Killian laughs, pulling his knife, and rests it against Lex’s throat. “I’m pretty sure the last time we were here, I told you to never threaten the captain again.Especiallyin front of me.”
Body rigid, Lex holds the Reaper’s glare. “Still her bitch, I see.”
“Woof.”
“I expect everyone to listen and be smart.” A thought strikes me. “WhereisNico?”
Lex breaks his staring contest with the Reaper, pulling away to rub his neck. He’s lucky it doesn’t come back bloody.
“Home. Why?”
Insane panic strikes my gut, and I hold the desk to keep from falling. My pulse hums in my ears, and my lungs cease to function. “Does he have protection?”
Lex scoffs. “Why would he need it?”
“You let your old capo run around the city without guards?” Killian sneers.
“He has men at the door, but he doesn’t have bodyguards—where are you going?” I rush from the room, heels digging into the floor, and my vision swims.
“He’s vulnerable,” I bark, opening the door. Glaring at Lex, I say, “Some fucking capo.”
If the Board is coming after everyone I care about—my allies—then Nico is the biggest target.
He’s the reason I’m captain of my clan.
Before I get to the front door, Killian yanks it out of my hands.
I know we had a moment, but I can’t do this right now. I can’t have the distraction—his nearness, pulling me away. I have to focus—I have to be the captain.
“No.”
“I’m not asking.” He rips my keys from my hand and shoves me through the door. “You don’t go anywhere without me, remember?”
“It’s Nico?—”
“And if he’snotalone?” Shoving me into the car, he braces his hand on my head. “You’re still healing, and we have a lot left to discuss. You don’t get to die after that fucking bombshell.”
Before he slams the door, he adds, “You’re thinking with your heart and not your head. You’re going to need me.”
I don’t like assumptions—even if they’re true.
Instead, I buckle my seatbelt as the Reaper peels out of the horseshoe driveway.
22
MAEVE
5 YEARS AGO
On the edge of South Boston sits a large home, modeled after the rich villas of Tuscany. With warm brown tiles, white stucco walls, and a terracotta roof, it stands out from the normal brick-and-mortar homes. Fake red petunias hang in planters, swinging in the cold, wintry wind, but in the summer, the mistress of the house plants real ones.
Inhaling, the air is ripe with tomato sauce, red wine, and love. I’m not sure someone could accurately describe such a word, but this home, with tall hedges of climbing roses and a gravel driveway, smells like devotion and care. Something I’ve never smelled at my home.
Pushing through the large double French doors, I slip off my jacket, handing it to Tony. A tall man, bald, with a body built for war, he nods to me once, taking my coat and stepping aside. We rarely exchange words, but his silence is comforting. It’s an unspoken trust.
The warmth of the foyer tickles my nose, and I walk into the great room, the fireplace roaring. Reaching all the way tothe ceiling, it’s made of tan brick, with a mantle of old photos. They’re full of births, parties, and weddings. Of smiling faces and happiness.
Our walls hold photos of my sisters and brother. Rarely do they hold anything of me.
