Fires, mysteries, and a retribution that we both knew in our guts was coming for someone.
But with her in my arms, I still felt peace.
“Run that by me again,”I said from my spot behind my desk at Rye.
When Judge had texted he was on his way to talk Tuesday night, I knew it couldn’t be good.
I just didn’t know it would be batshit crazy.
“The head of the Italian mafia is a MayCo client,” Judge repeated before continuing. “When we were looking at the map on Sunday, I clocked that a few of the buildings were in their territory and confirmed it with Nox since he’s got background knowledge about the old war between the two families.” He held up his hands. “I didn’t give the boss a heads-up. Neither did Nox. But someone must’ve.”
There was a fuckin’ whirlwind of info from those few sentences, but I was still stuck on the first line. “The Italian mob is still in Boston?”
I’d heard plenty about the Irish mob. Most of it was bullshit blustering from a drunk. That his cousin’s uncle’s former college roommate’s drycleaner was a high-ranking commander, so I shouldn’t boot him from Rye, or he’d sic them on me.
And everyone from the New England area had grown up hearing the wild tales about the old crime families gathered in Federal Hill in Providence, Rhode Island.
But current?
I had no damn clue.
“They’re quiet.”
Yeah, no shit. So quiet, I’ve never heard a peep about it.
It must’ve taken a shit-ton of control and power to keep things so tightly contained. It didn’t seem possible.
“You know my feelings on lying,” Judge continued. “So I get it if you have to tell Lo. But my client reached out today. He knows about the Irish encroaching on his territory, but he said NashVille wasn’t him. He has no clue what that’s about, but since he was fucked over by a rat before, he’s being proactive.Don’t know how he knew the specifics, but he knows Rye and Wicked are targets of the new bullshit. He wants to put a couple of his guys around for protection.”
“Protection from?—”
Like it was a movie and my words were a cue, glass shattered and loud shouts came from the kitchen first.
Then the front of the house.
Judge and I raced from the office. He took off into the back while I ran to the front.
To Luna.
Panicked screams filled the air alongside the smell of chemicals and smoke. It was just a small blaze, but the heat of it was smothering.
Fuck.
Oh fuck.
“Slow! Be careful! No!” At the loud orders that could only come from one person, I shoved through the crowd to see Luna rip the drink gun from Chuck’s hold. “No water. Rhys, deactivate the sprinklers. Now!” Knowing I would do what she said, she continued issuing orders to the rest of the employees as she grabbed the fire extinguisher. “Go. We got this. Help everyone out the emergency exit before someone gets trampled.”
It fuckin’ killed to let her out of my sight, but I sprinted to the alarm panel in the back and shut it down before returning.
“I’m okay,” she called when I’d barely stepped out of the hallway. The flames were gone, leaving charred marks on the floor anda coating of the extinguisher mess. “Molotov cocktail. Don’t use water. Go check on everyone else.”
I backtracked down the hall and froze just inside the kitchen. Acrid bile rose in my throat at the smell.
Christ.
It was bad.
Judge and Amara held fire extinguishers like guns at the ready—calm, cool, and collected. Unlike out front, the fire wasn’t limited to a small spot. There wasn’t one shattered bottle on the floor. There were at least three, along with bricks and broken glass from the shattered windows. The extinguishing agent coated most of the surfaces in the roasting hot room.
