“Just leave,” I say. “My friend has probably already called the police.”
“No, I doubt that very much. And friend?” He clucks his tongue. “Don’t lie to protect that little thing. If I wanted to make your life a hell of a lot worse, she’d be the first person I would use to do it.”
My heart slams against my ribs. I never should’ve brought Emma here. I should’ve known something like this could happen. Now they’ve got even more leverage.
More ways to break me.
I stand frozen, unsure of what to do. Marcus grins like he can smell the fear on me.
“This is boring,” he says, lifting the crowbar. “Take your beating like a good little bitch.”
He swings, but before the blow lands, headlights flood the driveway. Tires screech. A black SUV stops hard, and two massive men climb out, guns already drawn.
For a split second, I think it’s over.
This is how I die.
But I realize the guns are trained on Marcus, not me. And the look of pure panic on his long, thin face is almost comical.
“You’re fucking around in Campisi-Barkov territory,” one of the men says, his voice thick with a Russian accent. “Move along, Irish.”
Marcus straightens, all lean muscle and bravado, rises to full height, and lifts his chin. He’s trying not to show fear, that initial look of panic replaced by a cocky grin.
“I call bullshit,” he says. “This has always been Browning turf.”
The two big Russians laugh. “Browning has five blocks on the South Side and not an inch more, so piss off before we put a hole in your greasy head.”
Marcus bares his teeth, then turns to me with a hiss. “Since when do you have protection, Callaghan?”
I hold my hands up. “This is just the neighborhood watch.”
He spits at my shoes. “This ain't over, Liam. We’ll get what we’re owed.”
He steps away, his shoulder hunched as he passes the bigger men.
“Shoo, shoo,” one of the Russians says, watching as Marcus walks down the street and gets in an unassuming sedan, starting the engine and driving away.
Only when he’s gone do the men look at me. Their SUV still idles in the middle of the street, with the doors wide open.
“Thanks?” I say, more of a question than a statement.
“A gift from the boss. Have a good night.”
They leave, holster their weapons, get back into the vehicle, and head off into the night.
I stand there for a minute, feeling sick. Emma saw all of that, the full proof of how weird and fucked up my life is right now.
When I finally go to the door, Emma is quick to open it, her eyes wide with fear.
“Oh my God, Liam,” she breathes. “That was the Irish guy? The O’Rear guy?”
I nod. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I shouldn’t have brought you here. It was stupid and dangerous. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Suddenly, her body is flush against mine, her arms wrap around my waist, and her head rests on my chest. I’m rigid at first, but then I melt into her hug, pulling her close and burying my face in her hair.
We stand like that for a long, long time.
She pulls back just long enough to grab her phone and turn on soft music. Then she’s back in my arms, swaying against me. I follow without thinking, the two of us turning slowly, like two kids at a middle school dance.
