Together, we walk toward the jet, where the door is open and the stairs are down, awaiting our arrival.
My feet begin to slow, Declan not realizing at first that I am falling behind.
I clutch tighter onto Aisling right before the sound of screeching tires encircles us. We’re surrounded by cars and SUVs, on all sides.Trapped.
Declan looks me in the eyes, panic-stricken. All I can do is step backward, holding Aisling.I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The back door of the Suburban closest to me swings open, and my heart drops into my stomach. Ronan steps out. Dressed dapperly in a dark suit and long dress coat.
“What the fuck is this?” Declan lashes out at me.
“It was the only way.”
More men pile out of the cars. All armed. All ready.
“Get in the car, Fallon.” Ronan gestures with his head, and Declan’s eyes flash with something deadly. Something sinister and heinous. Betrayal sets them ablaze, burning the flesh right off my body.“Get ’em on the plane.” Ronan gives the resolute order.
I escape into the truck, tucking my face into Aisling’s neck as Declan’s screams ring like terror through the hangar.
“You can’t fucking do this! That’s my fucking daughter!” He’s dragged onto the plane by five men. “That’s my fucking daughter, you bitch! I’ll kill you for this! All of you!”
I fight not to cry, ignoring my shattering heart. I shove all the emotion down deeper than I ever have before. Never have I felt so fractured. Or disgusting. Or loathsome. I truly am dangerous, more so than I ever realized. Ronan gets back in the car when all the screaming has stopped and Declan is trapped on the plane. “Drive,” he orders, and we take off.
He doesn't say anything more. Only regards me with a smug satisfaction as he caresses Aisling’s cheek tenderly. I want to cut off his index finger and shove it up his ass for even touching her. But I can’t. Because both Aisling and I belong to him now. That was the deal.
Ronan gets everything, and we get nothing. Except each other.
We lose.
He. Wins.
14
Fallon
“Are you fucking happy?Living the life you always imagined,” March exaggerates like only March can do. “A mafia boss’s pet pit bull. Spiked collar and all. I’m going to start calling you Daisy the Destroyer. Or Mitzie the Mercenary.”
“Can you spare me?” I gripe as I walk down a shady street on the east side of Boston.
“Six years. Six fucking years of building your fucking independence, and you throw it all away. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a fucking used tissue filled with snot.”
“Ew, March. That’s a gross metaphor.”
“Well, I hope the disgustingness of it sticks with you the next time you come up with a completely fucked-up, life-altering plan.”
“March,” I huff loudly, smoke billowing out of my mouth from thefreakin’ bitter cold. “We have been over this already. Many times. It’s practically a dead, beaten horse. This was the only way. I made my bed. I’m going to lie in it.”
“At the pleasure of one Mr. Ronan Kennedy.” He’s bitter.
So am I, but I’m not going to let him know that, or anyone else. I’ve got things handled. I wish everyone would just let me take care of my shit.
I stop at an intersection, where three men are loitering on the street corner. I stay hidden behind one of the buildings, watching, while March keeps chomping his displeasure in my ear.
A car pulls up to the men, a nice Mercedes. They do a quick money/drug hand off, and then the car pulls away.
Yup, these are the guys I’m lookin’ for, right where Ronan said they’d be.
“March, send the car. Now.” I survey the area. No one else is around but them, so I make my move. I cross the street, dressed in knee-high boots, a short, leather jacket and blonde bob wig. I look as innocent as can be, or like a streetwalker jonesing for a fix. You choose.
