Saint:A Dark Mafia Romance(97)

"Evening, Ms. Hammond," he mutters, before I can even say anything.

"Wouldn't the whole point of a secret phone be that it stays a secret?" I hiss, glancing back at the dark staircase. "The fucking ringer was on!"

"Well, you should have checked it," Marlow hisses back. "Roarke-"

"He's asleep."

"Did someone tire him out?"

My face goes hot at the sneering tone in his voice, and I scowl into the phone. "What do you want."

Marlow chuckles. "Touchy thing aren't you. I want information, kid."

"Well, I don't have any informa-"

"When exactly were you planning on telling me about the little shootout you had this morning in Southie? Or that you and Roarke were off on a goddamn road trip?"

I swallow the lump that forms in my throat, fingers tightening on the phone. Even talking to Agent Marlow like this - without even giving him anything - feels like some sort of disloyalty to Connor. It feels like selling him out, without even saying anything.

"What exactly do you think you owe him, Sierra?" Marlow says, as if reading my thoughts. His voice is without his usual edge this time, using my first name instead of "Ms. Hammond" or "kid". And even though I'm sure it's some sort of FBI trained tactic of "getting through to me" or showing empathy …

It works.

I close my eyes, biting my lip and slowly shaking my head.

"Are you aware of the phenomenon of Stockholm syndrome?"

It takes everything I have not to bark out the bitter laugh I can feel on my tongue.

"People who've been taken or held against their will and put through stressful situations sometimes begin to empathize with their captors."

I know what Stockholm syndrome is. Hell, I've been wondering if it's what this is for days now. But I sit there squeezing my eyes shut in the dark, trying not to listen to Marlow as he psychoanalyzes me over the phone.

"These people sometimes begin to feel so close to their captors - their captors, Sierra - that they'll actually refuse to be rescued."

Is he right? Is that what all this is? Is whatever is going on with Connor and I just some fucking manifestation of my own mountain of stress and bullshit?

Is he just the perfect escape I was looking for, no matter the utterly fucked up way we were thrown together?

"You see, Sierra, the syndrome can manifest itself in very strang-"

"I'm aware of what Stockholm syndrome is, Agent Marlow," I say icily, cutting him off before I lose my fucking mind.

"Now, since you apparently know everything anyways before I had a chance to call you, is there anything else you need?"

He's silent on the other end of the phone, and even if I'm pretty sure he's not buying my half-assed attempt at a lie, he lets it be.   





 

"I need you to check in first thing tomorrow morning, Ms. Hammond. I want to know where the hell Roarke takes off to next. Shit, I want to know what he has for breakfast, how he takes his coffee, and how long he brushes his fucking teeth for. Understand?"

I close my eyes again, shaking my head slowly in the dark and wishing this would all go away.

Wishing I had all the answers.

"Ms. Hammond, let me remind you of your pending-"

"Okay," I snap, the anger welling up inside at being played like this. At having my emotions pitted against each other for sport.

"I'm glad we had this talk."

I grit my teeth.

"Oh, and Sierra, one more thing." Agent Marlow takes a beat. "I know you don't believe a fucking word I've been saying, but if you somehow need more convincing that Roarke isn't the man you think he is, go ahead and ask him."

I frown. "Ask him what."

"Ask him about Sheila."

The line goes dead, leaving me standing naked and alone in the dark.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





Connor




"Hey."

She doesn't look up as I drop down the last step into the living room.

"You're up."

She nods. I frown, furrowing my brow as I click with the fact that something isn't meshing here.

"And something's up."

"No, I'm fine."

"Sierra."

I wondered when this would happen. The thing is, this might not exactly be my usual day-to-day but it's not wildly outside the norm. Dodging heat, running, carrying a gun.

Using it when I have to.

Yeah, this is me, but it ain't her, and I wondered when she might break under it. I shouldn't have brought her into this shit. I should have stuck her somewhere safe. I should have driven her ass to Mexico, or fuckin' Montana, or wherever she could just disappear and avoid whatever Anton and his guys want to do with witnesses who see too much.

And for the hundredth time, I can't decide if I wish she'd never stepped into the back room of that bar or not. If she hadn't, well, this gets simpler.

Noncomplex.

Unmessied.

Organized, how I like it.

But then, I like that she stepped into that room. I like that she fell into me.

I like it even if it's fucking with my head on a very core, fundamental level.

"Hey."

She flinches away when I step towards her, and my eyes narrow at her.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Sierra-" I raise my hand to touch her, but she shrugs me off.

"The fuck is your prob-"

"Who's Sheila?"

My heart drops.

"What did you say?" I growl.

She finally turns towards me, her eyes wavering as she tries to make a show of keeping a bold face on, despite clearly being scared.

"Sheila, who is-"

"None of your goddamn business," I snap.

Her brow arches at the ferocity of my response, but then she scowls right back. I don't know how she knows about that, but it's nothing I need to get into with her. It's nothing I will get into with her.

I look away.

The buried past is just that: buried, and in the past for a reason. My eyes travel the room, looking for whatever put Sheila into her head. She must have seen something around the house - an old picture with names on it or something.

But then, she's asking me about it, specifically, which makes me think it's probably more than a picture. And there's that edge to her voice, like she-

"Who told you."

She freezes. "No one."

My jaw clenches as I step towards her. "Sierra-"

"What happened to her?"

"She died," I spit venomously. "She was someone I knew a lifetime ago, and someone I never should have gotten involved with, and what we had was fleeting."

I don't blink. I don't look away. I keep my eyes locked with hers because I want her to feel this.

"We were a couple of young kids not knowing what the fuck we were doing, and we stopped doing it because stopping was the right thing to do, and then she fucking died, okay?"

I whirl, my eyes finally squeezing shut and my hands pushing through my hair. The rage and the heat of those days comes roaring back inside, burning me, flames licking at the edges of mental photographs and memories I buried deep a long time ago.

"Connor, I-" I feel her hand on my back. "I'm sorry," she says softly.

"Yeah, well, me fucking too, princess."

I turn back and her whole face is different - softer, crumpled, pained.

"I- I didn't know, I'm sorry."

She steps towards me and I bristle for one more second before my shoulders deflate.   





 

"She was Aela's sister."

"Your brother's fiancée?"

I nod. "Sheila was her older sister. We weren't - I don't know. We were young, and figuring shit out and just decided to figure it out together, even if we knew it was probably a bad idea. Sheila had a lot of problems."

I look away.

"Actually problems isn't the word."

‘Problems' is your parents getting divorced, or not getting into your first choice of college, or getting busted for drinking or some shit.

"She was bright and beautiful, and full of - fuck, I don't know. She was one of those consummately happy, bubbly people, until … "

Sierra bites her lip, like she wants to know, but isn't sure if she really does. Like she wants to ask but is afraid of what the answer might be.

"Until Mick."

Something like ice slides through my heart just uttering his fucking name out loud.

"Mick worked for her dad. He was Jack's top captain actually - a sort of family friend."

My jaw clenches, and I turn to stare a hole through the wall.

"She was young when it started."

I glance at Sierra as her face falls, her hand coming to cover her mouth.

"He-" my voice chokes. "He kept her quiet with threats at first - that he'd tell her dad what she was doing even though he was the one forcing her to do it. That he'd tell her sister or her friends and ruin her reputation. After that, he got precise with his control of her."

I look away.

"We were eighteen when Mick gave her first taste of heroin, and after that, it was just a slow fade. After that, she was his."

I take a shaking breath.

"What-" Sierra's face is white, her eyes wide and horrified. "What happened to-"

"She OD'd and she died, eight years and three days ago"

Tears start to trace their way down Sierra's face, and I can feel that icy hand on my heart squeeze just a little tighter.

"That's who Sheila was," I say softly. "That's my skeleton in the closet."

I turn to look away, but Sierra suddenly steps into me, her hand slipping into mine.