“Yes, Grayson. Weapons. We weren’t having tea in the damn harbor. But it doesn’t matter now. They’re gone—in the hands of men with an agenda we don’t know. I just lost over two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of protection for my organization. Notto mention the art my dad wanted.” She shakes her head, then adds with a whisper, “Why did I think I could do this …”
I’m drawn to her voice, the ache in it, and I question my part. Should I have called her after Bromley mentioned something? I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, and perhaps that’s why I came without the badge. Clearly, this is … way past any line. I don’t know what to say, and part of me wants to tell her this is what you get for being on the wrong side of the law, but I hold my tongue.
“Where to?” I ask instead.
“O’Brien’s,” she says. “Please.”
We drive in silence, and I itch to grab the pack of cigarettes from my cupholder. Traffic is thin, it being past midnight, and when we finally pull up to O’Brien’s, the entire street looks shut down.
Mark hops out of the car without a word, and he opens the door for Aoife. She steps one leg out, the leather pants gripping her toned thighs, but she hesitates and turns back toward me. “I’m not sure why you were there tonight, Detective. But it was good to see you.” She smiles a sad-looking smile, then climbs out of the car.
The door shuts, and I follow her shadow as it stretches under the streetlamp toward the double doors of the pub. Drumming the pads of my fingers on my thigh, I worry my lip and taste the lingering sweat from the rush at the terminal. “Leave,” I grumble to myself.
The midnight December air bites when I get out of the car and jog around the front of my sedan, tucking my hands in my coat. Aoife spins around, mouth parting.
When I reach her, she tilts her head, lifting her brows slightly.
“I, uh, was thinking about getting some food.”
She glances at the closed O’Brien’s sign.
“Not here,” I say. “I know a twenty-four-hour diner with the best hot chocolate.”
Her mouth widens into a smile, and she brings her arms to cross in front of her chest. “Hot chocolate?”
I glance up at the few stars visible from a city like Boston and shake my head. Hot chocolate? What am I, five? I shrug.
“I could go for some hot chocolate.”
Mark turns around from where he’s lingering in the threshold, ready to head back to my car, but Aoife holds up a hand. “Go home to Jenny, Mark. I’ll be fine.”
“Miss O’Donnell, I really should insist.” Mark’s eyes dance between us.
“I’ll be fine. Detective Holtz’s job is to protect and serve. That applies toallcitizens, right? Or are you going to secretly murder me?”
I swallow, avoiding the provoking words that gnaw at me.
“Let’s go,” I say.
CHAPTER 6
AOIFE
Iscrewed up. I’ve been distracted by Finn’s death, the incessant guilt I haven’t told my dad, and … Grayson. The idea I need to call Luka, the leader of the Bratvaandone of my dad’s best friends, to tell him I lost not only my shipment of ARs that was procured for me but also the rare artwork he imported for my dad—Real nice, Aoife. Only another day, in another month, in another year, proving you aren’t cut out for this.
I should focus on how I’m going to replace the inventory, or how in the world the cartel was tipped off to our shipment pickup tonight, but all I can think about is hot chocolate. Hot chocolate with a certain detective.
Grayson drives one-handed as we cross the river to Cambridge, and he taps the wheel every so often to fill the quiet. Night melds into the streets of Boston, but the Christmas lights scattered over the businesses, park trees, and streetlights are festive and bright.
He pulls in front of the diner at the corner of an intersection, the neon OPEN sign blinking red and green for the holiday season. I look up at the traditional awning. The Midnight Booth. Classic.
He shuts the car off, turning to watch me. His gray eyes trace over my face, and I gesture toward the front door riddled with an overuse of window clings. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”
He nods. “Best hot chocolate around.”
I smile, my mouth salivating at the thought. “I’ll take your word for it.” I move to get out of the car, but his hands clamp down on my forearm, rough. It halts me, and for a split second, my fingers itch for my gun.
His eyes widen, and he releases my arm. “Sorry. Used to Reed as my passenger. Tonight … wasn’t your fault. One of the dockworkers, I noticed him glancing around toward the different stacks of containers, like he was waiting for something.”
