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Donnacha
As I weave through the streets of Boston in my Lotus Emira, Romy’s little threat dances in my mind. At first, it was cute. Funny, even, like Little Red Riding Hood standing up to the Big Bad Wolf. Is she truly naïve enough to think I won’t eat her alive?
I chew on the inside of my cheek and strum my fingers on the velvet steering wheel as I slow to meet a red light.
My instinct says there’s more to her angelic face and bratty attitude. That there’s something darker, more sinister about her, and it’s hiding deep within that iron fortress she’s put up around herself. Whatever it is, it’s the reason she’d rather die than bow to me.
It makes the idea of breaking her all the more tantalizing.
Who knew having a wife would be this fun?
As I turn onto the guarded road, the Quinn estate slides into view. A sprawling country manor carved from Bath stone and surrounded by enough soldiers to overthrow a small country. I nod at one of my men at the security booth, and he opens the wrought-iron gates. I park out front of the manor, tossing my keys to another henchman, and take the steps two at a time up to the door.
It opens as I approach, but instead of seeing Fiona or any of the other housekeepers, I’m greeted by someone a lot smaller.
Valentina grins up at me. “Uncle Donnie!”
“There’s my favorite little niece,” I chime, stooping to ruffle her curls. She’s technically my second cousin, but try explaining the family tree to a six-year-old and watch how quickly you want to burn the world down. She stretches out her arms, and I scoop her up, balancing her on my hip. “How’s it going, baby?”
She flashes me a goofy grin and reaches for the aviators perched on top of my head. With clumsy hands, she pushes them up her tiny nose. They look comically large against her chubby face. “Mine now,” she announces, pouting.
I laugh. She’s got the sass of her mom, that’s for sure. She’s also got me wrapped around her tiny pinky and knows it. Whether it’s wanting my three-thousand-dollar glasses or demanding that I’m her guest of honor at one of her princess tea parties, she knows that ‘no’ isn’t in my vocabulary when it comes to her.
“I have a present for you too,” she says, her sticky fingers all over the lenses as she holds them to her face. “Here.”
She fishes around in the pocket of her dungaree dress and tugs out a piece of paper. It’s dog-eared around the edges, and a suspicious-looking stain marks the corner, but my face splits into a grin regardless.
Three stick figures, one with bright orange curls, who could only be Valentina, and a smaller figure with a giant head, who I’m guessing is her younger brother, Gus. Then in the middle is a looming figure, complete with a manic grin. Above our heads reads ‘I love you’ in shaky letters.
“Another one for my collection!” I squeeze her tight and plant a kiss on the crown of her head. “I love it, thank you.”
Distracted by the sudden appearance of Poppy, Valentina wriggles out of my grasp, climbs down my leg, and runs headfirst into her mom’s lap.
“All right, Pops?”
Rubbing her daughter’s shoulder, she flashes me a weary look.
“Never better,” she retorts sarcastically, beckoning me into the dining room.
Tucking the picture carefully into my back pocket, I follow Poppy’s lead.
“Jesus Christ.”
The dining table is littered with papers and files, some with big red crosses scrawled on them, others with frantic rows of question marks dotted along the top. At the head of the table, Declan stares intently at his MacBook, typing furiously, the screen reflecting white in the lenses of his glasses. He lifts a slow hand to acknowledge me but never tears his gaze from whatever he’s doing. That kind of disrespect usually wouldn’t fly, especially not from a cousin so young, but I have a feeling the chaos I’ve just stepped into is bigger than hierarchy. My suspicion is confirmed with a quick glance at Lorcan. He’s sitting halfway up the table, fists clenched and nostrils flaring.
“Are we prepping for war? If so, don’t you think you should have let me know a little earlier?”
Lorcan swivels his head to me, amber eyes burning with rage. “We’re fucked,” he announces.
“Language,” Poppy hisses, covering Valentina’s ears. She’s too busy bending the arms of my glasses to notice her father’s profanity, but Pop isn’t taking any chances. “Sweetie, go and play with your brother for a bit, okay?” She begins to whine, but Poppy shushes her, ushering her into the arms of Fiona, the head housekeeper, who swiftly guides her out of the room. Then she turns to me, a sour expression on her face. “Declan and I have been looking for a new governor candidate to back, but our options are running out.”
Declan Quinn, a lanky, gaunt kid. As a second cousin of legal age, he should be going through his henchmen training, but he burst into tears the second I pushed a gun into his hand. It turns out, he’s more at home in front of a computer than down in the Tunnels. So Lorcan sent him to Mexico for a year to learn the ropes from Miguel Rodriguez of the Tex-Mex cartel, our usual go-to when it comes to finding intel on people. Now, Declan serves as our in-house hacker, and apparently, he can find out anything on anyone, even when they last took a shit.
I stride over to where Poppy’s sitting and pick up the files in front of her. A long list of names, some I recognize from the New York corporate scene, others I don’t. Each name has been crossed out, some twice. “What’s wrong with these guys?”
“Either too God-fearing to be bribed or more skeletons in their closet than clothes,” Declan pipes up, hands still flying across his keyboard. He sighs, picks up the red pen next to him, and slashes at a name. “Gordon Olofuson’s out,” he says, glancing at Poppy. “Has a penchant for school girls.”
Poppy groans, dropping her head to the table.
