You walked away. You let her carry the wreckage alone. You took a soft-hearted girl and taught her that love is a weapon with a safety you can’t find. And yet, even after being turned into the Quinlans’ instrument, and even with a clean shot, she didn’t finish me.
So no, she’s not a cold-blooded killer all the way through. Not where I still live inside her.
And that softness could prove to be her ultimate undoing. And mine. The Quinlans don’t fuck around. If she failed, they’ll send someone who won’t. Her brother, I suppose. And they’ll make her pay for mercy. Dread unwinds through me, slow and relentless, as the knot on my head drums out the truth: my Kitty Cat can take care of herself, but she is still in their crosshairs.
My phone buzzes across the coffee table.
Ale: Anything on the shooter?
A spike of guilt punches through the fog. I was supposed to be at Gemini this morning again, neck-deep in city feeds, scraping plate numbers and camera angles until a pattern emerged. Instead, I’m icing a concussion and replaying the way her breath brushed my mouth before the lights went out.
Dio, I wanted to taste her. I’m still dying to.
I drum my fingers once, twice. I can’t keep Ale blind, not with Donal in Manhattan. But how do I beg for the life of the woman who aimed at his wife and their baby?
You don’t beg. You fix it, coglione. The voice in my head sounds an awful lot like my father.
I tap back a single reply.
Me: On a lead. Give me an hour.
Then I drop the phone on the couch like it burns.
I know exactly what has to happen. I’ll turn every camera south and build a ghost out of her. I’ll create fake pings, ferry footage, and a borrowed face heading for Staten Island. I’ll feed Ale a trail that keeps the family hunting a ghost while I make myself visible to the only Quinlan that matters.
Let Donal find me first.
Bait the cleaner and buy her time.
If I can’t bail her out of this myself, I can at least step between her and the blade I put in motion.
CHAPTER 20
WITHOUT A TRACE
Caitríona
I wait until Sean leaves the building wearing his gray hoodie, baseball cap, and the same sloppy stride he uses when he thinks he’s invisible. And there’s something familiar about it… Could he have been the man in the alley? Had he been trailing me again? Shaking my head, I dismiss the thought for now. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. I count to sixty, twice, then slip from the rooftop stairwell and ghost into the apartment.
The silence sits heavy. The blinds throw prison-bar shadows across the floor. I keep my breath shallow and my steps lighter than thought. If one of Tiernan’s boys is already watching me parked somewhere across the street, they’ll see a light flick on and start climbing. So I don’t touch the switch. I move by memory.
I go for my duffel bag first. Clothes rolled tight to fit. Then I search for the knife sheath taped under the dresser and tuck it into my boot. There’s the cash from beneath the wobbly brick in the kitchen windowsill. The old passport I can’t use and the photo of my brother, sister and I when we were happy that Ishouldn’t keep so both go in the trash. Sentiment weighs more than any weapon.
Then I go for the extra burner phone, the main reason I came back. The last one died a cruel death crushed beneath my boot in that alley with Matteo. I pry off the bathroom vent cover with a butter knife and fish out the taped bundle: phone, SIMs, and a thumb drive. Good. I pocket all three, then open the toilet tank and dump the contents of my pockets inside. My entire stay in Manhattan is gone without a trace.
Now, the ferry to Jersey. Matteo’s voice ghosts through my head,go downriver. I hate that the plan calms me. If he meant it, he’ll pull his family north and give me a window. If he didn’t, I’ll be running into a net, and I deserve what waits there. Either way, it’s not the Rossis I’m worried about. It’s my family.
I pull on the black windbreaker, cinch the hood, and slide the gun beneath. Safety off, finger indexed, and muzzle down. The familiar weight steadies me.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder and pause at the door, listening. Street noise. A radio two floors down. The elevator’s tired cables ticking. Nothing on this landing. So I go.
The knob turns under my palm and the door kicks inward, hard enough to slam the chain against the jamb. I leap back, gun up.
Sean fills the frame.Fuck. His hoodie is dark with sweat at the collar, eyes too bright, and jaw tight. He shoves the door the rest of the way open with his shoulder and grins like a dog about to bite.
“Well, well.” His gaze skims the duffel, the gun, then my face. “Look who decided to come home.”
I don’t lower the weapon. “Move.”
