“I wasn’t disappointed. I was depressed.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re all heart.”
Okay, not all heart. He’s got another organ of substantial size, but I’m not thinking about that.
He leads me across the street with his hand wrapped around my upper arm, towing me along like luggage. When I start to limp, he stops short and looks at me.
“My feet hurt. It’s no big—”
He picks me up again, hoisting me into his arms and continuing along as if he does this every day. Which maybe he does. I have no idea how often this man kidnaps people and carries them across rainy streets forested with dead bodies.
He sets me down next to a black Chevy Camaro, opens the passenger door, and pushes me in. He slams shut the door and trots around to the driver’s side, sliding his big frame into the seat with surprising grace. He starts the car and guns the engine.
“Seat belt.”
“We’re stealing this car?”
“You have a talent for noticing the obvious.”
“Good thing the guy left the keys in the ignition.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if he didn’t. I know how to hotwire old cars.”
“A skill you learned in prison, no doubt. Will you let me drive?”
When he cuts me a lethal look, I say, “A guy I knew in college had this awesome red Camaro that he used to let me—”
“Seat belt!”
“There’s no need to shout.”
He leans across me, grabs the seat belt, yanks it down, and clicks it into place. Then he grabs the steering wheel and grips it so hard, it’s like he’s wishing it were my neck. We take off, the Camaro’s V8 engine roaring.
As we’re speeding down the street, two black SUVs round the corner and head toward us.
“Is that your men?”
“Aye.”
“So it was only you and Sean against all those other guys? How is that possible? There were like a dozen of them. You didn’t have enough rounds of ammo in your gun. Unless Sean had a high-capacity magazine in his or something. But still, you’d both have to be really good shots. Or really lucky. And where’d he go, anyway?”
He mutters, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“I’m trying to pay you a compliment here.”
“No, you’re trying to drive me mad.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll shut up.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious. I’m going to be quiet from now on. But I’m warning you, you won’t like it.”
I find the lever on the side of the seat that lowers it back. Reclining, I try to get comfortable and close my eyes.
The car slows. Declan rolls down his window and shares a few curt words in Gaelic with one of his men from the SUVs. Then we continue on, driving fast but controlled to who knows where.
I try to ignore the pounding in my head. I’m more successful at ignoring my throbbing shoulder and aching feet, but my head is truly painful. I hope it’s the aftereffects of the ketamine and not a concussion, because I seriously doubt Declan would agree to take me to a hospital to get my skull checked out for cracks.
“Feet off the dash.”
I bite my tongue and slide my feet off the dashboard and onto the floor.
“Thank you.”
I don’t respond. I’m sure it’s my imagination that makes me think I can feel him looking at me. Me and my legs.
After a long time, he says quietly, “You were right about something.”
It takes every ounce of willpower at my disposal not to respond.
When I don’t, he exhales a heavy breath. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word.”
I resist the urge to sit bolt upright in my seat and shout Ha! and pretend to snore a little instead.
His low chuckle is somehow the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, Declan is lowering me from his strong arms into a bed.
6
Declan
It’s a miracle this mouthy, overconfident little demon can look so sweet and innocent, but she manages it.
As I lower her onto the bed in the master bedroom, she blinks sleepily up at me. Her eyelids are heavy. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair spills over the pillow, a mess of silky dark tresses I’d like to comb my fingers through—no. Christ. What am I thinking?
She’d bite them off.
Gazing up at me, she mumbles, “I want to tell you something, but I’m not talking to you. G’night, gangster.”
Then she rolls over onto her side and promptly falls back asleep.
I stand at the edge of the bed and stare down at her, amazed. She didn’t even ask where we are. Or where we’re going. She also didn’t bat an eyelash at all the corpses we left behind us.
I’ve never met anyone so resilient. So fearless. So damn…
Annoying.
Or so fit. She’s got legs like a dancer’s, long and lithe, and an arse I could bounce a quarter off. And those tits of hers—
Stop.
Frustrated with myself, I close my eyes and draw a deep breath.
I’m not normally distracted like this. Even around a woman with a tight little body like hers. Especially around a woman with such an extreme case of verbal diarrhea.
I like the quiet ones. The submissive ones. The ones who don’t make me want to tear out my hair and set myself on fire. For every hour I spend in her company, my sympathy for her ex-boyfriend Stavros grows.
Ex-lover. Ex-whatever. I’m starting to think the man is a saint.
I kick off my shoes and head into the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey. I drink that one and pour another. Then I go to the wall of windows in the living room and stand looking at the incredible glittering view of Boston at night and swallow a scream.
I never wanted this.
This responsibility. This life.
I was always the man in the background. The one behind the curtain, cleaning up messes and bringing up the rear.
I have no appetite for fame. I prefer to operate in the shadows. Now I’ll have every single head of organized crime around the world in my fucking face.
I’ll have to negotiate with them. Make treaties with them. Work with them, when all I want to do is burn their brutal empires to the ground.
But as a wise man once told me long ago, the best way to kill a nest of snakes is from the inside. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that shite.
The Russians. The Chinese. The Italians. The Armenians. The Mexicans…the list goes on. When I started this so long ago, I thought I’d be making the world a better place. I thought I’d be making innocent people safer.
But I’ve learned the hard way that as soon as one snake dies, another takes its place. There are always more bad guys. There’s an endless, unlimited supply.
It makes me wonder if I’ve made any difference at all.
I pass a hand over my face, shake off the gloom, and go back to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. I leave it on the nightstand next to a quietly slumbering Sloane, then head to the shower.
After that, I dress in a fresh suit and put on a pot of strong black coffee.
I’ll need it.
Because as soon as the sun comes up, a parade of visitors will arrive from all over to pay their respects to their new king.