Page 22 of Stolen Rebel

My stomach twists.

This doesn’t feel like business. It’s personal. I look for names first. Brian Murray. Erin Walsh. Rowan Byrne. Anything tied to my witness protection.

There’s nothing obvious, which likely means anything important isn’t left in the open.

I check the desk edges, the underside, but there’s no key taped, no quick-access stash, no James Bond type button to open a secret compartment.

The drawers are all locked. Of course they are. Which means whatever matters is inside them.

My stomach sinks with disappointment. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but this is kind of… boring for the mafia. If Liam finds me here, he’ll probably think it’s defiance, when in fact I was looking for leverage and came up empty.

I could guess what the second room is with my eyes closed from the minute the door swings open. Is there anything better than the smell of old books and cologne and something inherently belonging to a person you love?

Loved.

If this room isn’t Liam Mahoney’s, I’ll eat my fucking hat. Not that I have one right now, but I’ll find one and eat it. I’m not complaining. Being in his space makes me supremely happy because it not only gives me a chance to get under his skin, but perhaps it gives me access to delve a little deeper into his mind.

Access means opportunity, and opportunity means leverage.

If he had a TV mounted in here, I’d binge watch something under his account on one of the streaming platforms. Then all the shows and movies the algorithm suggests would turn from whatever documentaries and crime shows he’s watched to rom-coms and reality shows.

He always fucking hated reality shows.

Instead of a TV, or a gaming console or a shelf full of jigsaw puzzles, there’s a massive bookcase stuffed with books. I suppose it’ll do. I’ve always been a voracious reader, and it’ll give me something to do while I wait for Liam to figure out how he’s going to seek his revenge on me—or I decide to tell Brian where I am and let the pieces fall where they will.

I inch inside. I don’t want to turn on the big light—Ma would be proud of me—so I find a lamp that brings a warm glow to the room. Dragging my finger along the books on the shelf leaves me with a dusty fingertip. When was the last time he picked up a book?

I lean in to look at what books this angry Mahoney man has for me to dive into. It takes a few shelves before I find something remotely readable. The Art of War by Sun Tzu makes me smile, but it’s too obvious, too big of a “fuck you” to my captor. I need something a little more subtle.

The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli is a tempting thought. It’s about power, manipulation, fear and control. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius could work to tell him I’m centered and unbreakable. But when I spy Rules for Radicals by Saul Alinsky, I know I’ve found the right book to flip Liam the bird.

The one upside of not being allowed on social media, and being picked up from everything I knew and plopped into a new life, is that I’ve had plenty of time to read everything I could get my hands on. And the message of disrupting power structures between the covers of this book is the exact message I want to communicate to my ex. It says: I’ll burn your system down from the inside. And more importantly, it tells him I’m thinking.

It’s a manual for destabilizing men who think they’re untouchable. Fucking perfect.

As I slide it off the shelf, a low growl rumbles through the room from behind me, making my blood run cold and my hands shake so violently the book hits the ground.

No sudden movements, Rowan. Nice and slow.

I turn to face a really fucking angry dog. Ears back, teeth bared, viciousness dripping from its fucking fangs.

Shit.

I drop onto the floor, hoping if I make myself as submissive as I can, Titan won’t rip my throat out. If I can get this dog to trust me, the balance of power in this house could change. Cross-legged on the rug, I open my hands. The dog stares at me for what feels like a lifetime. Sweat’s prickling on my palms and my hairline, my heart rate’s thundering at an inhuman speed somewhere in my throat, and the dog just keeps staring, like it’s assessing me.

After what feels like an hour, the dog prowls to me, sniffing me as it comes closer.

“That’s it. I’m no danger to you.” And if you’re not a threat, you might be useful. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not trying to leave.” I force calm into my voice as I talk to the dog. When its snout hits my palm, I swallow a frightened squeal. And when a rough tongue slips out to lick my hand, I swallow an elated one.

After a few more minutes of getting to know me, of letting the dog sniff me and giving it a good scratch behind the ears and on the belly—ah, she’s a girl—I climb up onto my captor’s bed and open the book. For at least an hour, Titan simply sits staring at me like she’s standing guard, still unsure of me, but eventually, she curls against me like I belong here, like I’m safe, like I’m part of the family.

The Mahoneys built this house to keep people out. I bet they never accounted for someone turning his security inward. One guard down, who knows how many more to go. Take that, Liam Mahoney. Even your big bad death dog doesn’t believe I’m the bad guy.

Chapter 13

BRIAN

I’ve lost her.