Page 39

“Eamon.”

He shakes his head. “I was so sorry to hear about your trucks.”

I nod. “I was sorry to hear about your bar.”

He laughs. “We’re getting too old for this shit, Greene. So, I figured, me and Dec, we go way back. Let me go sit down with the man and work shit out.”

I don’t say a word.

“But first.” He puts a hand over his heart. “I hear congratulations are in order! You got married. That’s wonderful, Declan. I mean that. A man needs a wife.”

My wolf comes up so fast it’s like getting punched in the chest.

I hold him. I don’t know how. I don’t move a muscle, and my face doesn’t change, because the one thing you never do with a man like this is show him where it hurts. But inside? Inside I’m fucking howling.

“Zahra Cole,” he says, slowly. “Zahra Amy Cole. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. And a lawyer! And from such a good family. They have a nice house up in the Heights.” I wanna stomp that smile down his fucking throat. “Nice neighborhood.”

This scumbag said my wife’s name, talked about her people, and I’m fucking chained behind two inches of glass. I’ve never wanted to kill a man so bad in my entire fucking life. I can already feel his throat in my hands. Smell his fucking blood…

“What do you want, Eamon?”

“Everything.” The friendly act drops right off. “The piers, the union contracts, your people at the port authority. Rian steps down. Your family keeps the pubs and the construction; you keep your money, you do the rest of your time in peace, and everyone’s family stays nice and healthy. Yours. Mine.” He pauses. “Hers.”

Pruitt shifts in the corner, and I can fucking smell how much that fucker’s enjoying this shit.

My gaze returns to Eamon.

“It’s a fair offer, Dec. You’ve got what, thirty-six years left? What you need all that shit for? Be smart, take care of your girl.”

I look at him for a long time. Then, “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask!” He stands and buttons his jacket. “You know, I always felt bad about how it went down. With Doyle. Poor Patrick.” He shakes his head. “He was never very bright. Right up to the end, he thought I was sending him backup.”

He winks at me then walks out.

I sit there. Can’t move. Can’t fucking breathe.

He thought I was sending him backup.

Four years. Four fucking years I’ve wondered why Patrick Doyle walked into my pub and put his hands on a nineteen-year-old girl. It never made any fucking sense! Everybody in this city knew what I’d do to him. He knew. And he did it anyway.

Because Eamon told him to. That evil, smiling, church-going piece of shit sent his own guy to hurt one of mine, promised him backup, and left him for me to find. With a dirty cop waiting. Doyle wasn’t the target. I was. And I walked right into his trap like a fucking idiot.

Four years of my life. My business. My family. My freedom. Gone, because I did exactly what that motherfucker wanted.

And now he knows her name.

My wolf is losing his fucking shit. He wants out. He wants to go through the glass, through the walls, through every man in this building, and rip Eamon Callaghan’s throat out with our teeth. And for once? I don’t even want to stop him. My hands are shaking. My vision’s going gold.

Zahra.

Her brown eyes. Her laugh. Her voice. My wife. My fucking heart. She’s out there right now, and she needs me. Breathing, out of here. Not in the hole. Not with thirty more years.

So I swallow it all down.

You picked the wrong fucking time to get cocky, Callaghan. A month ago I had nothing to get out for. Now? Now I got her.

“Time’s up, Greene.”