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My brother’s footsteps crunch in the snow. Fletcher’s silent, but I’m more than certain I know what he plans to say. A bitter wind whips by, my black tie waving in the breeze as I stare down at the carved stones in the ground. Two people who should have never been laid to rest will lie here for all eternity.
“What is it?” I barely manage to ask after I swallow the hard lump in my throat. It’s all for them, for my wife and son I lost years ago, yet it feels like I’ve betrayed them.
“Is there anything I can do?” my brother questions behind me and it’s so softly spoken, the harsh wind nearly drowns out the words.
Turning to face him, his hands are splayed across the front of his charcoal suit. Remorse wears itself on his face whenever we find ourselves here.
“It’s been six years,” I say, telling him a truth he already knows.
He only nods and then clears his throat as he takes the necessary steps to close the distance between us. He swallows so hard it’s audible before he says, “Friday night, it’s set.”
With my brother in front of me and my past behind me, I’m all too aware that what I’m going to do next is cruel and unforgivable. He took my wife and child … this is a fair trade.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks.
I don’t answer him; all I know is that I need this to happen. More than I need to live.
MADELYN
The trembling is constant and I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Another shudder runs through me as the chill of the cell slips across my barely covered skin. My shoulders shake involuntarily as I bring my knees into my chest and stare at the vent where soft promises filter through of what awaits me. I can hear all the men, everything they’re saying and how they’re to leave me alone.
He said no one touches her.
Leave her there until he’s ready.
They don’t ask questions but they know I’m here, tucked away in the basement, huddled in a corner of my cell.
There’s a soft drip from the spout in the cinder block wall behind me that’s a relative constant and occasionally the heat kicks on, a loud click signaling its start but the warmth isn’t for the cell, it’s for upstairs.
The cotton nightgown I was wearing when I was taken is torn and thin, leaving me freezing, alone and waiting for the same person as the men upstairs: Connor Walsh.
Just thinking his name does horrid things to my heart. It skips and halts in place. The rough stubble of his jaw, the hard lines of his cheekbones and the depths of his dark copper gaze only add to the dominating air that surrounds him.
He’s a damaged man with nothing left to lose. Men like him are dangerous. That’s what my husband used to say. He knew that all too well and now he’s dead.
Leaving my fate in the hands of a man hell-bent on revenge.
The unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock from up the stairwell sends a pulse of shock and a new wave of terror through me. The first step on the narrow wooden stairs seems hesitant, as if whoever owns the movement is unsure of it. With my palms scraping against the grit littering the floor I attempt to scoot backward, as far away as I can get, but the stone wall at my back is unyielding.
Step by step, he takes his time.
His black jeans come into view first, followed by his black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The shirt is tight on his broad shoulders, and then those eyes … they pin me where I am.
Connor is a hardened man; I’ve known him nearly all my life. Or at least I’ve known the whispers of him. In this small run-down town with corruption on every corner, two feuding families ran things for decades. There was my husband’s family, the mob formed by his father, and there were the Walshes.
Now there’s only Connor Walsh.
His heavy footsteps stop outside the barred door of the cell. The room I’m confined to feels so much like a prison, for a moment I think of Connor as my warden.
The tension is thick between us and even though he’s feet away, I’m enveloped by his heat.
The cords in his neck tighten as he swallows, his gaze roaming down my body, appraising every inch as it travels lower.
Too much time passes in near silence and fear takes over, begging me to plead with him. “My baby?—”
“You’ll do what I say.” His tone is low and his words spoken with a cadence that’s calm and eerie. It’s one I’ve never heard from him. One that paralyzes me. “Did you hear me?” he questions and tilts his head, as if willing me to defy him.
Something I have no intention of doing.
