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I’m panting, the adrenaline and fear mingling into a nauseating cocktail. “Why are you helping me?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He doesn’t look at me as we hurry along the darkened street. “You saved me when I needed it,” he says simply. “Now we’re even. Don’t come back. As far as they’ll know, you’re dead. Got it? I did my job and you’re dead. Don’t jam me up on this.”
“I won’t. I understand.”
I want to ask more, to understand why he would turn against his own, but there’s no time. I run the block, and the car is there, nondescript, its engine running softly.
When I get there, the driver waves a hand for me to get in. I don’t hesitate.
The drive to the airport is silent, and I use the time to sort out a plan. I’ve got my freedom bag with me and in it, a passport with my new name and some money.
I’m somewhat prepared.
If Marco lives, he’ll be too busy dealing with whatever just happened to worry about me. I’ll disappear by then.
The car pulls up in front of the international departure’s doors at the airport. “Don’t come back, Mrs. Moneta. Not if you value your life. Tray stuck his neck out for you tonight. Don’t fuck that up.”
I gather my bag and open the door. “I won’t.”
“Leave your phone.”
“What? Oh, right. Of course.” I hand my phone up to the front seat and slip out of the back.
The moment the door slams shut, the car speeds away, melting back into the darkness from which he came, leaving me to face a future as uncertain as the night is dark.
Is Marco dead? I assume he is…or will be.
It wasn’t the way I pictured leaving, but the fates intervened, and the end result is the same. I rush into O’Hare and I stare up at the departures screen to find something leaving within the hour.
CHAPTER TWO
Tag
“Please, don’t kill me, Mr. Quinn. I’ll do anything. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”
The man’s jeans are stained dark, and the air in the staff area of the club is tainted with the stench of piss and fear.
I look into the blown-wide pupils of the piece of shit drug dealer hanging from his wrists and exhale a long sigh. “Aye, it was a mistake, Owen. And a big one at that.”
He swallows, his gaze skittering around the private storage room. He’s locked in here with two of the infamous Quinn brothers and the right hand of the Quinn family organization, Aiden Kelly.
He knows damn well what that means.
The deep, Celtic rhythm of the club’s music is pounding at the front of the house.
No one will hear him scream.
And by the panic flashing in his glassy gaze, he knows what that means, too.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he begs. “I know things. I see things on the other side of the river, and I can tell you what’s going on.”
Having informants from the other side of the river is an important part of doing business when sharing a city with a rival family, but I won’t put my trust in a low-level poison peddler.
I grip the handle of my knife where it’s sticking out of his side and use it as a handle as I swing him around to see my little brother, Sean.
He’s standing quietly at the small table in the corner, setting out the baggies Owen was carrying when we picked him up.
My little brother—who technically has four inches and thirty pounds on me—is fresh off the street and wearing his Dublin Devils MC cut.
