Page 2 of Guilty as Sin

“Who’s Cormac Muloney?” she asks, her brows furrowed at her screen.

My stomach goes cold at my father’s name, so close to my original name, the life I fled from. The fact that I’m unnoticeable in crowds isn’t just convenient in bars.

It’s necessary for my survival.

“Dunno,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound normal. “Why do you ask?”

“My friend Maeve got a byline today.” Lucy reads it out loud. “Cormac Muloney’s Son Released from Cook County Jail without Charge.”

I feel my jaw fall open and have to force myself to close it. Connor’s here? My little brother’s in Chicago and he didn’t tell me? My one family member I’m still in contact with, and he couldn’t be bothered to text me that he’s in town.

He’s too busy getting arrested, apparently.

I reach for my purse. I need to text my brother immediately. But when Lucy starts reading snippets from the article, I freeze, too stunned to move.

“Connor Muloney, only son of Cormac Muloney, head of the Boston Muloney crime family—” Lucy looks up at me. “You’re from around there, aren’t you? Did you ever hear of the Muloneys?”

“Providence,” I croak, my mouth suddenly dry. “Not Boston.” Because for the past ten years, I’ve been Samantha Greene from Providence.

Not Cora Muloney from Boston’s greatest crime family.

Chills spread down my neck at the thought of my former name. I despised being the daughter of Cormac Muloney. When I cast off his surname, I felt like I’d burst free from the prison of his mafia misogyny. My stomach twists, and I have to remind myself that I am not Cora Muloney anymore.

“It’s all East Coast.” Lucy shrugs. “They’re only like an hour apart, right?”

“Yeah,” I manage. It’s exactly why I chose Providence as my fake hometown. It’s close enough to Boston that I can make small talk about it, even if most of my trips there began and ended at the Providence Place Mall. Trips taken in my sister Charlotte’s Escalade, both of us singing Taylor Swift at the top of our lungs while Connor yelled at us from the backseat, his hands clamped over his ears.

He claimed to hate everything about the mall, especially the drive. But he asked to come with us every time. I once teased him in front of his friends about how much he loved going to the bougie furniture store and flopping on all the couches. With his cheeks bright red, he insisted I was lying. The incident led to his nickname for me.

The nickname which only he dared to call me.

“He is hot,” Lucy says, zooming in on Connor’s picture. This, above everything, disorients me the most. Connor can’t be hot. He’s only thirteen! Or at least, that’s how I’ve always pictured him. Even though we text through his burners on a regular basis, to me he’s still thirteen years old and wearing that gross gray beanie, the beanie I snatched off his head and swatted him with before hugging him goodbye.

That was ten years ago.

Now, Connor’s all grown up, and he grew up without me around. He became a man with only Charlotte and our mom as the women in his life: obedient women always subservient to our father. My chest hurts, but I know it was for the best. Connor, a headstrong boy, he was meant for our family’s mafia life. But I, a headstrong girl, was not.

Jennifer leans closer to Lucy, to peer at Connor’s picture. I don’t want to see it. I shake my head clear and finally pull out my phone to text my brother.

There’s a text from an unrecognized local number, a South Side area code.

Unknown: Hello, Coralying. Your brother made a mistake. You can help him fix it, or you can let him die. Your choice.

All the blood drains from my face. The world around me blurs, and my awareness shrinks into panic. Then dread.

Coralying. Only Connor ever called me that. I blink rapidly, trying to rationalize away my fear. The unknown number could be a new burner of Connor’s, and he’s just playing a prank. Or it could be someone we knew from Boston, even though he rarely called me that nickname in front of other people.

Then the picture comes through.

Beneath the ominous text, an image of my brother’s face appears. He’s so beaten and bloody he’s almost unrecognizable, his features grotesque with swelling and bruises. I feel suddenly sick. I bite my lips together to stop myself from throwing up or gasping out loud.

My little brother’s in serious trouble.

And he needs my help.

Chapter 2

Brady