“We go now, or we don't go at all.”
He doesn't wait for me to agree. He just moves through the mayhem like our escape had been planned. He rushes me into the service corridor then through the kitchen and out a back door to the loading dock. The balmy night air chokes me, my body shaking uncontrollably from the adrenaline coursing through my insides. I pull up the hem of my dress so I don’t trip on it. My high heels pound on the pavement, sharp pains shooting up my calves.
A black SUV is parked near the service entrance. He pulls keys from his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves me inside. A second later he's in the driver's seat, and we're peeling away from the curb. Tires scream as he presses his foot on the gas.
I try to catch my breath, sucking in as much oxygen as my lungs will allow. Teeth chattering, I look down. My dress is torn. I didn’t even notice when it happened.
My father's face keeps flashing behind my eyelids. The blood. The way he fell. My mother being dragged away screaming.
Thankfully, my grandmother’s ring is still on my finger. I twist it, an anxious habit I’ve never been able to break.
“Let me out of this car.” I try like hell to keep my voice steady and strong, but my God, I feel like bawling right now. And I never cry.
“No.”
I grit my teeth and fist the sides of my dress. “I don’t take orders from?—”
“You do tonight.”
I swallow hard and stare at him. He stares straight ahead, weaving through traffic with the kind of sharp movements that tell me he’s done this before. “My father was shot. He could be dead. My mother could very well be, too. I need to get to them.”
“He’s being taken to St. Peter’s. My people are making sure of it. Your mom will be with him.”
“Your people? Who the hell are you?” I say through gritted teeth.
When he finally breaks the silence, I swallow a gasp.
“Lochlan Molloy.”
The name hits me like a brick to the chest.
Molloy.
I know that name. Everyone in my father’s world knows that name. The powerful Irish crime family that’s held power in Boston for three generations. The family my father would always speak about with a mixture of fear and respect.
“You were watching me,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “Before it happened. I saw you.”
“I was doing my job.”
“What job? What the hell is going on?”
“I don't know.” His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. They’re cold and something I can’t quite name flickers beneath the surface. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Why would a Molloy save a DiMicheli?”
“Because you were about to run into a hail of bullets, and I don't let people die if I can stop it.”
“How noble.”
“Practical. There's a difference.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, and shows zero signs of panic. He’s completely in control, over me, the truck. Fucking everything.
He pulls up to the emergency room entrance at St. Peter’s a few minutes later. It’s a mess of ambulances, flashing lights, and police cars. My stomach roils.
Dad…
Lochlan jumps out of the driver’s seat and shows up next to my door before I can open it. His hand closes around my arm as I step onto the curb, steadying me on wobbly legs that threaten to give out.
