My death seems more inevitable by the second.
Those mercenaries harbored no concern for my safety whatsoever, so Finn definitely didn’t send them. Like Brody, they were hunting me.
If they’re after me, this must be about Dad, Finn, and the Irish Kings of New York City. Nothing else makes sense.
All those years ago with Angelica, those men had intended to nab me to get to Shane. Now my father’s dead, but Finn’s stepped up, so the playbook still works.
If that’s true, then they targeted the right girl this time. Which means…Brody may be my best defense.
I realize he didn’t protect me because he cares, but at least he wants me safe. More importantly, he’s good enough at what he does that we both escaped with our lives.
Whether I like it or not, he’s my temporary savior.
I just need to untangle myself from this mess before Mr. Sexy Murderer brings me to Declan.
If I can contact Finn—contact any ofmyGallaghers—I’ll be fine. My family has plenty of experience at extracting people from tougher scrapes than this, and despite current tensions, I should rank pretty high on the priority list.
No matter what, I’m still Finn’s baby sister. Still Shane’s daughter.
Even as grief once again seizes my heart over the loss of my father, the realization paradoxically calms me.
By nature, I’m both a thinker and a planner. Having a plan—no matter how small, loose, or crazy—brings a modicum of control. I don’t want to be a helpless liability or the frozen, terrified woman from half an hour ago.
Instead, I need to puzzle this out. Become a detective and deduce what’s going through Brody’s head while simultaneously finding my way out of this precarious situation.
How do I contend with a ruthless, trained killer whose probably only known pain, suffering, and violence in his life?
Psychological warfare, of course.
A breathy laugh of relief spurts from my lips at the thought, too quiet to draw Brody’s attention. Time to see if the past four and a half years of study can earn the price of admission.
The key to psychological warfare is using another person’s momentum against them, almost like jujutsu for the brain. Whatever Brody already thinks, feels, or believes, I have to tap into those things to mess him up.
He’s expecting my resistance, so my cooperation will throw him off, hopefully enough for him to drop his guard so I can get away.
As I form my plan, my surroundings fade away. Brody works for Declan Gallagher. I don’t know much about the manother than the fact that the Irish Kings in New York exiled his grandfather over a botched business deal. I picture Declan as the kind of old-school mafia man who believes women are the weaker sex. Sexist. Brash. Arrogant. Shortsighted in many of the ways that matter.
Brody’s obviously loyal to him. My captor probably matured lapping up every morsel of Declan’s power and personality. They’re probably essentially the same.
At the end of the day, the majority of them are. Not so much my brother and his band of merry men anymore, now that they all have women in their lives to whip them into shape apparently, but they’re the outliers. The stereotypical misogynistic mafioso remains the norm for a reason, and those types always underestimate the women around them.
That threat the guy currently shackled to my wrist issued in that alley?Please.I didn’t spend four and a half years studying psych and beating off college boys just to be oblivious when a man’s lusting after me.
Brody might have been trying to frighten me into submission, but the signs of genuine attraction don’t lie. His pupils dilated when he looked at me, and he licked his lips and started breathing faster.
He’s at least sexually interested in me. I recognized the signs easily enough, especially since I felt drawn to him too.
But I maintain the advantage because I won’t succumb to my body’s desires. I’m sure a man like Brody—handsome and rich and spoiled—has never once worried about properly courting a woman. A guy like this is used to them falling at his feet, so I’ll use that against him.
I can humor him. Then, once he drops his guard, I’ll act. I’ll get the hell out of here and run as far and as fast as I can.
Brody’s severe strides finally slow in front of the entrance to the Wilshire-Vermont subway station. He tows me towardthe doors, but I plant my feet, forcing him to stop or reveal our handcuffed wrists to all the pedestrians swarming around us.
“Come on.” His harsh tone grates my ears.
I lift my chin. “Where are we headed?”
He studies my expression before huffing an annoyed sigh. “Santa Monica.”
