I take a deep breath and stare across the channel at the city. Shining, sparkling - removed from this place.
But I like it here. It's quiet, and I like quiet. The second I think it, I can hear the muffled sounds of her screaming something back inside my loft, followed by the sound of something crashing to the ground that's probably my bedside table.
I grind my teeth, my mouth tight.
Pulling the trigger was the move - the right move that I didn't fucking take for some reason. Back in that room, with that shit band making such a perfect sound barrier and distraction out front, that was the best option.
Pulling the trigger, and cutting the loose end right off, right then. The move was putting her and the other two bodies in that room in my trunk, and then heading out to Revere or some place to bury them or sink them in the harbor.
That was the organized way.
That's my way.
Instead, this just got messy.
Extremely.
Because now I've got a witness tied up. A fucking hostage. A drunk, innocent, feisty-as-shit, fight-me-until-she-can't-move spitfire of a girl. The girl who thought kissing me in that shitty club was her idea of getting wild - the rich, clean little college girl who decided tonight was the night she was going to get dirty.
Bad fucking move.
Bad move making tonight the night she didn't stay in her dorm room at Harvard or Northeastern, or whatever ritzy school daddy pays for. And double bad move kissing me. Bad fucking move thinking I was the guy to "get a little wild" with.
Spoiler: I'm not.
I'm not the guy you get wild with, and I'm not the bullshit "Boston tough guy" from a goddamn Ben Affleck movie.
I'm not the "bad boy" fantasy, I'm just a bad man.
And she has no fucking clue how bad I am.
I glance out over the city in the distance, again, pushing my fingers through my hair and growling out loud.
I thumb Liam's name in my phone and bring it to my ear as it rings.
"We got problems."
My younger brother and fellow captain clears his throat when I speak before he can.
"Hang on, I'm at dinner. Let me step outside."
"You with Aela?"
I can practically hear the grin on his face.
"Yeah."
"Bring her too. I need to talk to both of you. It's business."
"Hang on."
The line is quiet for a minute.
I'll be honest, I never thought anything but trouble would happen back when we were kids and I found out Liam was sneaking around with Aela Reilly - as in, daughter of Jack Reilly, the head of the Dark Saints. I mean, trust me when I say I knew nothing good could come of that. Back then, I thought it was a dumb fucking move, and I didn't mind telling him that.
Like any story, theirs is a twisted one. But the short version is, a few years after her dad passed, Aela ended up coming back to Boston and taking over leadership of the Dark Saints. Which means my brother's about to marry the reigning queen of the Boston Irish crime scene.
"Hey, Connor?"
Aela's measured, calm voice drifts through the phone. She got that from her dad - the steely coolness and easy ability to assess a situation.
"Hey, Aela. Sorry to break up dinner."
"No, it's fine, we were done. You've got us both on speaker in the car. Everything okay? What happened with the meeting?"
"There was no meeting."
"Shit, what-"
"Mikhail's dead, and so is one of Anton's guys."
Liam swears over the phone. "Shit. Con, are you okay?"
I nod, pinching the bridge of my nose before glancing down at my shoulder. It's bleeding, but I know the wound isn't serious - a bullet graze, and I've had way worse.
I tell them both about the meet, and about tracksuit guy, and about Mikhail taking it in the gut. I mention that I had to make a quick exit, and that Mikhail and Anton's guy are camped out in a dumpster on the Southie-Dorchester line.
I'm calm. I'm measured. I'm efficient, like I always am, as I tell them the whole story. The whole story, that is, except for the part where there was a witness to the whole thing, and now she's tied to my fucking bed.
I leave that out, and I have no fucking idea why I do.
"You're okay though, Connor?" Aela says softly.
"I'm fine, honestly."
I have no idea why I'm not mentioning the girl to them - zero clue why I'm holding back on that part. Maybe it's because I'm aware of how fucked a situation it is, especially a situation that I - the damn fixer - should excel at cleaning up.
Aela sighs, and I can hear the dismay in that sigh.
When he was running things, Aela's dad always had a thing for moving the Saints in a more legitimate direction. Jack had a goal of less of the criminal shit and more the legit business end of things, and his daughter's been following pretty damn close in his footsteps since she took over. This whole thing about brokering a peace between Russians and Ukrainians is, or at least was, a part of that "going legit" thing.
"I'm fine. All good."
Well, you know, aside from the college girl in the wrong part of town who saw me commit murder. You know, the one who's tied to my damn bed.
"You whole?"
I smile wryly at the concern in my brother's voice.
"I'm good."
"I'm sorry you missed tonight, Connor," Aela says softly.
I turn and look back across the channel at the city, my jaw tight.
"You guys do the thing?"
"Yeah," Liam answers. "Yeah, we did."
"Good. She'd like that."
Aela laughs quietly. "Yeah, she would've."
"Happy early birthday, Sheila," I mutter quietly.
"Sláinte," Aela and Liam murmur at the same time.
"Look, just send a couple guys to get those bodies and we'll figure out what the fuck to do about Anton tomorrow or something. I'll fill you both in later, yeah?"
I slip the phone back into my pocket again and scowl, still not sure why I didn't just tell them about the girl. But then, part of me knows why I didn't. Because they'd tell me what I already know.
She's a liability. She's a crack that could bring down our whole kingdom, and the easy patch here is sitting chambered in the gun at my side.
I shake my head, blowing air through my lips.
Who needs a damn drink.
I sigh as I turn and step back into the loft, shutting the fire escape door behind me.
And that's when I hear another crash.
That's when my head jerks towards the now empty bed.
Goddamn it.
Chapter Six
Sierra
My head aches, and my breath feeling like fire in my lungs. Part of me wonders if this is a trick - if he's left me here in order just to see what I'd do. I wonder if he's watching, and I glance around at the exposed-beam ceiling of the place, looking for cameras.
You're being insane.
But then, I'm allowed to be insane in this insane situation.
I glance through to the kitchen area, through to the door to what looked like outside that he walked out of. I scream again, wincing at the pain in my throat, kicking at the bed and feeling my muscles tense.
I refuse to believe there's no one who could possibly hear me in a building this big. There must be other tenants, right? Gorgeous, spacious factory lofts like this? In Boston? Even as dumpy the area is, there've got to be other people living here.
Something doesn't add up with a man like that and a space like this - decorated like this, which makes me immediately realize it's not his place at all. He's just taken me here to … to …
I don't know, and I'm sure as hell not going to wait to find out.
I clamor up the bed and throw my back against the metal frame. I wince as the metal slices against my skin, rubbing my arms up and down to try and sever what feels like a plastic zip tie on my wrists. The metal rubs my raw skin, and I whimper, biting back the tears. I shove my weight against it again, kicking out and catching the side table by the bed. A lamp tips and half-shatters across the top of the little table, and I freeze, glancing at the door and expecting him to come roaring back in.
But if he heard me, he leaves me to my thrashing, so I continue.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I rub the plastic, nicking it against a piece of the metal bed frame on every rub, feeling the hot slickness of blood until finally, my arms yank free.
I gasp as I lurch out of the bed, feeling the blood rushing back to my fingers and my shoulders as I yank the rope off my ankle. I heave off the bed and stumble for the elevator, but my foot catches on one of the blankets, which yanks the rest of the half broken lamp off the side table and brings it shattering to the floor.
The kitchen door does open then, and I whirl, my scream catching in my throat as we lock eyes.
Oh God.
I lurch to my feet, and I run. I'm sure I won't make it, or I'm sure the elevator is locked or something, but I have to try.
I run because it's the only thing I know to do.
There's no thought process to it, or even the idea that I'll actually get out, I just bolt because I know if I stay, there's no telling what'll happen.
The gasp tears from my throat as I hear him thunder after me, his feet thundering the hardwood of the loft floor. I dodge around the couch, but he's vaulting over it, and I know he's almost on me.
My fist is grabbing the lamp on the side table, and before I even know what I'm doing, I'm whirling and throwing it right at him. He roars as it smashes into his chest, the fire blazing in his eyes.
I scream when he catches up to me, his strong arms yanking me tight as we go slamming into the wall, his body against mine.
"Let go of me!"
I scream again, struggling and feeling those powerful, thick muscled arms pull me tight against his corded chest. I can feel his breath hot on my neck, teasing against my hair, and I struggle and squirm, but he only pulls me tighter to him. His growls rumble through my ears.