PROLOGUE

      SOHO – 2013

      There it was again. The sound coming out of the darkness. Somebody was in the kitchen. Slowly getting out of bed and trying not to make any noise, Patrick Doyle crept over to his walnut dresser.

      With his eyes adjusting to the night, Patrick carefully opened the top drawer. Putting his hand to the back of it he quickly found what he was looking for; his Colt .380 Mustang.

      With the gun already loaded, Patrick cocked back the trigger and readied himself. Taking a deep breath and feeling the adrenalin rushing round his body, he headed out of his bedroom, onto the top landing.

      He stood with his back against the wall, listening to the muffled sounds coming from behind the kitchen door. He counted down in his head, steadying his breathing; steadying his hand, ready to aim.

      Three. Two. One … Patrick kicked open the door, slamming his full six-foot-three body sidewards into the kitchen. He yelled out into the darkness, bellowing instructions to the shadowed figure standing by the table.

      ‘Stay still! Stay the fuck still if you don’t want me to blow you clear away!’

      ‘Patrick, it’s me!’

      A deep sigh was heard and the light switched on. Patrick’s face was full of anxiety as he threw down the gun on the table. ‘Holy Fuck! … Jesus Christ! … Have you lost your mind? I could have killed ye. Don’t ever do that again. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? … Franny? … Franny? Are you okay? Have you been crying?’

      Franny Doyle looked at Patrick and burst into tears. She felt so stupid. She was thirty-four years old and instead of planning her future with Jack, the man she was supposed to marry next year, she was running home to Patrick; something she’d vowed she’d never do.

      Wiping away the tears from her piercing green eyes, Franny snivelled, feeling more foolish than ever.

      ‘It’s all gone wrong, Patrick. I should never have got engaged; it hasn’t been right for a long time. I know you never liked him, but I thought it’d get better over time; then when I found him in one of the clubs almost sucking the face off some woman, we had such a row and …’

      Not giving Franny the chance to finish, Patrick’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Tell me he didn’t lay his hands on you, because I swear to God I’ll kill him. The no-good piece of …’

      It was Franny’s turn now to interrupt. Pushing her long chestnut hair out of her face, she implored Patrick. ‘Please, can we do this tomorrow? I’m tired and I just want to get some sleep.’

      ‘No, we can’t, not till I know if he put his hands on you.’

      Franny shook her head sadly. ‘No, Patrick, it’s not like that; anyway, you taught me how to look after myself. So, nothing was broken – only my heart.’

      Patrick slumped down on the tall-back kitchen chair, all his pumped-up adrenalin leaving him. ‘Oh Franny, I’m sorry, do you want to talk about it?’

      ‘No, not now. Maybe tomorrow, but there isn’t really much to say. It’s over and I’m not going back. Would you mind if I stayed here while I figure out what to do?’

      Patrick’s face lit up. ‘Mind? I’d love it. The place has never been the same without you. Get yourself into bed and I’ll bring you a cup of hot chocolate.’

      Franny smiled, saying nothing as she stood up and kissed Patrick on the top of his head before walking out of the kitchen.

      Five minutes later, Patrick Doyle stood with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in the doorway of Franny’s bedroom. She was fast asleep and, even though there were so many questions he wanted to ask her, he wasn’t going to wake her; instead, he walked into his own room, taking a sip of the drink and wincing as the hot liquid scalded his tongue.

      As Patrick put the gun away into the back of the drawer again, he froze as his hand rested on a small silver chain and cross. Grasping it tightly in his hand, Patrick squeezed his eyes closed, stopping the stem of tears as he whispered the words. ‘Mary! Mary! Why couldn’t you be here with me, Mary?’