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I fought to keep the heat from pooling in my cheeks as Mick continued.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like you shit gold. He’s convinced you’re an angel.”
“I’m not an angel,” I argued. “No one’s perfect. I’m capable of doing bad things.”
“Aye, but you try not to.” Mick tapped his temple. “That’s the difference. You try to be a good person. And I think that’s what makes you one.”
“Jack tries to be good. Usually.”
“He didn’t used to try. Not until he met you. Didn’t give a shit who he hurt as long as he got his way. You’ve changed him. He thinks about consequences before he makes a decision. Thinks about you before he takes a breath. You’re his lighthouse in a storm, lass.”
Mick’s analogy struck close to home. I’d always thought of Jack as my storm—unpredictable, chaotic, passionate—but I’d never envisioned myself as his lighthouse.
“He’s changed me, too,” I murmured. “Only I’m not sure if it’s for the better.”
“You’re stronger.”
I looked at Mick, raising my brows. He could still snap me in two with his fingers.
“When I started teaching you self-defense, you were scared of everything. Flinched at the sound of a dumbbell being dropped. There’s something different about you now, lass. It’s hard to see. You get a certain look in your eye every once in a while. Like when you told McKenzie to go fuck himself. It’s not all from Jackie Boy, though, so don’t give him credit. I think it just took you a while to realize what was in you all along.”
I hadn’t known Mick was the type to pay so much attention. Especially to someone like me, who wasn’t a member of the mob. He was insightful as hell. And confident with what he saw.
“It takes an ungodly amount of pressure to make something as tough as a diamond,” Mick related with a soft smile. “You’ve adapted. And that’s the best quality one can have in our world. The ability to survive. I know how difficult it is, but you’ve been remarkable.”
I sniffled. “Stop. You’re going to make me cry.”
“I think you deserve a good cry, Wings.”
“Believe me, I’ve cried enough.”
Mick’s phone screen lit up, the ringtone interrupting our conversation. He gathered his device from the cup holder, his expression stoic. “Hi, Donovan.”
I didn’t know who Donovan was, but Mick wouldn’t answer unless it was important. Kieran, Eoghan and Cathal were still in the city. Kieran couldn’t leave at a time like this—it would look to the rest of the mob like he was fleeing Nicoletti’s wrath. But I hoped Don Luca wouldn’t be retaliating until after our meeting, at the very least.
“You let him go?” Mick yelled, pressing the pedal all the way down. The engine revved, vibrating my eardrums. “Jesus Christ… Fine. Thanks for telling me.”
Mick dropped his phone into the cup holder with aggression.
“Why the hell was Jack released?” I demanded.
Mick ran a hand through his hair. “Technically, he was never being held under an official charge.”
We were going well over a hundred miles an hour, but the roads were almost empty. It was after four in the morning. We’d passed a few suburbs and the trees were thinning. We couldn’t be far now.
“The Roxbury precinct is known for its corruption,” Mick explained. “I wasn’t the only one on Donovan’s call list. Jack was bailed out an hour ago.”
Acid rose in my stomach, burning my throat. “By who?”
Mick exited the highway, thinning his lips. “Frank O’Connell.”
“Fucking Frank,” I cursed, wincing at the sound of his name.
Connor’s wake had been the first time I’d seen Frank since Christmas Eve. The memory of that winter night still gave me chills. The look on Jack’s face as he’d choked his father had been enough to weaken my knees—black eyes, pale skin, jaw clenched with decades of unreleased fury. It had been a miracle he hadn’t killed him.
“Fucking Frank,” Mick agreed.
* * * *
