Irish by Brittanee Nicole

He was the man I was warned to stay away from.
With green eyes and an easy smile, Frank McCabe stole me away from the nightmares that awaited me at home.
But the son of the Irish Mob would never be mine. I belonged to the Italians. And the moment my mother sold me to the head of the Italian Mafia, I became the one the people of Boston were warned about.
The only person more feared than me in our city is the Irish Ghost.
When I finally flee my marital prison with my sons and my sister in tow, I unwittingly run straight into the ghost of the Irishman who died in a fiery explosion years ago.
We’re playing a game, only I’m not sure if it’s one of cat and mouse, or if he’s just after my heart.
The weapons he uses are his fists, when he teaches my sons to box, his hands, when he holds me as we dance, and the small town he now calls home.
Some call him Frank, others Ghost, but to me he’s always just been Irish.