Leaning over the bar, I don’t touch the sticky black top. Killian hovers at my back, and I fight my irritation at his proximity.
I tried to leave him at the house—but he stood in front of my car, a gun leveled at my face.
Do I think he’d pull it? In his shoes, I would.
Life was easier when he was gone.
A head pops around the back door, Meg’s dark eyes peering over a splash of freckles. She’s around my age, short and stout like the blood that runs in our veins. We haven’t been on good terms—not since she tried to teach my sister to shoot.
I made a deal with Pops—I’d take his God-awful decree with Michael if he never touched my siblings. He had one stipulation—if they tried to involve themselves in the business, like say, by learning to fight, shoot guns, or anything else deemed outside of a woman’s understanding, they could be used. Like me.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t have kept his word. He smacked Sloane around when she wouldn’t submit, and he broke Collins’s mind. And Briar? He ran my baby brother off because he thought he was weak. Only I kept my word until it was too late.
Another thing I failed at.
Women can’t lead.
“You came.”
Dryly, I nod. “I came. Where is he?” I ask, voice cracking. I’m too tired—too restless, but this is my job.
She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Currently trying to break into the storeroom.”
Of course he is.
“Still have the gun?”
She winks, grabbing the old hunting rifle from behind the bar. It’s ancient but packs a punch. “Never let it out of my sight.”
“Good.” Casually, I walk to the few tables of my men. After Pops died, I made a few changes. The men were required to wear business clothes—no more ratty, stained shirts or holey sneakers. Pops might not have cared about appearances, but I do.
I want people to see my men and think of power. Danger. Not sewer rats who would scurry away at the slightest change in temperature.
For those who couldn’t afford clothes, I bought them. Those who didn’t follow procedure ended up in the basement. Most didn’t make it out alive.
The guys stop what they’re doing and look up. Some are drunk, eyes glazed over, cheeks red. The rest peer at my legs peeking out from my long woolen coat with barely controlled hunger.
I’m used to it. I might be a leader—but I’m still a woman. And women barely have respect in this life.
Killian steps close to my side, twirling his blade over his knuckles, and they look down. No one wants the Reaper’s wrath, and I shouldn’t find safety in his rage—but I do.
“Two take the back door,” I command softly, and two men stand from the back corner. “The rest barricade the front and watch Meg’s back.”
That leaves four out here. More than enough.
Turning on my heel, I strip the coat from my shoulders, my thigh-high pleather boots glinting against the flames. Three knives are wrapped around my leg, unhidden. There are six more concealed throughout my person.
Killian whistles, taking my coat without being asked. “All this for Bruno? I’m jealous.”
Rolling my eyes, I tuck my gun under the back of my red blouse. “Be more jealous you don’t get to touch it.”
He slithers close, smirking. “I’ve already touched it. Or did you forget?”
I wish I could. At this point, my body doesn’t let me forget.
Slipping through the bar, we stalk the long, shadowed hallway. It’s more of a passageway, with little room to move, and Killian takes my back. The walls curve around us, the far end bathed in the yellow light of a single bulb. The creaking of the floors sways with each step, a constant dig into my skull as I ignore the searing heat of the Reaper behind me.
At the end, there are two doors. One leads to Pops’ office—myoffice—that is never used. It’s full of fake documents in case of a raid, a broken chair, and a decrepit desk. Half the police force is in my pocket, but you can never be too careful.
