by Cara Dee
If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the eldest son of Shannon O’Shea who ran the garages. Patrick. He was around twenty-six or something. He’d served a year in prison, while his younger brother, Finnegan, had done five years. I didn’t remember the charges, only that they’d been acquitted of murder. The youngest son got out…a couple years ago? Something like that. I hadn’t heard anything since then.
Shannon had walked. No charges. Maybe people couldn’t believe he was involved. He was former military, went to Mass every Sunday, showed up at charity functions with his adoring wife on his arm, and worked as a psychologist specializing in children in foster care.
It’d been fairly quiet about the whole family for a long time, and I hoped it stayed that way. It didn’t make sense for any of them to open up shop here. It was a dead town full of drunk working-class people surrounded by forest.
I couldn’t fucking wait to get out of here.
“Dinner’s ready, Dad!” I called.
I’d borrowed a handful of cookbooks from the library, and hopefully Dad would notice my improvement. God knew he was very aware of my approaching birthday, which meant he’d no longer be obligated to let me live under his roof. College was out of the question; my grades weren’t good enough because I had to work most afternoons and weekends. So it would take me a while to save up before I could leave this place. In the meantime, I had to do everything in my power to prove myself useful to have around.
“Smells good.” Dad entered the kitchen and immediately grabbed himself a beer.
We’d be better off if he didn’t drink and gamble away half his goddamn paycheck every month…
It made me a bit bitter. We could’ve been doing better, sort of like Franny and her family. Our fathers worked for a company in Gettysburg that drove tourists to the same historical sites day in and day out. Dad didn’t have a wife and two kids to look after. He only had me, yet our house was falling apart, food was sometimes scarce, and I bought approximately two items of clothing a year. Going to a salon to get my hair cut was unheard of. At this point, my hair reached my ass because I wasn’t awesome with the kitchen shears. Instead, money went to bills and booze.
On that end, I was already useful to him. He needed me to take care of groceries and car insurance, but that didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t very fond of me.
It was okay, I supposed. I wasn’t fond of his drunken ass, either.
“How was your day?” I filled his plate before I took a little for myself.
“Same old.” He chewed on a piece of chicken slowly, testing the flavors. “Talked to Chief earlier…” No surprise. His best buddy was a fellow alcoholic, one whose job was to protect our town. Laughable. “You were a kid when this happened, but do you remember the problems they had with organized crime in Philly?”
My head snapped up.
Now what?
“Yes?” I replied cautiously.
He nodded and gathered more sauce on his fork. “I heard from Chief that one of the families involved in that mess is moving here.”
Fuck me running, Franny was right. “Why would they?” It didn’t make any sense. We lived in the shadow of Gettysburg, had a shit economy, shit school district, shit everything. Our town used to be booming—like, a decade ago. The mine had been open back then, sending many young families our way to start their lives.
Dad shrugged. “Who knows? But I want you to be careful walking home at night from the diner. We can’t have you injuring yourself and miss out on work.”
Thanks for your concern.
The next morning, I came to a stop as I left the house. Every piece of property on this street was run-down, and the cars were buckets of rust. A black sports car stuck out like a sore thumb.
Shouldering my backpack, I pulled up the hood of my sweater and picked up the pace. The nice weather from yesterday was gone and replaced by a dreary drizzle.
I was going to look like a drowned cat by the time I got to school.
I sidestepped a puddle, my old sneakers already taking in water.
The low purr of an engine caught my attention, and I frowned at the sports car rolling up next to me on the sidewalk, window down.
“Do you need a ride?”
What, without the offer of candy first? I snorted and walked a little faster. “No, thank you.” Idiot. His car was one accident short of being a stamp, it was that flat. I couldn’t see the owner of the rich, unquestionably masculine voice—couldn’t see how big he was—and I had no desire to be ditched in a dumpster somewhere.
Whoever he was, he chuckled. “Can’t blame you, Miss Porter. Have a good day at school.”
“Wait.” I stopped instantly and bent over to see who this fucker was. Evidently, he knew my name. “Who are—um…you?” My words kind of dried up as I got a look at him. The man was lethally handsome. Dark copper-colored hair met fair skin and gunmetal eyes, his striking features complete with a trimmed beard, straight nose, and eyebrows that made him look severe in some way.
The corners of his mouth twisted up somewhat. “Your knight in shining armor?”
“Funny,” I replied.
He was new in town. Older. Clearly rich…
Don’t say this is Patrick O’Shea.
I couldn’t remember the pictures of the sons that’d floated around.
He tapped his long fingers along the wheel absently, thinking. “My name is Finnegan.”
Nope, no better. I straightened, shock sending me back a step, and decided it was really time for me to haul ass.
I heard his laughter, ignored it, and kept walking. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
The O’Sheas were actually here.
Sarah wasn’t in school, which bugged me. Since she wasn’t a gossip, she was the one I could tell everything to. That would have to wait now, and the morning classes dragged on for what felt like an eternity while I grew increasingly antsy.
I’d officially been face-to-face with a criminal.
Why the hell did said criminal know my name?
Had my dad done something? Oh God, I hoped he didn’t owe the wrong people money.
Nothing ever happened in this town, so this was gonna be big. Rumors were going to fly. People would make assumptions and warn others to stay away, while simultaneously being too curious to practice what they preached.
I tapped my pen against my knee, constantly looking at the clock. Lunch was next, and then I had that interview with Nurse Walsh. Who was related to the crime family hailing from Ireland. Who had a strange list with my name on it.
Maybe I would end up in a dumpster, after all.
I shuddered at the news I remembered from years ago. A trafficking ring had been infiltrated and blown up, a storage facility with cars, diamonds, and money had been seized, and the authorities had made more arrests than I could recall.
The man I met mere hours ago…had he sold human beings? Had he dealt in drugs and blood diamonds? Was he a killer?
It sickened me to consider, and I decided to skip going to the nurse’s office after lunch. I didn’t wanna be even slightly associated with those people.
Once the bell rang, I gathered my books and headed straight for my locker. I had a Coke and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich waiting for me in there, and I brought them outside where the rain had thankfully stopped.
I grimaced at the wet picnic table and spread out a plastic bag to sit on.
“Emilia!” Franny jogged over. For once, I was happy to see her. While I wasn’t comfortable sharing much, I had questions. “Where’s Sarah?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing she’s sick,” I said.
Something dimmed in Franny’s eyes, and she sat down across from me. “I wouldn’t be too sure. My mom saw Patrick O’Shea outside her house last night.”
I froze. Okay, what was going on?
This couldn’t be about Dad borrowing money, at least.
I hesitated to speak, having a feeling I’d regret it, but in the end, I needed to get it off my chest. “The
other one—Finnegan O’Shea? He offered me a ride to school this morning. He was parked outside my house.”
Franny’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me? You have to go to the police!”
I made a noise. “And say what? That a guy was parked on public land and offered me a ride?”
“But—” Worry was written all over her, enough so that it gave me a reality check. Christ, I was overreacting to the whole thing. “Oh, I don’t know what to say, Emilia. This could be serious. They’re murderers.”
“Or it could be nothing at all,” I responded coolly. Honestly, I needed to take a chill pill. Besides, relying on Franny and her mother did no one any good. So what if they were right on occasion? Ninety percent of the time, they were dead wrong.
The next couple of days were relatively normal, except that Sarah was still not coming to school. When I called her house yesterday, her dad said she was sleeping.
I stopped by after school to drop off some homework, and her mother smiled politely and told me Sarah would be home soon.
“Is she at the doctor’s?” I wondered. There was a free clinic in the next town over we went to when we felt really awful. They’d helped me with antibiotics when I had an ear infection.
“No…” Sarah’s mother tilted her head, curious. “She’s away with that new boyfriend of hers.”
Come again?
I would freaking know if Sarah had a boyfriend. We told each other everything—or so I thought. She also wouldn’t skip school to be with some guy. She valued school and had better grades than I did. If there was anyone she tried to get away from, it was her father. Definitely not school.
I trailed home confused, for once really bothered I couldn’t afford a cell phone. Neither could Sarah. Otherwise, this would’ve been the perfect time to text her and ask what the hell was going on.
On my way home, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up a couple cans of tomato soup. I had a coupon that was about to expire, and I’d timed it with another coupon I had for bread. Buy one, get one free. I loved seeing that sign. We had scallions, cheese, and a little bit of leftover chicken at home, so we were having soup and grilled cheese for dinner.
There would be enough for Dad to bring for lunch at work tomorrow, too.
That fucking car! Reaching my street, I stopped short at the sight of Finnegan’s sports car. Did I worry, or could I get pissed? I didn’t want him around. Jaw set and shoulders tense, I steeled myself and aimed for my house. The car seemed empty, which was troubling—
My head whipped to the side as my front door opened. None other than Finnegan O’Shea walked out of the house I’d grown up in, and okay, the anger took a hike. I didn’t have the balls to be infuriated with a mobster. Fear trickled in instead, though I tried to hide it.
He spotted me as I reached our mailbox.
“Afternoon, Emilia.” He smirked slightly and shrugged into his suit jacket. He wore all black. Black suit that fit him like a glove, black shirt, black shoes. Who’d died?
“It’s disturbing that you know my name,” I blurted out.
He found that amusing, and he flicked a glance at my house behind him. “It’s disturbing that you live in this shithole.” He muttered something else under his breath. All I caught was “also disturbing” and “nothing like the picture.”
I frowned, not coming any closer. Excuse me, but we couldn’t all rape and murder and live in mansions, and what picture? A shudder traveled down my spine.
“Talked to your pop. He’s…charming.” Finnegan’s gunmetal eyes flashed with mirth.
“What do you want?” I grated. “Have we done something wrong? We don’t have any money.”
That caused his eyebrows to lift. “Why the fuck would—” He decided against whatever he was planning on saying. “Never mind. I have a business deal I wanna discuss with you. Are you available for dinner?”
The words coming out of his mouth were so foreign that I just blinked and stared. Business deal with me? Ridiculous. Available for dinner? Also ridiculous!
After having stood still for a moment, Finnegan started walking slowly, casually, toward his car. I wanted there to be a safe distance between us, meaning I mirrored his steps to get closer to the house.
“Not interested,” I muttered.
“You don’t know what I’m offering.”
I couldn’t not be honest. “I don’t associate with criminals, and I don’t think you have anything I want.”
The bastard laughed and rounded his car, opening the door. At that point, I reached the stoop and was within arm’s length of my door.
“I think there’s one thing,” he told me. Curious how he ignored the remark about his being a criminal. He jerked his chin at the house. “I can get you out of this place.” Next, his gaze met mine, and he grew serious. “You’d be set for life and independent.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the doorknob. “That doesn’t sound like a trap at all. Let me guess, you’re offering me money to be a drug mule or something equally criminal and dangerous.”
He smiled. He actually smiled. “Have dinner with me, Emilia. Just one dinner. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“People could see me out with a—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” His accent changed right then. He sounded Irish almost. The humor was still very much present, and so was a hint of frustration. “Say criminal one more time…” He snorted and shook his head. “This is nothing illegal. But you’ve made your decision, eh?”
Hell. Fucking. Yes.
I merely glared at him as he grinned and got in his car.
There was something about him that royally pissed me off, and I wasn’t sure it was the mobster stuff. I looked at him, and I just wanted to slap him. Was that normal?
I entered the house with a huff, idly curious as to where my fear went, and walked straight to the kitchen to start dinner. “Dad, I’m home.”
His gruff reply came from the living room. “No work today?”
Staring at the messy kitchen, wondering how the hell he could destroy a surface so quickly, I felt like I was being sucked deeper inside a black hole. I hated this place, and Finnegan’s “offer” buzzed in my skull. Not that I’d ever agree to dinner with a murderer, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t dangled my ticket out of here right in front of my face. Prick.
“I don’t work on Thursdays,” I repeated for the millionth time. “What about you? Didn’t you work today?” Because as much of a drunk as he was, I couldn’t imagine he was able to drink five…six, seven, eight…nine—impressive—nine beers between getting off work and my coming home from school.
“Don’t get on me about working, kid,” he grumbled. “I slave away every fucking day to provide for you. How about you show some gratitude?”
There was no reasoning with him. After setting the groceries on the table, I pulled my hair up into a messy bun and began picking up after him. There were two takeout containers, making me believe Chief had been here too. Someone had spilled coffee on the floor, and there was a broken glass on the counter. Christ.
Speaking of guests, though… “What did that guy who was here want?” I asked.
“Oh, you saw him. That was Finnegan O’Shea—can you believe that?”
Yeah, I could.
“What did he want?” I asked again.
“That’s none of your concern,” he replied curtly.
Chapter 2
Finnegan O’Shea
“You wanna rob our own warehouse?” Patrick stared at me like I’d grown a second head.
“No, dumbass. I wanna fix the hole in our sinking motherfucking ship. Someone’s interfering with my operations, and I think I know who it is.” I never should’ve given the fucker a job. He belonged in Pat’s crew, not mine.
Pat got up from the table and grabbed us a couple beers from the fridge. “So a mock-heist?”
I nodded and explained my plan, how we’d move a car to a new garage and from there make it seem like w
e’d stolen it. If we deliberately made room for error, it was likely they’d swallow the bait and fuck us over somehow. But instead of us risking a police chase, we’d be on rented land handling our own property.
“Third time this week, Finnegan.”
I looked up from my pew and nodded with a dip of my chin at Father O’Malley. “Evening, Father.”
He smiled and paused at the end of the pew. “May I?”
“Of course.” I kept my hands clasped casually in my lap and glanced around us. Other than an elderly lady kneeling by the altar, we were alone in the church. I couldn’t say I expected anything else.
The priest sat down next to me and sighed contentedly. “It’s not often a young man like you comes to church on a Friday night. What’s your brother up to tonight?”
I smiled faintly and scratched my nose. “Nothing good, I bet.”
Father O’Malley tilted his head. “You seem troubled.”
I nodded. Truth was, I was rattled and fucking offended. “I’ve made my mother worry, apparently. And Patrick says there’s something wrong with me.”
He offered a beat of silence and then suggested a confession might be in order. I wasn’t sure it’d do anything good, but I agreed.
With a crew of six, we were well under way to steal a concept car from ourselves. As if stealing it the first time hadn’t been enough. Kellan and I got into the alarm system and turned it off, and Patrick shone a flashlight into the garage bay where the beauty waited.
Over the line of communication, I said we had about two minutes to get the car out of here. Eric’s voice filtered through, and he let us know the alarm hadn’t reached the authorities or the private security company. In reality, I owned the security firm, but Gary didn’t know that.
“Let’s get this done.” I walked over to the old Firebird and touched the hood reverently. This was the shit that got me hard. “She has a buyer, doesn’t she?”
Patrick nodded. “Dubai.”
Collector, no doubt. Most of the concept cars we were contracted to get our hands on didn’t run, either by design or age, and they were sought out due to the limited number of them. There were only three of this particular edition made, so the price tag was impressive.