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Donnacha
There’s that instinct again.
The one that’s kept my family and me alive for all this time. Only, I wished it’d kicked in a hell of a lot sooner.
Fuck the speed limit, fuck the red lights. I drive the Bentley like I stole it, weaving in and out of the late-night traffic heading out of the city.
On the highway, I really put the pedal to the metal and roll down the windows, welcoming the harsh lashes that the storm brings.
Protect me.
At that moment, I didn’t need to look in my wife’s eyes to uncover the secret she’s been keeping from me. It was painted all over her voice. Sheer terror wrecked her vocal cords, and now, there was not a doubt in my fucking mind.
She knows Belsky.
My fist thumps the dashboard, and I roar louder than the thunder in the sky.
As the desperate words stuttered from her lips, everything slotted into place like a puzzle. Her killing Danny English at the exact time Belsky requested a meeting with us. That wasn’t coincidence; that was an alibi. Belsky mentioning knowing my wife at the Blacks’ ball. That wasn’t shit talk; he was leaving breadcrumbs he wanted me to find.’
And her face when she saw the note… how her eyes darted left to right, as if she was reading it. How her expression immediately contorted as she digested it. She knew exactly what that spider meant.
Protect me.
Because she knows she’s the traitor, not Poppy.
The wind snatches away my manic laugh. If there’s no doubt in my mind, then why didn’t I kill her? Why didn’t I wind that belt around her neck and choke the life from her lying mouth?
Because I so badly don’t want it to be true.
Boston rises up from the horizon in record time, and not long after, I’m cutting long strides through the tunnel, making a beeline for my office.
Ronan’s on the night shift; I can tell by the sound of the gargled screams that echo through the pipes. He always goes for the teeth. A few moments later, he strolls into the office and halts in surprise when he sees me.
“Everything okay, boss?” He jerks a bloodied glove over his shoulder. “Just dealing with the asshole who owns the bookies on Rosenberg Street. Hasn’t paid for protection in three months.”
I don’t give a fuck, and it doesn’t take Ro long to notice. Leaning my palms flat against the desk, I look up at him and say, “I think you were right about my wife.”
He pauses. Sucks on the insides of his cheeks. Then he clicks the door shut behind him and starts to peel off his soiled outerwear.
“You’ll never hear me say I told you so, boss. What do you need from me?”
“Bring me Declan.”
I sink into my chair and reach for the bottle of Smugglers Club. This joint is nowhere near as fancy as my offices in New York or the Quinn Capital building. The desk is only a slight upgrade from a decorating table, and there’s a tangy iron smell from all the dried blood seeping through the walls. But it’s where I belong. It’s home.
I’m half a bottle down when Declan appears, bleary-eyed and ready to piss his pants, laptop tucked under his arm.
“Declan, sit.”
His gaze darts around the room. He’s probably got PTSD from when I made him train down here for a month just before he had his nervous breakdown. “A-Am I in trouble?”
“Will be if you don’t help me out.” Underneath the desk, I kick out a cardboard box for him to sit on. He perches on it gingerly. I pour him out a drink in a dusty tumbler and slide it in front of him. “I need all of the transcripts of Belsky’s conversations from the wire tap. Can you do that for me?”
Declan’s shoulders sag like he’s relieved we’ve moved into familiar territory. “Of course.” He opens up his MacBook and click-clacks on the keys. “It’ll take a while. There are a lot.”
My fingers strum a frantic rhythm against my desk. “I don’t have a while. Give me the highlights. Have you found out anything that you think I’d need to know?”
Guilt washes over his pasty face. “I-I already told Lorcan, so—”
