The Princess Sub: Club Volare Boston

by Chloe Cox

  And the longer it went on, with Conor pacing the little entrance to their alcove like a caged animal, making phone calls to God knew who in the middle of the night, the more that little voice in Sierra’s head told her it was deliberate. That he’d seen the worst, and he was gone.

  Maybe she would have asked him. Given like, an infinite amount of time to build up her courage in that little windowless room, maybe, maybe she would have asked him. But time marched onward, and it wasn’t until Kane Lyons himself arrived with two other huge intimidating men in tow that Sierra remembered two things.

  One, it was morning by now. Outside the sun would be rising, birds singing, the whole bit.

  And two, that meant it was technically Conor’s day off.

  She almost didn’t believe it, watching Conor talk in hushed tones to Kane, seeing Kane look over at her and nod cryptically. Watching Conor turn to her, his rough features impassive, his blue eyes giving nothing away, reminding her how much she didn’t know about him. How much he’d kept hidden.

  Watching him come close, even while he still felt impossibly far away.

  “It’s my day off,” he said, standing over her.

  “I know,” she said.

  Wordlessly, he threaded his hand through her hair, just like he had the night before. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked at her through the invisible wall that had grown up between them in those few hours.

  “I’m going to get him, Princess,” he rasped.

  And then he was gone.

  Twenty-Four

  Conor sat perfectly still in Kane’s car, watching the old man open his storefront. Perfectly still. On the hunt.

  Inside he was a fucking hurricane.

  Conor breathed into it and focused. He’d been watching since he left the hospital, since the sun was still coming up. Waiting, keeping his head down.

  Rourke’s contacts had given him the address of the store where the burner phone used to call into the morning show was purchased. Just a corner store. And the man who’d been stalking Sierra on Jared’s orders — the man with the wrist tattoos — he wasn’t smart. He wasn’t sophisticated. He just had access to Jared’s money and influence.

  Odds were good the stalker-for-hire bought the burner phone at the same place where he bought his morning coffee. He would recognize Conor. So Conor kept his head down.

  Not for much longer.

  The old man who owned the place, raising the gate, unlocking the door — he looked tired. Gray. Bags under his eyes. It had been a long time since Conor had been in Boston, but he grew up here. He knew this place, knew its people. Knew what kind of store this was, too. Knew that people got their packages here, knew they kept a spare key behind the counter, knew they had accounts on credit if they needed it. People trusted this old man.

  Just like Sierra had trusted him last night.

  The hurricane inside Conor roared. He had been sitting in this car long enough for that thing at the back of his mind to gnaw its way through to the front just to tell him how badly he’d fucked it up.

  He was a Dom. Used to being in control, especially of himself. He hadn’t been in control last night. He’d seen Sierra in that place, Tiffany right beside her, and something inside him had gone wrong.

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d changed, how much Sierra brought him to life, until he shut down all over again. The thing in his chest had seized up when he saw Sierra with Tiffany, all laid out and barely breathing. His brain had flashed to an image of Sierra like that, on the brink, dying. Just like his sister had died. Then a door closed somewhere inside him, the thing in his chest smothered. Choked.

  For a second, Conor had felt like he was suffocating.

  That was why he’d left as soon as Kane had shown up. There was something wrong with him. And he needed to figure out what the fuck it was before he inflicted it on anyone else. On Sierra.

  He needed to solve this fucking case and be fucking done with the ghosts of his past.

  The old man was almost done wrestling with the locks on his door. One more thing Conor knew: the old man who owned a store like this had to keep the peace. If he wasn’t on the take with the Costello crime family — Jared Fiore’s crime family — he wasn’t dumb enough to cross them, either.

  Probably a nice old man, all things considered. Conor would make it easy on him if he could.

  He was out of the car and inside the door before it fully closed behind the old man. The old man looked up from behind the counter in surprise, but not shock. Conor watched his face harden.

  “You got a warrant?”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  The old man’s expression changed. Couldn’t have hidden his feelings if he wanted to—those eyebrows did all the talking for him. He was suspicious.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The old man wasn’t sure what side of the law Conor was on. Smart. Conor didn’t know either.

  So he didn’t say anything. Just lightly hopped over the counter before the old man could react, moving faster than any man of his size had a right to. Landed squarely on two feet, his arm shooting forward, his big hand on the old man’s forearm.

  “Don’t,” Conor said, his voice calm. The old man’s hand froze where it was, under the register. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I will if you get stupid with that gun.”

  The moment hung in the air, the old man looking him up and down, a fierce light in his eyes.

  “What do you want?” he said, finally.

  “Information,” Conor said.

  For the first time, the old man smiled.

  “I won’t say a goddamn thing,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” Conor said. “But I’m going to take that weapon, and I’m going to go in the back, and I’m going to take my time with your surveillance footage. You’ve got a nice set up here, nicer than this place needs. We both know why.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Conor tightened his grip on the old man’s forearm, then reached under the counter and took the sawed-off. Nasty piece of work. “Won’t take long. And then you don’t have to know anything, do you?”

  The old man licked his lips, his eyes breaking from Conor’s for the first time to check the door. He’d be expecting his first regulars soon. People who would wonder about Conor. People who might talk. It wasn’t going to get easier from here.

  “All right,” he said. “Five minutes. I don’t want to know anything.”

  Conor got lucky. He was right about the surveillance set up — state of the art. So this old man had a side hustle of some kind, something involving the Costellos. Conor didn’t much care.

  He cared about one particular piece of shit, and that was it.

  He got lucky a second time. He started with the footage the day before the morning show, fast forwarding through, stopping at any male who might fit the description. Took less than five minutes. Those wrist tattoos were easy to see. And in this footage, the stalker wasn’t hiding his face.

  Conor had him.

  Ever since he’d seen the tattoos, he’d known it was just a matter of time. Conor had leaned on Rourke until he’d gotten every file available on every guy on that list. Less than ten had tattoos that could possibly be a match for what Conor had seen. He’d memorized every single one of those files. He knew every single face.

  He knew the man he was looking at.

  And he knew just where he lived.

  Conor pulled the tape, got up, left the sawed-off under the chair. Paused, briefly, waiting to see if the old man had any nasty surprises for him on the other side of the door. Nothing—just an unreadable look as Conor left, holding the door for a woman waving a winning scratcher in her hand.

  Conor smiled at that. He liked that someone was having a good day.

  Because there was one guy who’s day was about to get real bad. There was still a hurricane inside Conor, and it had to go somewhere. As he walked out into the sun, he felt the thing inside him twist.

  He’d w
atched so many people die, but nothing had hit him like seeing Sierra in a place like that. Something was wrong with him. Very wrong. Conor couldn’t fix that.

  But he sure as hell could use it to protect Sierra Fiore.

  She missed him, and that made her furious.

  Because Conor had left. Yes, technically it was his day off. And yes, he waited until Kane Lyons had arrived with a couple of huge warrior-looking dudes, joined later by another Club Volare Dom called Rourke. So she was in good hands. She was “safe.”

  But Sierra’s heart was still on the verge of breaking. Her best friend was still unconscious, and the man who had somehow gotten underneath all the layers of performance and touched her actual heart had left.

  “Miss Fiore,” Kane said, gentle as a baritone could be.

  Sierra looked up. She was never not looking up with these men.

  “Your shift, I take it,” she said.

  “Yes,” Kane said. “I know this is not on the schedule. What’s your plan?”

  Sierra wanted to laugh at the idea of a plan, but she held it together. She was just punchy from the adrenaline, the lack of sleep. Normally she’d look to Conor, but…

  God, how had that become “normal” in such a short time?

  “Well,” Sierra said. “I know I’m sticking around here until I can see whoever I need to see to get Tiffany admitted to a detox program. And until I can see her. That’s the plan. After that…I have no idea.”

  Kane didn’t ask any further questions. He just nodded, took it in stride. And went to go talk to Rourke.

  Sierra was grateful not to have to explain that she was Tiffany’s medical proxy. Well, that they had chosen each other as medical proxies. It was a weird bond to have — rich girls whose families couldn’t give a damn, or couldn’t be trusted. Tiffany’s parents were probably off in St. Barth’s or wherever, and would definitely not come home even if Sierra called them. They hadn’t the last time.

  So Sierra got to sign all the papers. Fun stuff.

  Suddenly she sat down, feeling the weight of gravity in its entirety. Yeah, she was definitely punchy. And she definitely needed a distraction from thinking about how close Tiffany had come this time, and how Sierra was completely unprepared for the reality of losing her.

  And, well, she was pretty mad at Conor.

  She found herself watching Kane and Rourke and the other men intently. Something had happened with Conor, and it was as if by puzzling out the clues she could figure out what it might be. If nothing else, she could figure out that part of her life. Right?

  Sure, play detective.

  After a moment she remembered that Rourke wasn’t even part of Kane’s security company, not really—he was some sort of fancy lawyer? Which made the way those two stuck together, whispering low, checking their phones, really pretty interesting. Which made the fact that Rourke was here at all very interesting. Maybe even interesting enough to keep her from losing her mind.

  Exactly what did they know about Conor Kelly, anyway?

  Twenty-Five

  Sierra was lost in that question for a while, even in that sad hospital waiting room with the terrible lighting: what did Kane and Rourke have on Conor?

  Way better than thinking about Tiffany, anyway, laid up in her hospital bed. At least until she could do something about it.

  So Sierra watched. And remembered. She watched Kane and Rourke standing together with their heads close under those fluorescent lights like two boys with a plan. And she remembered Conor saying he and his team were going to get her stalker. They weren’t just playing defense. They were going on the offense.

  So this was the team. But why wouldn’t he tell her the details, especially about something that might make her feel, you know, less afraid? Why didn’t he tell her if that’s where he was going? Why all the secrecy?

  Unless…

  Unless they do think you’re just a moron.

  No.

  Kane and Rourke both looked over as Sierra stood up suddenly. She waved them away, barely paying attention. The force of that denial — of that ‘no’ — had been so strong it had literally propelled her out of her seat. She was stunned by it. It still echoed in her head, in her body. Like that time she’d taken Jared’s aluminum baseball bat and hit a metal telephone pole with it, just to see what it was like. She’d felt those vibrations rattling her all the way to her core, just like she felt these.

  Conor did not think she was a moron. She knew that. She knew he respected her. Knew he cared, even if he hadn’t said it. She knew that deep, deep in her bones, and she didn’t care how dumb that sounded. Because she had faith in who Conor was—and he wasn’t the kind of guy who went around being careless with a woman’s heart. He wouldn’t have done what he did last night unless…

  So something else must be going on. Something big. And Sierra was going to find out what.

  She looked at Kane, and at Rourke, and took a deep breath.

  And then, before she could challenge the Doms, real life intruded.

  “Miss Fiore?” a red-headed woman in green scrubs said. She was carrying a clipboard. She looked sympathetic, but business like. Efficient.

  “Yes,” Sierra said. “Is she awake? Can I see her?”

  “The doctors will see you now.”

  People always looked so small in hospital beds. Tiffany looked almost elfin, tiny and pale and thin. Too thin.

  It scared the crap out of Sierra. But she made herself smile.

  Tiffany looked up as Sierra walked into the room and sighed even as she smiled. Her eyes were red-rimmed, with bags underneath and dried salt at the corners where she’d been crying.

  “So how do I look?” Tiff said, arching an eyebrow.

  Sierra laughed in spite of herself, and for some reason that was the signal the tears were waiting for. All at once she was laughing and crying.

  “You look like you almost died,” Sierra said. “And I’m so mad at you.”

  Tiffany shrugged her tiny shoulders, tears brimming those red-rimmed eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Shut up,” Sierra said. “I love you so much.”

  And she wrapped her friend in a hug that wouldn’t ever feel like enough.

  Sierra wasn’t sure how long she stayed. They talked, they laughed, because that’s what they did. Sierra cried some more, and told Tiffany she wasn’t allowed to die.

  “You can’t leave me,” she said again. “I mean it.”

  “I know.” For the first time, Tiffany looked scared. “I was doing better for so long.”

  “I know. You really were.”

  “I almost had it, huh?”

  “Almost.” Sierra smiled and wiped a tear from her eye, then from Tiffany’s. “I”m sending you to detox.”

  “I know.” Tiffany squeezed her hand, and it felt weak. Sierra forgot how much they must have sedated her.

  “And when you get out, things will be different.”

  “I know.”

  Sierra kissed her on the forehead, and watched for a moment, to make sure Tiff would sleep. Things really would have to be different now. Maybe they should have been different already. Maybe it was time that Sierra chose the family she was going to look out for — and that meant Tiffany. She’d have a spare room after Conor caught her stalker, after all.

  That thought put another lump in her throat.

  Sierra shook it off and forced herself to kick into gear as she joined her bodyguards, who were blocking off the entire hallway to give her some privacy. That was overkill—she’d talk to them about that.

  But not before she talked to them about Conor.

  Sierra let herself be led to the car, and squeezed herself between two giant men, while Kane and Rourke took of the front seats. If she wasn’t so terrified, she would laugh. This was ridiculous.

  But this tiny sub was about to get the truth about Conor Kelly — even if it meant standing up to two huge Doms.

  Even if she had to close her eyes while she did i
t.

  Which was exactly what she did, as soon as Kane cleared her apartment and Kane and Rourke were locked in there with her. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and put on her best take-no-shit voice.

  “So which one of you is going to tell me what’s going on with Conor?”

  Sierra didn’t know which was worse: having to say that in the first place, or seeing the looks on Kane and Rourke’s faces.

  Because there was definitely something going on with Conor Kelly.

  And whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  Conor had a certain set of skills that set him apart from your average Boston muscle. Or your average bodyguard. Even your average Dom. And he was going to use every single one of them to eliminate the threat against Sierra Fiore once and for all.

  After that? He didn’t know. But that he would do, and he’d do it thoroughly.

  Truthfully he was happy to be laying here in wait for his prey. Gave him something to do other than stew on what the hell was going on inside his head. There was a peacefulness to the hunt that had always awed him. Chilling in the back of his borrowed car, parked back in the shade of a big tree across the street and down the block from his target’s house, head low, eyes alert — like sitting perfectly still in a hunting blind, knowing in your bones your buck was close. The perfect stillness of readiness. The empty mind.

  Empty except for all the things from his past swirling around in his chest. And then Sierra’s face, over and over again.

  This man — the stalker — was going to pay for his part of it.

  His name was Anthony “Tony” Tomes, and he was exactly who Conor expected him to be. Lifelong associate of the Costello family, grew up on the block with the boys. Never one of them, always a hanger-on, but a loyal one. Loyal, but stupid. Tony had failed his way down the pecking order until he was left to do things like manage front businesses, mostly strip clubs. He wasn’t much good at that either. Got busted for running a side hustle taking bets on college football games, and the family decided to let him do his time as a lesson. When he got out, there hadn’t been any more family jobs for Tony Tomes.