It wasn't a request.
Everyone knows Giovanni and I have history. Oh, not that kind of history. Christ, the rumors people invent. The only twopeople in this world who know about the dog we buried that winter, isus.
Yer forgettin' the dead girl, Lorcan. She knows too.
"She don't count, ya fat bastard. She'sdead."
The point is, Giovanni and I go way back. We've got the kind of history that sticks. The kind you can't shake even when you want to.
The LaRiccia's called in a favor that wasveryspecific. Break in to Giovanni's estate, snoop around, find us evidence that he killed, kidnapped, did something nefarious to our faggot heir, Rico… and report back.
Of course, the secret blood-oath I have with Giovanni means I don't turn him in, he don't turn me in, and life is good, and easy, and peaceful between us.
So I told fuckin' Fearghus, no problem. Because if the LaRiccia's are lookin' for something to take down Giovanni, and I have the opportunity to intervene on his behalf, then I am obligated to.
That's just… how it works.
So iI thought… in and out. Thirty minutes, tops. Find nothin' suspicious, or find somethin' and make it disappear, then report back to LaRiccia that his son's disappearance has nothin' to do with the Bavgas.
Protect Giovanni from a mob war he might not even know is brewin'.
Keep the peace. Keep my friend alive.
Simple.
Textbook, really.
Except nothin's ever simple, is it? Not for me. Not when pattern-seekers start connectin' dots they shouldn't.
She was comin' out of the library clutching a book to her chest, weird smile on her face.
Except, I wasn't really lookin' at her face. Or the book. I was lookin' at her tits. Because let's face it, when you literally bump into a naked hot woman wearin' nothin' but a collar, ya look.
What am I, a monk? Father Patrick's the dead one, not me.
I looked.
And then… fuck. I've got no idea what happened. The next thing I knew, I was shirtless, had my hand over her mouth, and I was shovin' her in the boot.
A collar.
My brain just went white.
That's the only way to describe it. Not blank—white. Like someone had taken a photograph with the flash too close and burned out all the details. I didn't think. I just moved.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant decision-makin', Lorcan.
Somehow, some way, I found the good sense to take off my shirt and pull it over her head before I did all this. Because she was wearin' it when I closed the boot. Which is disturbin' to say the least, because I literally have no recollection of doin' that.
Auto-pilot kidnapping.
That's a new low, even for me.
It was all… instinct, or somethin'.
Primal. Stupid. The worst kind of reactive.
