and grins up at me. “Good luck getting the wild ones to wait.”

Her lips are too kissable to resist. So, I don’t. She tastes like cinnamon and I get lost in the sweetness that is my wife.

Until a sturdy body lands against my legs. “Da! You’re home.”

Kara breaks the kiss and steps back so the chisselers can greet their da.

I drop to my haunches and ruffle Cormac’s hair. “That I am.” Mavie lands against me with an oomph, demanding a hug and a kiss.

Then I put my hand out to Sorcha and our quiet girl, brushes her own over it before stepping back.

“If you and mom want to hang the lights, I can get the littles to play a game with me,” Fitz offers.

I step up to grab the lights, hanging them on the other side of the tree and then bring the long assed strand of multicolored LED lights back around to him. “Na. Let them do their worst. You know your mam will only come in later and rearrange everything above the lowest branches later tonight anyway.”

And I don’t want Kara on the stepladder, which she’ll insist on climbing to get the lights on the top half of the tree because I’m so much taller than her.

“And you’ll help her because you love her.” Fitz looks at me with a question in his eyes.

I don’t know what it’s about; he knows I love his mam.

“Aye. I’ll help her.” If for no other reason than to get my woman into our bed that much sooner.

I do not feckin’ care if our tree looks festive or like a grumpy Christas elf threw up all over it, but I do care if my wife is happy with it.

“Uncle Adam doesn’t treat Aunt Fiona the way you treat mom.” Fitz is too intent on getting the light strand just where he wants it to look at me.

“He’s not unkind to her.” If he were, I’d sort him, brother, or no brother.

Once I learned what Chivon’s husband did to her during their short marriage, I killed the men who knew it was happening and did nothing to stop it. We hurt our enemies, not our families.

“No. But…” Fitz’s voice trails off.

I make another circuit around the tree with the lights while I wait for him to continue.

When I hand Fitz the light string again, he meets my gaze, his serious. “I don’t think he loves her.”

“Why is that then?” I ask, not really fashed one way or the other if my brother loves his wife.

But something about their dynamic bothers my son.

“When we visited them in March, I saw him with someone.”

Someone not Fiona and doing something that Fitz has been chewing on for the past three months. I don’t know if my brother has a mistress, but even if he did, I have a hard time believing he did something indiscreet where his nephew could see him.

“Is it something that you maybe misunderstood?” Kara asks.

“No.” Fitz is definite.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Remember when we went out to dinner with everybody?”

“Aye. I remember.” Protection was a logistical nightmare with that many primaries to guard.

“I went to the bathroom, but when I came out, it sounded like someone around the corner was sick, or something. They were moaning.” Fitz’s cheeks burnish red. “But it wasn’t that.”

“Why don’t you two let me finish the lights?” Kara puts her hand out for the light strand. “And you can go talk about this.”

But Fitz and I shake our heads at the same time. “We’ll talk after we’re finished.” I nod at Fitz. “Right, boyo?”

Relief washes over his features. “Right, da.”

Seeing his uncle macking on a woman in the hallway of a restaurant is probably not something he wants to talk about in front of his mam anyway. The fact he started the conversation here and now says a lot about how heavily it’s been weighing on him.

After we string the lights, Kara sends us into the kitchen to “make cocoa” as an excuse for us to talk privately while the little ones “help her” finish decorating the tree.

I text an order to the kitchen for cocoa and include the guard on the entrance to our wing in the text thread so he expects it.

“That’s your idea of making cocoa?” Fitz asks with preteen sarcasm.

I lift my brows. “Aye. You have something to say about that?”

“No, da. Not at all.” Fitz tries to hide his smirk.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not your mam. I’m more like to scorch the milk than anything.”

“There are packets. You only add hot water.”

“I like it made from scratch better.” More to the point, so does Kara.

Fitz rolls his eyes. “As long as you’re not the one making it.”

“Aye. A smart man learns to use his skills and let others use theirs.” I lean against the counter.

“I’ll remember that.” There’s no sarcasm in my son’s tone now.

I nod. “You’ll be glad you did.”

Fitz looks around the kitchen, his gaze landing everywhere but on me.

When he finally lets our eyes meet, I know he’s ready to talk. “Uncle Adam had his hand up the lady’s skirt and he was kissing her like you do mom sometimes.”

A lot more than sometimes, but if I’m right about the kind of kissing he’s referring to, we save it mostly for our time alone. Not because I think our chisselers shouldn’t be exposed to passion between their parents, but because with them around that kissing can’t lead anywhere.

And as good as it feels, it’s an exercise in frustration.

“You sure it wasn’t your aunt?” I ask.

Fitz shakes his head. “She was still at the table when I got back.”

“Not all people believe that their vows of fidelity are binding.” I don’t say men, because there are plenty of women who are the same.

The woman my brother had been kissing being one of them.

“You do though, right?” Fitz asks. “You’d never kiss another lady like that.”

“Nah. I wouldn’t. I keep my promises. You know that.” I’ve taught Fitz to do the same.

He knows that breaking a promise isn’t just letting someone down, but it’s breaking faith with me too. Kara is more understanding about it, but I’m training my son to take over the Shaughnessy Mob one day and to be my underboss before that.

I expect more of our boyo and he delivers.

“But you love mom, right?”

Where is this coming from? “I do. You’ve heard me say it.” Many times. “You know I don’t lie to her. Ever.”

Fitz’s shoulders relax and he smiles. “I knew that, but the kids at school say stuff.”

“Like what?” And who thinks they can talk shite about my feelings for Kara?

Those kids aren’t getting their ideas outta their asses. They’re hearing stuff at home and repeating it to my son.

“That you only married mom so you could be the boss someday.” He looks at me like he wants me to deny it.

This conversation isn’t about what my son saw in Dublin. Although I’ll be having words with my brother about allowing my son to see something he shouldn’t.

Other parents would be more worried about violence, but that is part of our life. Compromising our honor isn’t.

“When I married your mam, your great uncle was still alive. He was supposed to take over from your grandfather.” At that time, Fergal Shaughnessy was still the boss and hoping his oldest son would remarry and provide him with an heir.

The deal with me to give him a grandson was a backup plan in case that didn’t happen. I got Kara and a captaincy out of it.

Fitz slouches, his shoulders hunching. “But my last name is Shaughnessy.”

“Aye.”

The addendum to the contract for me to become boss came later, after Derry and Fergal died so close together (one murdered by a cult leader and the other killed by me). I allowed my son to carry the Shaughnessy surname and in exchange Fitz was named Brogan’s official heir, with the caveat that I will take over as boss when my father-in-law retires.

“Your name is also Fitzgerald,” I remind him.

“But my brother and sisters all have Fitzgerald as their last name.”

“And they have Shaughnessy as their middle names. You are mo mhac whether you are a Shaughnessy, or a Fitzgerald and you are both.”

“I know that da, but the other kids say that you had to let me be named Shaughnessy so you could become boss after grandda.”

That feckin’ contract is still causing trouble and that addendum isn’t the secret that Kara having to use IVF to guarantee a boy child the first time around is. “It’s important to your grandda that the Shaughnessy name lives into the next generation.”

“There are plenty of Shaughnessys. One of them is an eighth grader at my school.” Fitz crosses his arms, pulling in on himself further.

“He’ll not be a direct descendant of your grandda’s.”

“But we’re related.” And if I’m reading my son right, he’s not thrilled about that.

“Is he the one saying stuff about why I married your mam?” Little bastard.

Fitz looks up again, eyes the same green as mine burning with anger. “Yes.”

“Contract marriages are common among the children of syndicate leaders.” Both inside and outside the mob.

My son knows this. One day, Fitz will probably have an alliance marriage too.

“I know.” Fitz gives me an earnest look. “But you love mom, right?”

“Aye. More than me own life. She is the heart beating in my chest, mo mhac. The only people as important to me are you, your brother and your sisters.”

“I remember when I was little…” He pauses and grimaces. “I used to think mom wasn’t as important to you as me.”

“You know differently now though.”

He nods but his green gaze so like my own is still troubled. “Kenny Jr. says that it’s not fair for you to become boss. He thinks his da should take over from grandda because he has Shaughnessy blood.”

So that’s who has been speaking out of turn at home. The boy’s father, Kenneth Shaughnessy Sr., is Brogan’s second cousin and a lieutenant on his crew.

Brogan promoted him because he’s family and he trusts him, but the two men who turned out to be rats several years ago were on Kenneth’s team. He took the punishment for that like a leader should though.

But to question my right to lead is to question my son’s right to be boss one day. And I will not let that stand.

“What do you think?” I ask Fitz.

“No one could be as strong of a boss as you, da,” my son replies fiercely.

“Aye. And do you know why?”

“Because you’re disciplined and not afraid to do what needs doing?” Fitz asks, like my question is part of his training.

But I shake my head. “Na. It’s because I would burn down New York to keep your mam and you chisselers safe.”

And I’ll kill anyone who tries to get in the way of my doing that.

“We’re more important to you than the rest of the mob.” Fitz stands straighter. “We’re the family that counts.”

“Aye. Before I met your mam, I protected my family and mob out of duty. But love is a fierce emotion boyo, and it’ll drive a man harder than duty ever could.” Something I only learned after Kara threatened to divorce me.

Not that my chisselers will ever know about that either.

“I don’t like Kenny Jr. even though he’s family,” Fitz admits.

“Nothing says you have to like family.”

“That’s not what grandda says.”

“You know your grandda and I don’t agree on everything.”

Fitz nods. “I love grandda, but I’m glad you’re not like him. Uncle Brice says you’re more ruthless. Is that because you don’t feel emotions like other people?”

“Aye.” Brogan can be plenty ruthless, but my father-in-law is hindered by feelings I don’t have for anyone but my wife and children.

I won’t feel a moment of guilt or regret if I have to kill Kenneth Sr. that’s for feckin’ sure.

“Kenny Jr. says you don’t feel emotions at all, but that’s not true.” Fitz watches me, waiting for my response.

We’re back to this then. “Nah. It’s not true. You just said you love your grandda. Is it true?”

Fitz nods earnestly.

“I don’t, but I’m loyal to him.” As long as he remains loyal to me. My son will never know how close I came to killing his beloved grandda. “But the only people I love—”

“Are me, my sibs and mom,” my son says, interrupting me.

“That’s right.”

“Does it bother you not to love other people?” Fitz asks with curiosity but no condemnation in his voice.

“Nah. Does it bother you that I don’t?” I ask to be sure.

“No, da. As long as you love us, I don’t care if you love grandda and the others. I know you’ll protect them anyway.”

He’s right about that.

“Am I allowed to deal with Kenny Jr.’s disrespect?” Fitz asks.

“Aye. But every action comes with a consequence.”

“But not from you?”

“Nah, not from me.” There’s a knock on the door and I step away from the counter. “But fighting at school comes with penalties.”

“And grandda might be angry. Would you allow him to punish me for it?” Fitz follows me to the front door.

It’s a good question. Brogan and I settled the issue of his role in my family long ago. He has no authority over them except as it relates directly to mob business.

An altercation with the son of one of his lieutenants could be considered mob business.

That does not change my answer. “Nah.”

“Mom might ground me though,” Fitz says thoughtfully, clearly weighing the potential outcomes as I’ve taught him to do.

“Aye.” Kara has her own view of acceptable behavior and as often as not, I concede to it, knowing my own moral compass is skewed.

I open the door and take the tray of cocoa from our guard before closing it again.

“It would be worth it,” Fitz says with conviction, only to frown again. “But I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“You’ll not disappoint her if she believes your actions are justified.” Kara has her own streak of ruthlessness.

Six years ago, she’d asked her father to kill the woman who threatened our son’s life. If Fitz retaliates against Kenny Jr. for talking shite to our son, I’ll help her see the potential danger to Fitz from the kind of disloyal talk his distant cousin is spouting.

Whatever my son decides to do, I will be having my own discussion with Kenneth Shaughnessy.

There’s chaos in the living room when Fitz and I return with the cocoa.

Mavie, wild with laughter, is tangled in garland and running around the tree with two of her mam’s china ornaments clutched in her fists.

Kara rushes after Mavie, her own laughter hindering her attempts to catch our daughter. Cormac is on the second rung of the step ladder, clearly intent on scaling it. Holding another one of Kara’s prized and very breakable ornaments, Sorcha is offering it to her brother, her expression serious.

“Fitz,” I bark. “Cormac.”

Knowing what I want and acting immediately, our oldest grabs his younger brother from the step ladder and sets him on the ground.

I place the tray of cocoa on the coffee table and swoop down to nab Mavie before she can make another circuit of the tree.

“No!” The shouted denial does not come from Cormac or Mavie, but our quiet little Sorcha. “It goes high.”

Fitz drops to his haunches in front of his little sister, while blocking Cormac’s path back onto the ladder. “Do you want me to hang it for you?”

Sorcha jerks her head in a nod. “It goes high.”

“Yes, all the breakable ornaments go higher on the tree, you are right, my sweet Sorcha,” Kara says, her voice filled with warm approval.

I carry Mavie to the tree and allow her to place both of her ornaments on high branches. “You let your mam and Fitz hang the rest of these ones,” I tell her firmly.

She turns her sunny smile up to me. “Okay, da.”

“I want to hang it,” Sorcha says, her own voice just as firm as mine, only she’s talking to Fitz.

“You want me to pick you up like da did for Mavie?” Fitz asks, respecting the touching boundaries our youngest twin has had since birth.

Sorcha considers her answer before nodding again. “Yes.”

Fitz lifts her and allows her to hang the ornament near where Mavie placed hers.

“Marshmallows!” Cormac crows, having discovered the hot cocoa.

Minutes later the littles are sitting on the floor around the coffee table, drinking cocoa with their favorite toppings. Mavie likes whipped cream as the white mustache she sports attests. Sorcha wants whipped cream too in order to be like her sister. However, her child sized mug only sports a small dollop that Kara mixes into the lukewarm beverage before our little one will take a sip.

Fitz sits in a chair, his own mug untouched while he looks around at all of us, like he’s still trying to figure something out.

Kara nestles into my side on the sofa, taking sips from my drink while ignoring her own. “Everything okay with him?” she asks softly so her voice doesn’t carry.

“Aye.”

She relaxes against me, but I’m not fooled. My sweet wife will want chapter and verse later when the children can’t overhear.

And there will be no slaking the intense desire that still burns brightly between us until she gets it. Not that that stops her from teasing me with the press of her gorgeous baps against my side.

When I glance down at her, she’s looking back, her hazel eyes filled with the knowledge of what that touch does to me.

“Want to play stoplights tonight?” she asks softly.

My cock hardens in response to her question, like we didn’t make love this afternoon while the girls were napping and Cormac was in preschool.

One thing that hasn’t changed in the thirteen years of our marriage, is how much I need this woman.

And it never will.