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The air is thick with the smell of fish and salt, and I can hear the gentle lapping of waves against the docks outside.
My nose wrinkles at the pungent mix of scents, and I can almost taste the briny air on my tongue. The slightest shuffle of our feet or whisper of clothing seems to bounce off the walls, amplified tenfold.
Sawyer stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders tense as he listens to Uncle Whitey’s hushed instructions. The old Irishman looks like he stepped straight out of a 1970s gangster flick and is giving Sawyer a crash course in Mob Negotiations 101.
His voice is gruff and carries across the warehouse. “Remember, boy-o, keep yer cool,” he says in his thick Irish brogue. “These Italian bastards’ll be lookin’ for any excuse to start somethin’. Don’t give ’em the satisfaction.”
Sawyer nods, his jaw clenched. He looks so different from the charming hockey player I’m used to seeing. Right now, he’s all business, and I have to admit…it’s kind of hot.
“And if things go south?” Sawyer asks.
Uncle Whitey’s eyes gleam dangerously, cocking his head at the three men he brought. “That’s what the muscle’s for, innit? Don’t worry, lad, we’ll show these pasta-eaters why you don’t mess with the Irish.”
I stifle a snort. Men and their macho posturing.
The Peaky Blinders wannabe—I’ve decided to call him Tommy in my head—adjusts his flat cap and nods at Uncle Whitey. The other two enforcers look like they bench-press small cars for fun.
“Show any weakness and they’ll go for the throat,” Tommy says, with a toothless grin.
“Got it,” Sawyer replies, his voice low and steady.
Uncle Whitey continues. “And no sudden movements. Those bastards are jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
I recall Sawyer’s terse phone call to the Italians yesterday. His voice had been cold, controlled.
“Meet us at the docks. And bring the bird.”
My heart clenches at the thought of poor Otto. I hope he’s okay. I gulp, suddenly very aware of how out of my depth I am. This isn’t like my romance novels, where the danger is all make-believe. This is real, and it’s terrifying.
Siobhan must sense my unease, because she squeezes my hand reassuringly. I try to smile back, but it probably looks more like a grimace.
Suddenly, the warehouse door creaks open. My breath catches in my throat as several well-dressed men saunter in, their expensive shoes clicking on the concrete floor. The suits are crisp, the hair is slicked back, and I swear I can smell cannoli from here.
One of the suits, clearly the boss of them, steps forward. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Irish welcoming committee.”
“Are you Gustavo?” Sawer asks.
“Yeah. You the guy I talked to on the phone?”
Sawyer straightens his shoulders. “Yes. We have what you want. Now, where’s the bird?”
“Business first,” says Gustavo. “Where are the goods?”
Sawyer, bless his heart, is trying his best to look tough. He’s got his game face on—the one he usually reserves for facing off against particularly nasty defensemen.
“We’ve got what you want,” he repeats, sounding more like he’s offering to trade hockey cards than negotiating with the mob.
Gustavo steps closer to Sawyer, his polished shoes gleaming in the dim light. “Yeah? And I’m the Pope. How do I know I can trust you, pretty boy?” His voice is pure New Jersey mobster, like he learned to talk by binge-watching Scorsese flicks.
He’s the epitome of a mobster cliché, complete with a scar running down his left cheek. His slicked-back hair, tailored suit, and gold pinky ring are enough of a crime against humanity.
His cologne wafts over, a mix of expensive leather and…is that garlic? Great, now I’m craving pasta.
Sawyer stands his ground, channeling the hockey forward in him. “Look, I get it. You’re skeptical. But remember what I told you on the phone yesterday? Brian got nabbed before he could spill about the shipment. He couldn’t exactly text the location from his prison cell without the Feds catching on.”
The tension is palpable. A rat scurries across the floor, and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle a squeak. Siobhan shoots me a warning glance.
Gustavo’s eyes narrow. “That’s convenient, isn’t it? Your old man gets pinched, and suddenly you’re in charge? Forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy here, kid.”
