by Rose, Emery
I tossed the half-eaten pastry back into the bag and set it next to me, my hand wrapped around the iced coffee that was slick with condensation. “Okay. I’m ready.” I wasn’t ready. I’d never be ready.
Killian did the honors and gave it to me straight. “Your father was sentenced to thirty-four years in a high-security federal prison.”
Thirty-four years.
Thirty. Four. Years.
Dread unfurled in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat. I couldn’t breathe.
Why was I shivering? It was hot out here. So hot that I was suffocating. Cold sweat pricked my skin and I felt clammy all over.
I watched the world through a filter, so surreal it felt like a dream or a silent movie in slow motion. Mouths moved, but no sounds came out.
Thirty-four years. Thirty-four years. Thirty-four years.
The words played on a loop in my head, the sound of a freight train blocking out the noise around me. The train was picking up speed, racing through my head, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to explode.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
Oh my God. I was dying. I couldn’t get any air into my lungs. Why couldn’t I breathe?
“Keira…”
“Babe. Just breathe.” Connor’s voice came from a long way away, like he was calling to me from the other end of a tunnel, the sound just an echo.
“In. Out. In. Out,” he coached. “Nice deep breaths.”
I listened to the sound of his voice and tried to do as he said. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In through my nose and out through my mouth. I kept doing it, forcing myself to take deep measured breaths in time with his words, until the world righted itself and the trees and the grass and the sky came back into focus.
Connor was rubbing my back. Killian was holding my coffee. And I felt like the world’s biggest loser. “I’m sorry.” I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzziness. “I don’t know what that was.”
“You had a panic attack,” Connor said calmly, like this was perfectly normal and happened every day.
“I don’t get panic attacks,” I protested weakly. Which was stupid because obviously I’d just had one, according to him.
He laughed softly. “You’re good. It’s all good.”
I took a few ragged breaths and wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts.
Killian handed me my iced coffee and I guided the straw to my mouth and drank, hoping the cold liquid and caffeine would give me a boost. I felt like I’d just been rag-dolled by a killer wave and tossed up on the beach.
“Your father was sentenced to thirty-four years in a high-security federal prison.”
I turned the words over in my head, attempting to apply logic and reason and objectivity.
Justice had been served. My father was not one of the good guys. He’d been found guilty of racketeering, money laundering, and conspiracy to commit drug trafficking. And those were just the charges that stuck. I was certain that wasn’t the extent of his crimes.
He had sanctioned murders. He had ruined people’s businesses, extorting money from them in exchange for ‘security.’ If they failed to deliver or cooperate, his punishment had been brutal and merciless. Drugs, arms, money laundering…there was no limit to what my father had done for power and money. And for decades, he’d gotten away with it.
And yet, a part of me still couldn’t bear the thought of my father, a man I used to adore and worship, behind bars. In a prison-issued jumpsuit. His freedom revoked. His world confined to four walls. Where was my mother? I had no idea. I had given her my new cell phone number, but she hadn’t called me. She probably never would. A few weeks ago, I tried to call her on her birthday, but she’d changed her number without bothering to let me know. Maggie Shaughnessy was no longer reachable.
If my father served his full sentence, he wouldn’t get out of prison until he was eighty-eight years old. Eighty-eight.
“Where? Where’s the prison?” I asked, knowing that he’d been held in a federal prison in Atlanta, awaiting his sentencing. I tried to picture him being transported to another facility with other prisoners, but I couldn’t. In my mind, he was still wearing a suit, smoking his Cuban cigars and drinking whiskey from a crystal tumbler.
“Virginia,” Killian said.
“Virginia,” I repeated. What did it matter where he was? It wasn’t like I’d ever visit him in prison.
I stood up, intent on getting out of this park and putting this whole thing behind me. All I wanted to do was get back to work and buff that ‘Cuda until it shone. Make the outside of that car so perfect that nobody would ever guess it had been riddled with rust spots. “I need to get back to work. Thanks for stopping by to let me know.”
“Keira…” Connor said, his voice filled with concern. He and Killian fell in step with me. I wanted to sprint, but they acted like they were out for a Friday morning stroll and they had all the time in the world.
“I’m okay. Really. It’s not like we didn’t expect this. We were all there in that courtroom.”
“I know. But thinking something and hearing the reality of it are two different things.”
“It’s all good.” I flashed them a smile, not fooling either of them for a minute. “I’m going to be okay. I promise.”
“I know you will,” Killian said, giving my shoulder a little squeeze.
After they hugged me goodbye and left me outside Atlas Motors, I slid my phone out of my pocket and responded to Z’s text message.
Keira: Count me in. I’ll be there tonight.
* * *
Deacon
“Thirty-four years,” Dmitri said, tossing the newspaper onto the bench next to me. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out his nose like a tyrannical dragon while Leon stood with his arms crossed, his dark shadow blocking my sun.
I picked up the newspaper and pretended to read the article while I drank my coffee. I’d already read about it on my phone earlier. A photo of Ronan Shaughnessy was splashed across the front page of the New York Times. Either it was a slow news day, or his notoriety merited that kind of exposure. Everyone loved to read about the fall of beautiful, dangerous people who had lived glamorous lives. Most likely he’d made it into the headlines because of his ties to New York City, and the bigwigs he’d had in his back pocket when he ran a nightclub in Hell’s Kitchen. Back then, Seamus Vincent had been working the beat in Hell’s Kitchen, taking kickbacks from Ronan Shaughnessy. He sold his soul to the devil and the devil ran off with his wife. Karma, what a bitch. My eyes skimmed the words, but my mind was on Keira. I needed to see her, needed to know how she was taking this. My gut feeling told me she was not okay.
I set down the newspaper as Dmitri ground out his cigarette and lit another one.
An elderly woman took a seat on the bench next to mine and Dmitri jerked his chin, indicating that we should walk. As we passed one of the steel-and-glass waterfront buildings, I caught my reflection in the glass. In a wifebeater and black athletic shorts with scruff on my jaw and the longer hair, I barely recognized myself. That was happening more often now. I’d become Kosta, a two-bit drug dealer. A guy with a shaky moral compass and nothing to lose. If the Ramsey’s hadn’t adopted me, this could have been my life.
Dmitri, Leon and I walked to the end of the pier, the smoke from his cigarette hanging in the heavy air. The sunshine was burning through the clouds and the temperature was in the nineties, the kind of day when people confined to concrete jungles were prone to madness.
“We have a mole,” he said, his voice low and steely.
My heart skipped a beat, but I leaned against the railing, my pose relaxed as he stared at me from behind his black sunglasses.
I laughed. “You need to stop reading the news. You said the same thing when that rapper got sentenced. Leon, tell him to chill out.”
Leon grunted, failing to see the humor. Tree trunk arms crossed, his eyes bored into mine, trying to get a read on me. I was too good at lying. He�
��d never get an accurate read. My life depended on it.
“What makes you think we have a mole?” I asked Dmitri, deliberately choosing the word ‘we,’ a reminder that we were on the same team. “We haven’t had any problems. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me,” I accused.
Lie, deny, and counter-accuse.
He took a deep drag of his cigarette, smoking it to the filter before he tossed it into the East River. Asshole. “I ain’t going to prison. No fucking way.”
Your ass is going to prison. I can guarantee it.
“You might want to think about making some changes to your lifestyle,” I offered helpfully. “Ditch the Lambo. It’s a cop magnet. You don’t need to draw that kind of attention to yourself.”
Dmitri was flashy and flaunted his ill-gotten wealth. It was his tragic flaw, the reason he’d come onto our radar. He also talked too much. Great for me and the field team, but not a smart move for a criminal trying to keep a low profile.
He flashed me a smile, some of his humor restored. “Are you offering to be my chauffeur, Kosta?”
“Fuck no. Buy yourself a Prius.”
“A Prius.” Dmitri snorted with disgust. “Not in this lifetime.”
He focused his gaze on the river. A ferry passed, churning up the water and three passengers on the upper deck, elderly women wearing visors and sunglasses with cameras slung around their necks, waved their arms at us.
Dmitri gave them a big wave and a cheesy politician’s grin that made me laugh. This guy. He thought he was a celebrity.
“One more big job and I’m getting out,” he said.
I raised my brows. Pay dirt. This was what we’d been waiting for, expecting for months, although I had no idea he was planning to get out. I didn’t give his words much credence though. Criminals talked about getting out all the time, but it was usually just talk. It was hard to walk away from a criminal lifestyle.
“I’m gonna buy that house in the Hamptons. Maybe a boat. Build my harem. Live the good life.”
Hate to break it to you, buddy, but that ain’t happening.
“Sounds like I need to find myself a new employer.”
“Not just yet.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“You’ll find out when I’m ready to share. In the meantime, I have a job for you. I need you to move some product tonight.”
I nodded, a loyal soldier ready to be of service. “Whatever you need, you can count on me.”
“Can I?”
“Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”
He took off his sunglasses, his ice blue eyes holding my gaze. I didn’t falter. Not for an instant. My face betrayed zero emotion. My eyes didn’t dart to the left or right. In my years of law enforcement, I’d encountered all types of suspects. The ones who caved immediately, running their mouths and spilling their secrets. The ones who acted tough, all bravado, only to crack like a nut a few minutes into the interrogation. The ones who remained silent, wiping the sweat off their brows, and refusing to talk without a lawyer present.
I could usually tell when a person was lying or had something to hide. Most people had tell-signs. They fidgeted or shifted their eyes or bobbed their leg up and down. But there were some who could lie to your face without breaking a sweat. Without doing or saying anything that would give them away.
The best liars make the best criminals. You stick to the truth as closely as possible and commit every detail of your story to memory, so you don’t trip yourself up. You say what you need to, no more and no less, and then you shut your mouth and you wait for the other person to accept your lie as truth. Which was what happened two seconds later.
Dmitri clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Take Sergei with you tonight. Just because he’s my cousin doesn’t mean I have to put up with his shit. If he doesn’t get his head screwed on straight, he’s out. Use your diplomatic skills and talk some sense into him.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode away with Leon by his side. I roughed my hand through my sweaty hair. Fucking Sergei. He was a weak link and a liability. He rode on Dmitri’s coattails and bitched and moaned about it all the time. Sergei wanted to get rich quick and resented Dmitri for being the ringleader and taking the lion’s share of the profits. The only reason Dmitri kept him around was because he felt a sense of family duty. Sergei had been given a hell of a lot more chances to get it right than the other guys in the crew. Dmitri flooded my city with drugs and arms and treated women worse than second class citizens, but he had a sliver of decency in him. He was good to his family and to the small circle of people he trusted.
This world wasn’t black and white. The good guys weren’t always good, and the bad guys weren’t always bad.
Which reminded me that I needed to see Keira before tonight’s job. I had a feeling that despite knowing her father would go to prison, the news would have still come as a shock. Despite what that bastard had done, I knew that a part of Keira still loved him, and I also knew that her own guilt weighed heavy on her.
* * *
Keira promised to meet me after work. Allegedly, she wanted empanadas from a place in Bushwick that Ava and Connor frequented so here I was in the parking lot. I sat in my SUV for twenty minutes and with each passing minute, my suspicions were confirmed. She wasn’t coming. I called her again. It went straight to voicemail. My text messages went unanswered.
On my way to pick up Sergei, I swung by her apartment building and checked the parking garage. I knew her car wouldn’t be there. It wasn’t.
Fuck.
14
Keira
I needed to pee. Badly. I eyed the McDonald’s. A strip of scrubby grass and a high curb separated it from the parking lot behind the mall where I was parked. All the stores were already closed for the night, so McDonald’s was my best bet. It was quicker to walk there than drive around the mall to the exit and then get on the road to turn into McDonald’s. I was overthinking this. I scanned the parking lot. Tyler was sitting on the trunk of his Camaro, talking to two guys, one of which was the small, wiry guy who had bet on me in June. He knew Deacon as Kosta, but he hadn’t spoken to me tonight or even acknowledged me. I didn’t think he suspected that Deacon and I knew each other. Chances were good that he wouldn’t rat me out to Deacon or mention that he saw me here. He had no reason to do that. Tyler hadn’t hassled me at all tonight. I’d been keeping to myself, plugged into my music, waiting for my turn to race.
If I didn’t use the restroom within the next two minutes, I’d pee my pants. I’d only be gone a few minutes and my car would be fine.
Decision made, I power walked across the parking lot, skirting the edge of a group of guys congregated around a blue Mustang Cobra. Sweet ride.
“Hey, Racer Girl,” Z called after me.
Ugh, no time for a chat. Urgent matter to deal with here.
I looked over my shoulder and raised my brows.
“You’re racing the Camaro. Last race of the night. Ten minutes.”
Surprise, surprise. I gave him a thumbs-up and climbed over the curb, hustling to the entrance. As bad luck would have it, there were only three stalls in the restroom. One of them was out of service. The other two were occupied. I crossed my legs and clenched my muscles. My bladder was about to burst.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
I let out a little whimper. Why had I waited so long?
Finally, I heard one of the toilets flush and what felt like a million years later, a drunk girl staggered out. I took her place in the cubicle. It smelled like vomit.
Public restrooms were disgusting, but I could overlook that tonight. I had more pressing matters. Literally.
Ah, sweet relief. I took care of my business quickly and exited the stall.
I washed my hands and held them under the dryer. These things were useless. Wiping my hands on my shorts, I slid my cell phone out of my pocket and checked the time as I exited the restroom. There were two new messages on my phone.
C
onnor: Hey babe, hope you’re doing okay. I’m always here for you if you need to talk.
Killian: You good?
I typed out quick responses, assuring them that I was just fine. Earlier, I had told Ava and Eden the same thing and said that I was going to stay home, chill out, and get lost in a book.
Lies.
Not to mention that I had blatantly lied to Deacon, after standing him up.
He had left five messages. I had answered one of them at eleven o’clock. It was now one in the morning.
Me: Hey, sorry I missed you. I’m out with Ava and Eden. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow? xx
God, I sucked. What was I doing? I didn’t have to race tonight. I could forfeit my two-hundred-dollar entry fee. That was a small price to pay for a clean conscience. I’d just tell Z I wasn’t feeling well, and I’d drive home, and everything would be okay. I could go for a drive on Sunday or I could punch a bag at Killian’s gym. It wouldn’t be the same rush though. My race was in five minutes. I’d be home by two, at the latest.
Now I was trying to justify my lies. That’s what skilled liars did. My whole life had been a lie. An elaborate game of smoke and mirrors. If I wanted to outrun my past, I couldn’t do it by lying to everyone.
“Hey, Racer Girl.”
Ugh, Tyler. I pocketed my phone and crossed to the entrance door he’d just come in, the door he was currently barricading with his body.
“Ready to race?” he asked, not moving aside to let me pass. He was working a toothpick in his mouth, a smirk on his stupid face and in that moment, under the fluorescent lights of a McDonald’s somewhere in Queens, I decided that I wasn’t going to race tonight.
If I wanted to live an honest life, I had to stop lying. Deacon deserved my honesty. Instead, I’d sent him on a wild goose chase and left him hanging. While he’d been waiting for me in the diner parking lot, I’d been driving. I drove for hours and hours, down nameless streets in neighborhoods I’d never been to and probably shouldn’t have ventured into, my music blasting, my windows wide open. A carjacker’s dream. At one point I wound up in the Bronx. I didn’t even know how I had gotten there. When I stopped at a light, a guy with a squeegee and a bucket of dirty water had cleaned my windshield even though I told him I didn’t want him to. I should have been scared when he stuck his head in my open window and shouted at me, but I wasn’t. I stuffed a wad of cash into his hand and floored the accelerator, leaving him in my rearview.