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Prologue
Lom
One Year Ago
I sit in the back of a town car as my hired driver weaves in and out of Boston’s streets. He could’ve easily taken me back to my hotel. However, I didn’t want him to. I need to think, and sometimes if I’m moving, I think better. I’m not idiotic enough to believe that simply by driving around in the back of a car, I’m going to find my stepfather, Anzor, but if it were to happen, it would make my life that much easier.
My phone dings, and I look down at a text message from my older brother, Ruslan.
Cian O’Dea confirmed you can stop by.
Along with the text message is an address, so I tell my driver, and he heads for the O’Dea residence. The O’Dea family is one of the Irish branches. Their family isn’t as complex as most think. The head honchos of the Irish are the Mackenzie family, who reside in Dublin, Ireland. The O’Deas are cousins of the Mackenzies and run their operations in Boston, handling a lot of their business here in the United States. But it doesn’t stop at the O’Deas. The Gallaghers are cousins of the Mackenzies and run things in Northern Ireland, specifically in Belfast. Now, to add a little bit of flare to this family dynamic, the Steele family is also related. Fiona O’Dea is Jordan Steele’s mother, tying them in deeply with the Irish.
It helps that we’re already on good terms with the Steele family, seeing as they purchase weaponry from my brother. Even though we’re on good terms with the Steeles, I must still show respect to the people who reign here—the O’Deas.
Within ten minutes, my driver’s pulling in front of a brownstone. The address number matches the text Ruslan sentme, so I open my door and get out of the vehicle. I walk up the few steps to the house, and the brisk Boston air brushes against my face. I didn’t expect it to be so chilly here, but I am up north. For fuck’s sake, it’s the end of summer, and Boston’s right on the water. It has been raining the last few days, so maybe that’s why it’s chillier here than I expect. I knock on the door, and within a few moments, the door opens.
“Mr. Umarova, my boss is expecting you,” the man tells me and ushers me inside with a hand. I walk inside, and he shuts the door behind me.
I’ve heard rumors about Cian and his now-wife burning down their old home, but I don’t know any of it to be true. In our life, rumors tend to spread like wildfire. I, however, am curious to know if this is the same place. If it is, they’ve done a fabulous job at remodeling it.
The foyer area is small and has dark hardwood spreading throughout every room I can land my eyes on. It even goes up the massive stairwell to my right, and I naturally assume it continues on the upper and lower floors as well.
“I appreciate your boss taking the time to meet with me under such short circumstances,” I tell the man, whose name I still don’t know.
“Mr. O’Dea is a very busy man, but he always makes time for what matters. Please, come with me. He’s already awaiting you,” the man says and leads me through an entryway on the right before continuing through the next one. Finally, we come up to a wooden doorway, and the man knocks a few times.
“Come in, Regis,” Cian calls out to his man, and Regis opens the door.
“Mr. O’Dea, Mr. Umarova has arrived,” Regis tells him, and Cian waves me inside. His study reminds me of many others I’ve seen before. I wonder if we all talk to each other about what they should consist of: large windows, floor-to-ceiling built-inshelving, a large wooden desk, a couple of armchairs, and a couch along the longest wall.
I walk inside the study, and Regis shuts the door behind me, so Cian and I are alone. Cian’s been head of the O’Dea family for many years now, and before him, his father reigned over Boston. His nickname is the King of Boston, and I can imagine why.
“Your brother was adamant I meet with you today, so I imagine whatever it is you need to discuss is quite pressing,” Cian says, leaning back in his office chair. He intertwines his hands and awaits some sort of answer from me.
“Yes, well, Ruslan likes things to be handled quickly. With any luck, I’ll be out of your hair quickly and your city. Has my brother given you any insight as to why I’m here?”
“I take it isn’t to sell me guns, considering my cousins have our business,” Cian tells me, and in his tone, I can sense he’s being very adamant about his dedication to his family.
I shake my head. “No, I’m not here about business. I’m here on family business. I’m not sure what you know about my family, but our stepfather has been ruling under the Umarova name for quite some time. He’s betrayed us, and I have reports he’s been hiding out in Boston. He’s done very troubling things to my family, and I’m tasked with bringing him to my brother.”
“This sounds very concerning to you,” Cian comments, and I nod.
“Yes, and I’d appreciate your permission to do what I need to do while I’m here. I won’t fuck with your operations or how you conduct your business, but I need my stepfather alive. The quicker, the better.”
Cian opens his mouth for a moment before smiling. “How can I be of assistance?”
“If you could have your boys on the street keep an eye out for him and notify me of any sightings, I’d appreciate it. With anyluck, someone might’ve seen something, and I can take him out of here.”
“Do you have a photograph of him?” Cian asks, and I pull out my cell and show him a photo. “Perfect. Send me a text message with it. I’ll make sure it gets to my people.” Cian hands me a business card with his name and phone number. I type the number in my messages app and then send him the photo. Within a few moments, his phone dings, and I’m sure it’s the photo I’ve just sent him.
“I appreciate your assistance.”
“It’s no trouble. I hope this is a good first step at a working relationship once your brother fully takes back what is rightfully his?” Cian questions, narrowing his brows in the process.
“I’m certain it will be. Now that you have my number, text me any time you get a hit. I’ll follow the lead and handle it as swiftly and quietly as possible,” I inform Cian, and he nods in appreciation.
Cian and I quickly say our goodbyes, and I head back out to where my town car is. I get in the back, and my driver looks up at me in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Mr. Umarova?”
