Page 11 of Faithless Vows

He’s standing near the exit to the ride, arms crossed, watching me. His expression is flat, unreadable to anyone else, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw is clenched. He’s found something. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, and from the look of him, it’s bad.

Time to go.

I look at Alannah. She’s still smiling, still caught up in the fun we’ve been having, and I hate that I’m the one who has to ruin it. I force a smile anyway and reach for her hand as we step away from the ride. “I need to drop you off,” I say quietly. “Something’s come up.”

Her expression falters for a second, but she covers it fast, nodding like she always does. “Okay.”

We walk back through the fair together, Alannah quiet beside me and Mick a few paces behind us. I can feel him there the whole way, and it takes the shine off everything. The lights are still bright, the music is still playing, people are still laughing around us, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. Alannah holds the pink bear against her side, her fingers moving absently over the fur.

“We’ll come back,” I tell her, giving her hand a squeeze. “Stay longer next time. Do the rest of the rides.”

She looks up at me and gives me a small smile. “I’d like that.”

It’s one of the things I like best about her. She grew up in this life too, so she knows plans get cut short sometimes. She just understands.

When I stop outside her house, she turns to me. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For tonight. It was perfect.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was.”

She kisses my cheek, then slips out of the car before I can think of something more to say. I watch her walk up the path,the pink bear tucked under her arm, her ponytail swinging against her back. She pauses at the door, looks over her shoulder, and gives me a small wave. I lift a hand in return. Then the door closes behind her.

I sit at the curb with the engine idling, staring at the front door. I want to stay there a little longer. I can’t.

Mick’s waiting.

Work’s always waiting.

I put the car in gear and drive away.

***

The warehouse sits low against the edge of the docks, just another brick box in a row of them. Nothing special to look at, and that’s the point. Places that blend in don’t get remembered. It’s the sorta place that’s good for business and even better for cleanup.

I pull around back and kill the engine. Mick’s already there, leaning against the loading door, cigarette burning down between his fingers. He doesn’t bother with small talk when I step out.

“It was Jackie,” he says. “He’s been skimming shipments. Jameson. Lucky Strikes. Thought nobody’d notice.”

Of course he did. Jackie Higgins has been running the docks almost as long as I’ve been alive. Trusted enough that nobody questioned him when the numbers first didn’t add up. Not until they came up short too many times to blame on bad counts.

“Inside?” I ask.

Mick nods, flicks his cigarette to the ground, and grinds it out beneath his heel before pushing the door open.

The air inside is thick with the smell of damp concrete and salt from the harbour. Empty wooden crates are stacked near the walls. A few of my men stand scattered through the room, arms crossed, silent but not relaxed. They straighten when I come in, shoulders pulling back, eyes cutting to me before shifting back tothe centre of the room, where Jackie hangs from the chain hoist bolted to the ceiling beam.

The docks special. His hands tied off, rope run through the iron hook at the end of the hoist, his body left hanging just high enough that the toes of his boots skim the floor. Someone’s already worked him over. One eye is swollen nearly shut, the skin split above it, blood dried down the side of his face, and bruises darken his jaw.

I keep staring at him, trying to make sense of what the fuck he was thinking. Jackie Higgins has been part of the docks so long he feels built into them, same as the pilings and the salt-rotted boards. Now he’s strung up in the middle of the room like any other man stupid enough to cross us.

I cross the floor slowly, letting the scrape of my shoes carry. Jackie lifts his head when I get close. His eyes are unfocused, but he knows who’s standing in front of him.

“Jackie,” I say.

He swallows hard. “Boss—”

He says it like he still has the right.

“You know why you’re here.”