Page 31

Unfortunately, this neighborhood wasn’t ideal for sitting around waiting for her to meander out of the house. There were too many patrols, too many curious eyes. If he parked too long, patterns would be noticed. Patterns meant exposure.

Plus, this wasn’t a good place to grab Madelaine. He needed her careless, distracted. He’d wait until she was in a different environment, when she was more distracted. Women liked to paint their faces, fuss with their nails, strut out of salons with their heads held high like queens. That’s when they were vulnerable. That’s where he’d grab her.

Maybe he’d drag her out by her hair, throw her in the back of a car, and remind her about the consequences for disobedient daughters.

But that meant waiting, watching. Did he have a week to waste?

No. Better to breach the house. Problem was, the place looked like a fortress. Armed men constantly moved in and out. Even now, through the windshield, he spotted two men patrolling the gardens. One paused, eyes narrowing, as he eyed Ronan’s car.

Ronan dropped his eyes to his phone, pretending to scroll, then lifted it to his ear. A man staring at a house was suspicious. A man arguing on a phone? Forgettable. He held the pose until the guard turned away.

Still, this car was burned now that it was on someone’s radar. He’d ditch it tonight, switch plates, disappear into the city. His face might be hidden behind the beard and the glasses, but his instincts screamed not to get sloppy.

And then there was the other matter. Money.

He ground his teeth. His men in Ireland were late with their cash delivery, the bastards. He’d rented a post office box for the cash drops, spelled out every damn detail, and they were still dragging their feet. If they didn’t deliver the cash soon, he’d have some painful lessons for the assholes once he returned home.

Why did everything always come down to money? Why couldn’t his name alone be enough to terrify people into obedience? His reputation should do the work for him. The Crooked Sons had been built on blood and fear.

And yet…here he was. Waiting on his daughter. A girl. A waste of his bloodline.

His lip curled as he thought of it. Why the hell had he only managed to produce a female? A daughter was nothing. She was mere decoration. Property. A vessel. A son, though! Ah, a son would have been different. A son would’ve carried the name, the power, the legacy. A son could’ve grown up in the business, soaked in violence, and risen to rule when Ronan was gone.

Once the guard was out of sight, Ronan drove away. He parked the blue minivan in a grocery store lot and scanned his options. Most of the cars parked in the lot were too obvious. Too clunky. Not enough power. His gaze landed on a white sedan further down the row. Eh. Maybe the black one? No. White was better. White was harmless. White was invisible. White was women’s preferred color in vehicles. Men in white cars were just waiting for their wives. Nobody paid attention to those.

Sliding the steel bar out of his shirt sleeve, Ronan smirked. Mere seconds later, the lock was popped and the engine purred. He drove casually out of the lot, pride swelling. He could still steal anything with wheels, just like when he’d been building up The Crooked Sons. Back then, he hadn’t just jacked cars. He’d slit throats too. Cleared out his competition one by one. The memory made him chuckle.

Had he ever killed just for the thrill of it? Oh, yeah. He could still remember the rush, the absolute high that came with those kills. He didn’t indulge too often anymore. Indiscriminate killing was sloppy, drew eyes and attention that he didn’t need. But beating a man bloody? Snapping bones? That he still enjoyed. Unfortunately, most people got hysterical about corpses. But maimed bodies, crawling away in agony? Society shrugged. Humans were odd that way.

His phone rang. “Yeah?” he snapped.

“Boss,” his second-in-command began nervously. “The package was sent, but… customs flagged it at the port.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Deadly. Ronan didn’t bother to speak, letting the dread build at the other end of the line until his second began stammering excuses. Something about scanners, about cash stuffed in the box, about government eyes.

Pathetic.

“Fix it,” Ronan snarled and ended the call.

The light ahead turned red, and Ronan came to a stop. A horn blared behind him. His hand twitched toward the gun at his hip. For a fleeting moment, he pictured yanking the driver out of his seat and painting the asphalt with his brains. The thought sent a surge of pleasure through him.

But cameras. Damn traffic cameras. Detroit was crawling with them. He gritted his teeth and pressed the accelerator instead, leaving the rude bastard behind.

Big Brother was cramping his style.

What he needed was eyes of his own. He couldn’t sit on that street night after night, staring at the fortress where Madelaine was holed up. No, he needed to know exactly when she slipped out of the house, when she was vulnerable, and he needed that information without risking being spotted.

He found a tech store and stalked inside.

“How can I help you, sir?” chirped the pimpled clerk, rocking on his heels like an eager puppy. High school reject, Ronan thought with contempt. The kind who got shoved into lockers, who now thought his pocket protector gave him power.

Ronan imagined snapping the kid’s neck, just to see that stupid grin freeze forever. Instead, he forced his lips into something that passed for a smile. “Need security cameras for my house,” he lied smoothly.

“Oh, great! Home security is my specialty!” The kid launched into a breathless monologue, gesturing toward the display wall like Vanna White.

Ronan tuned him out, scanned the shelves, and chose three boxes at random. “These.”

The kid blinked, his explanation dying mid-sentence.