Page 85 of Filthy Lies


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“It’ll be a black site.”

“And people say that mafia factions are dirty.”

“Your brothers would cry over the shit I’ve done in the name of serving the United States,” I said rawly, but I’d admit, the bizarre conversation was putting me at ease. Enough that I stepped nearer to him. Enough that, even though the door behind him was open, I didn’t try to knee him in the balls to make my escape. “Will they let me go?”

At my whisper, he stared deep into my eyes. “So long as you don’t try to kill your grandfather.”

“Don’t call him that,” I spat, rearing back in disgust. “He’s—”

“Your only chance at eviscerating the Sparrows, Lodestar.”

The words were uttered flatly.

But it was his repeated use of my handle that hurt.

Which was stupid.

He wasn’t calling me ‘cunt’ or ‘American slut.’ I’d been called far worse things in my time by men, but never by Conor.

Hell, even when I’d first bombarded my way into his alarm system with Hunter Lachlan, the new Don of the Camorra, at my side, he hadn’t talked down to me.

Confused, I drew away and headed toward the back corner of the room.

The door was wide open.

I could leave.

Conor was here. Not in the US.

This was real.

I slumped down into the wall, not stopping until my heels met my ass as I stared up at him.

“Star? Are you feeling okay?”

Star.

I shuddered at the sound of my name on his lips. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him say it, but it was the first time I saw his lips in the flesh as they formed the word. When they were within biting distance.

I almost growled under my breath at the thought.

Concerned, he stepped closer and squatted in front of me, one hand dropping down between his thighs to prop him up. He smelled clean. Fresh. His aftershave wasn’t musky, but light.

Peering at him, I meant to speak, but the words froze in my throat.

He was so much better in real life.

That was all I could think.

His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him and it flopped onto his face. A thousand shades of brown glinted in the overhead light, making his skin more golden than it should be in the winter. His jaw was leaner than before, tougher. His mouth was a flat line like he was pressing down hard on his lips to stem the flow of words he wanted to spill.

But it was his eyes that got to me—they held his fucking heart.

More than that, they bore the burden of his soul.

I almost couldn’t stand looking into them, but they drew me in like little else ever had.

The truth was on my tongue as a result when I rasped, “My mom lied to me, Conor.”

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