Because I was raised to have good manners, I rinse my dish and put it in the dishwasher, then wipe up the crumbs from the counter. Then I go on the hunt for the devil man’s office.
I find it at the opposite end of the corridor from the guest room I trashed. It’s large and masculine, with a big black oak desk and all the requisite macho man décor, bulky leather sofas and the like.
I sit in his ridiculously large captain’s chair and stare at his blank computer screen with pursed lips, thinking. My gaze drops to the keyboard, then to the surface of the desk.
I wish he were here to see my smile.
Shoving away from the desk, I trot out of the office and back down the corridor. When I find the master bedroom—decorated all in gray and black, what a surprise—I rummage through his bathroom drawers until I find what I was looking for.
I head back to his office with the talcum powder bottle in hand.
Seated in his captain’s chair once again, I lightly sprinkle the talc over the edge of the desk near the keyboard. I blow gently, then lean down and take a closer look.
“Hello, there,” I say to the outline of a fingerprint.
It’s easy enough to find the Scotch tape because it’s sitting right out on the blotter.
I press a piece of tape over the talc outline, then gingerly pull it up. Then I stick the tape onto a neon yellow Post-It note.
When that’s complete, I look around, realizing I haven’t seen a biometric fingerprint scanner anywhere. The door to Killian’s office was standing wide open when I came in, and there’s nothing on the desk to indicate secured access to the drawers or computer.
Wherever this blasted biometric thing is, it’s hidden.
I mutter, “Well, hell.”
I toggle the computer’s mouse, but nothing happens. I try a drawer, but it won’t open. I look underneath the desk and chair, but find nothing there.
Then I look at the keyboard.
I don’t know which finger this print I pulled off the desk is from, so I start from left to right. First, I press the Post-It to the A key. Nothing happens. I move to the S key, but nothing happens there, either. I go down the line, trying each key where you set your hands to begin typing, but get no results at all.
Until I try the space bar.
The keyboard lights up. So does the computer screen. So does my face.
Grinning, I say loudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff!”
Then a box appears in the middle of the computer screen informing me that access is denied and all systems are shutting down due to a security breach. The screen and keyboard go dark.
Five seconds later, my cell phone rings.
I pull it from my coat pocket and look at the screen. The ID is blocked.
This is interesting, because the only two people in the world who have the number to this burner phone are Fin and Max. And their numbers are already programmed in.
I have a bad feeling I know who it is.
“Hello?”
“Hullo, lass. Having fun?”
I look up at the ceiling, wondering where the camera is. “Actually, I am. I’m planning on starting a small kitchen fire next.”
“Watch out for the sprinklers. The fire suppression system dispenses about four hundred liters per minute, so I hope you can swim.”
His rich brogue is tinged with laughter. He’s not even a little bit worried, the jerk.
“How did you get this number?”
“I’m me.”
He says it with such casual, supreme self-confidence, I want to throw the phone across the room. Instead, I demand, “No, seriously, how did you get it? I picked this phone up at a kiosk at the airport a week ago. I paid for it in cash. I’ve only used it twice.”
“I know,” he says, his tone indulgent. “And you’ll get a new burner for the next job, and a new one for the job after that. I would’ve called you at your apartment, but you’re not there at the moment.”
Great. He has my unlisted home number, too. Stupid land line. I told Fin we shouldn’t have signed up for that.
“While we’re on the subject, how did you know it was us at the warehouse? Was there another security camera we didn’t know about?”
“You forgot to disable the cameras at the factory across the street.”
I close my eyes, cursing silently. What a stupid, obvious mistake. “And from there? How did you follow us? The cameras at the field where we unloaded the truck and at the drop zone were out. So were the street light cameras all around both places.”
“I hacked an air force satellite.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. He knows how to hack a government satellite? What kind of gangster am I dealing with?
He knows I’m shocked. His chuckle is all kinds of pleased. “You still there, lass?”
“Man, I really can’t stand it when you’re smug.”
“Oh, don’t be sore. Admit it: you’re impressed.”
I am, but I will never, ever, not in a billion years admit it. “Was breaking into machines orbiting the earth something they taught you in mob school?”
“Ach, no. I learned to hack long before I was in the mafia.”
I say flatly, “Really.”
“It’s not like it’s difficult. There aren’t any cybersecurity standards for satellites, so anyone with a basic understanding of computer systems and programming languages can get past the pathetic firewalls government defense departments sets up. I can show you, if you like.”
My tone drips sarcasm. “That would be swell.”
“Might come in handy for one of your future gigs.”
I can tell he’s trying not to laugh, the son of a—
“I’d love to keep chatting, but I’d rather get type-2 diabetes.”
“Admit it, lass. You think I’m charming.”
“You’re as charming as a burning orphanage.”
“You can’t stop thinking about what it’ll be like when I finally kiss you.”
“Isn’t there a bullet somewhere you should be jumping in front of?”
“If you really didn’t like me, you would’ve stabbed me in the taxi when you had the chance. Or shot me with that gun you stole from my guest room nightstand that you stashed under your coat.”
The way he notices every detail is truly unnerving. “I should’ve done both. Your only purpose in life is as an organ donor.”
When he breaks out into gales of laughter, I can’t help but smile. But I keep my voice cool when I say, “Apply ice to that burn. Bye now.”
I hang up, frustrated as hell. Then, because I assume he’s watching through a hidden camera, I twirl around in his macho captain’s chair like I don’t have a care in the world.
Then I text Max that I’m still alive and that she and Fin shouldn’t go home until she hears back from me. If the devil man is right and those guys were after me and not him, the apartment isn’t safe.
In a few minutes, I get a thumbs-up text back from Max, though it doesn’t do much to settle my nerves. The way my luck is going, she probably thinks “don’t go home” is code for “we’re out of toilet paper.”
Then, with a dawning sense of horror, I realize that if Killian has this phone number, it’s possible he’s also monitoring my communications. Worse, he could be monitoring Max and Fin’s phones, too…and using them to track our locations.
If the man knows how to hack a satellite to find us, manipulating a cell phone would be a piece of cake.
I send Max another text. Update: all phones compromised. Destroy asap. Safehouse compromise possible. Dark mode until I message on VM with all-clear.
It takes Max only moments to text back. Please tell me you didn’t insult him again.
I text back DARK MODE MEANS NO TALKING! Then I remove the SIM card from the phone and smash it under my heel.
I put the pieces into my pocket. I don’t want to chance leaving anything in his trash that he could somehow use. Knowing him, he’ll probably make a surveillance device
out of the crumbs of my tuna fish sandwich.
I spend about an hour wandering through the penthouse and snooping through his drawers, but find nothing personal, nothing of interest. If he has family, he doesn’t own pictures of them. There’s a huge collection of books in the library, but not a single knickknack on the shelves. There’s not a house plant, not a magazine, not a crumpled receipt from a store. There’s not even any dust. It’s like he lives inside a museum.
Eventually, fatigue overwhelms me. I lie on my back on the sofa in the living room, hoping that he’s one of those super anal neat freaks and will see me in one of his cameras and get annoyed that I didn’t take off my shoes.
I don’t mean to, but I promptly fall asleep.
I wake up in Killian’s arms. He’s carrying me toward the elevator.
“Relax, lass,” he murmurs when I bleat in panic. “I’m taking you home.”
I freeze, my eyes widening. “Home? Really?”
“Aye. Really.”
We enter the elevator and the doors slide shut. We begin to descend.
Looking at his profile, I say, “Um. You could put me down now.”
“I could. I just don’t want to.”
I ponder that for a moment, but decide I’ve got other, more important bones to pick. “Is it safe for me to go home?”
He turns his head and gazes at me through heated, half-lidded eyes. “Can’t stand the thought of being away from me, hmm?”
I resist the urge to smack him on the shoulder. “Please tell me what’s happening. Those men who attacked us—”
“Are all dead,” he interrupts, his gaze going dark. “And I know now who sent them and why. And that person will soon be dead, too.”
His intense gaze clings to mine, making me shiver. A million questions fly through my mind, but I can only manage one. I whisper, “Who sent them?”
When he answers, his voice is chillingly soft. “An enemy of your father’s.”
He knows who I am. My heart stops dead in my chest.
I can’t catch my breath or look away from the deep, dark power of Killian’s gaze. We stare at each other in silence as the elevator descends smoothly, taking us down to who knows where.
I try to keep my voice steady when I speak. “Put me down.”
“Not yet.”
He’s still staring at me with that strange intensity, his eyes locked onto mine. Panic begins to claw its way up my throat.
“You promised you’d never hurt me.”
He inclines his head. I breathe a little easier, because for some insane reason, I believe him. Pretty much, anyway. But this still doesn’t make any sense.
“But you…now you know who my father is?”
His tone is faintly dry. “Aye. And we’re not exactly what you’d call besties.”
Hello, understatement of the century. The only thing my father hates more than overcooked pasta is the Irish mob. They’ve been at war as long as I can remember, and from way before I was even born.
“But you’re not going to use me to your advantage? Get money, concessions, terms?”
“You say that like it’s an impossibility.”
I scoff. “If my father had your daughter, you better believe he’d get something out of it. Something big.”
The minute it leaves my mouth, I regret it. It sounded like a dare. But Killian simply gazes at me with that strange, dark intensity, his gaze never leaving mine.
He murmurs, “I am getting something out of it, lass.”
My mouth goes dry. Oh, shit. Here it comes. Soon I’ll be missing my big toe. I whisper, “What?”
“This.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and now I’m confused. “This…what?”
His big arms give me a gentle squeeze. “This moment. This memory. This time I’ve had with you.”
I stare at him in disbelief with my mouth hanging open.
He’s serious. He’s actually serious.
I blurt, “What kind of gangster are you?”
He turns his head, breaking our gazes and leaving me feeling like I’ve been sprung from jail.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says with a sigh. “Can’t have word getting around that I’m a romantic. As soon as the sharks get a whiff of blood in the water, it all goes to hell.”
The elevator doors slide open to reveal the building’s parking garage. Six men in dark suits await in front of an idling SUV. Killian strides out of the elevator toward the car. One of his suited goons opens the back door for us.
But Killian doesn’t get in with me.
He sets me gently on my feet next to the open door, straightens, then looks at me.
His tone and expression somber, he says, “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Moretti.”
I stare at him, feeling like I’m in an alternate universe and everything is backward. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now.”
“What’s happening is that Declan is going to take you home.”
I look around in confusion. “But…”
“Here’s my number. If you need anything, call me. No matter the time.”
He holds out a small white card. I take it, blinking like an owl. The only thing on the card is a telephone number. No name, no address, no explanation as to why I’m feeling so deflated.
Seeing my expression, Killian’s gaze turns smoldering. He moves closer and leans down to murmur into my ear.
“Whenever you’re ready for that kiss, little thief, I’ll be waiting.”
He turns and strides away without a backward glance. The elevator doors slide shut behind him, and he’s gone.
11
Jules
When Declan drops me off in front of my apartment, I wait for the SUV to drive out of sight before heading back down the street to flag a taxi. The sun is rising by the time I make it to the hotel. I check in, head to the room, and leave a voicemail for Fin and Max on a number designated for emergencies only.
Then, dead tired, I drop facedown onto the king-sized bed and go to sleep. I don’t dream. I don’t move. I fall off a cliff into grateful oblivion.
When I wake, the sun is setting in a spectacular golden light show over the Charles River. I take a shower, order a steak and a bottle of red wine from room service, and get dressed again in the same clothes I’ve been wearing from before I broke into the Irish mob king’s diaper warehouse and my whole world was turned upside down.
When the hotel phone on the desk rings, I answer with the name I checked in under. “Katniss Everdeen speaking.”
“It’s me.”
Sighing in relief, I sink into the desk chair and take a big swig of the wine. “Max. Thank god. Are you guys okay?”
“We’re fine. How was the date?”
“Ha ha.”
“I’m only asking because you sounded so hot and bothered in your message. We figured you and the crazy beautiful evil gangster got down to more than canoodling.”
“Why don’t you sound the least bit concerned that I could be dead right now?”
“You picked up the phone, dummy. Clearly, you’re not dead.”
“You know what I’m saying. He could’ve killed me!”
“Listen. When a man looks at a woman the way Liam Black looked at you, the only thing she’s in danger of is a punctured lung from his raging boner.”
Dear god. The inhumanity. I say drily, “Thanks for your prayers, Mother Teresa.”
“Tell the truth. He likes you.”
I chug the wine angrily.
Meanwhile, Max is laughing. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he wants to play footsie with you under the table with his giant feet. Which reminds me, did you get a look at the size of those puppies? I noticed them in the bar. The things are enormous. If all his body parts are that large, he probably could kill you with his boner.”
“This isn’t funny, Max. He could have done very bad things to me.”
“But he didn’t. You’re safe. Not only did he keep his word he wou
ldn’t harm you, he let you go…again.” She pauses. “What do you think that means?”
“That he likes playing games.”
“Maybe. Or maybe that he’s got a soul under all that smoking hot badassery.”
I snort. “A soul? Let’s not get carried away. He is who he is, after all.”
Except he told me to call him by a different name than the one everyone else calls him, and he’s done the opposite of everything I’ve expected him to do up to this point, so I really have no idea who he is at all. Or what he is, except a notorious gangster.
“I didn’t say who, lass. I said what.”
Whatever the hell he meant by that is just one more question to add to the growing pile.
Max says, “So when are you seeing him again?”
I reach into my pocket and run my finger along the edge of his little white card. “Hopefully, never. Change of subject: you ditched your burner phones, right?”
“Yes, we got rid of the burner phones.”
“Good. And you’re at your alternate safe spots? You weren’t followed? No one knows where to find you?”
Max answers with exaggerated patience. “That is correct, Sister Neurosis of the Immaculate Order of High Anxiety.”
“You act like I’m being unreasonable.”
After a weighted pause, Max says, “Did it ever occur to you that all this stuff we do to try to make amends for being who we are is a total waste of time? That if we really wanted to make a difference in the world, all it would take would be for each of us to put a bullet in our fathers’ brains?”
I blink in surprise. “Wow. The conversation has taken a dark turn.”
Her voice grows hard. “We could save countless lives by doing that, Jules. We could end so much suffering. But instead, we’re playing at being these underdog heroes who do the wrong thing for the right reasons. Or the right thing for the wrong reasons, I don’t fucking know.”
“Max—”
“My dad is one of the worst drug traffickers in the northern hemisphere. Fin’s dad sells weapons to whichever global anarchist or authoritarian hungry for power who’ll pay the most. Yours makes Michael Corleone look like a crybaby.”
I listen to her breathe hard for a moment before saying, “What’s your point?”
Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2) Page 8