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“You’re here,” he says after a long beat of comfortable silence.
“I’ve been in town for a few days. Left the site in Washington under management.”
He dips his head in acknowledgment, then winces at the movement. “You should go back,” he whispers. “There’s war coming and you need to be away.”
“War?” I ask, my brows pinching. “Why do you think that?”
“Because, princess. The Italians just attacked an Irishman on Southie territory.”
“But Griffin isn’t a Southie,” I say, shaking my head.
“He was under the protection of the Murphy clan. And I am a Southie. I’ve got a bullet hole in my chest.”
Scotty’s gaze drops to the tattoo of a Celtic clover over his shoulder. If you’re a trusted member of the gang, you have one. I wouldn’t call it a branding, but more like a mark of honor.
His eyes close, and I watch the tick of his jaw. “It’s not safe for you here. I can’t protect you.”
“I’m staying,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m not running away. Besides, Hugh’s been my guard.”
“Saoirse,” he says with a stern tone of warning. “Fucking leave. Don’t let yourself become caught in the crossfire.”
My back stiffens. “Why don’t you want me here, Scotty?”
“I just told you why. It’s not safe.”
“I can’t leave you when you’re like this.”
With an immense amount of effort, some groaning, and a little bit of wincing, he pulls his hand from under mine. “I’m not asking you, Saoirse. I’m telling you to leave.”
“Are you forgetting that technically I’m your boss?” I draw a brow, shooting him a death glare. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, or where to live. I’m staying in Boston.”
A knock sounds at the door. I turn my head as Finn Kelly, another guard in the ranks of our organized crime ring, stands with his hands stuffed into the black suit pants he’s wearing. He’s also Scotty’s cousin.
His blue eyes bore into me, and he flashes me a smile. “I can take it from here,” he says.
“I don’t mind sitting with him.” I turn to Scotty, who’s giving me a pleading look. He doesn’t want me here, and the fear in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings.
Finn clears his throat. “Hugh says your phone’s been going off in the kitchen. Sounds like something needs your attention over on the West Coast. I’ll sit with him while you handle it.”
“I’m tired,” Scotty says, his eyes slowly closing. “I’ll talk to you later, Saoirse.”
I stand from my chair, then lean down and press a kiss to his cheek. Audience be damned. He’s a guard and I’m a Mafia princess. Our friendship is off-limits, but how can it be when he’s truly the only friend I’ve ever had?
“Get better, Jameson,” I whisper.
Chapter One
8 Months Later
Myentirebodyhumswith anticipation as I open the back door to the blacked-out Tahoe. Alana Murphy offers me a polite smile, reaching for my hand. I help her slide out, then hand her the purse she placed on the front passenger seat.
“Thank you, Scotty,” she says, squeezing my forearm.
Her husband, Callum Senior, steps out from the same side, and I close the door. The weather in Upstate New York is similar to Boston. Cold, dreary. And like any good fiction story opening that involves a funeral, we’re about to trudge through wet grass on the Green Estate to get to the burial site of one very dead Alastair Green.
The man was no saint, so I’m not sure why the angels are crying today. This is why God seems like a futile thing to believe in. Why would the angels mourn the death of a monster, yet when my fallen brother was laid to rest, it was a bright and sunny day?
Where were the angels then, as I consoled his wife through the worst day of her life? Was it because he had taken his own life? God was punishing him, despite the sacrifices for his country that riddled his brain with horrible thoughts. Yet, here He is now, sending a mobster through the great pearly gates.
