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A friend.
Stalking towards the door, I say, “get some sleep.”
“Lorcan?”
I twist my head around and see her wringing her hands.
“How soon will it happen?”
“Remember the pistol I gave you on your sixteenth birthday?”
“How can I forget? You hid it in a Louis Vuitton box and I thought I was getting the purse I’d had my eye on.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “You still have it?”
“Somewhere.”
“Keep it loaded. And keep it on you at all times.”
I won’t let what happened to her mom happen to her too.
Lorcan
The call comes just after midnight.
I sleep out of necessity now. Pass out long enough to think straight in the morning, not long enough where I’ll miss anything. I also sleep with my burner phone in my fist, my combat boots on my feet, and an AK-47 by my side.
When the burner buzzes, I leap to my feet and strap up. “Speak,” I bark into the cell, yanking the bulletproof vest over my head and stalking towards the door.
“Intruder on the premises,” Donnacha’s stone-cold voice snaps back. “We’ve brought him into the drawing-room for interrogation.”
I stab the end call button without another word and pace it downstairs. My men are crowded in the lobby, standing to attention, and give me a curt not as I pass. Antoin falls into step with me as I round the corner towards the drawing-room. “Is it Bratnov?” I growl.
“I know as much as you do,” he croaks back. A glance down at his wrinkled suit and scruffy beard tells me definitely weren’t pulling a night shift.
But Donnacha is as alert as ever, standing outside the drawing-room door, eyes glowering. He puts his hand out to stop me from bursting into the room, gun cocked. “Not a Bratnov,” he growls. “Some kid. He was screaming outside the gates. Thought it was best to bring him in and interrogate.”
I’m confused, but I nod and push past him. “Wait here,” I bark at Antoin.
Perched on the edge of my oxblood leather tufted sofa is a scrawny-looking kid with brown hair and bewildered eyes. They grow wider when I step out of the shadow. “Who the fuck are you?” I grunt.
“S-Sam,” he stammers, tearing his fearful gaze away from me long enough to glance between the two men that have their heavy hands on his shoulder. “I’m s-sorry. I think I’m in the wrong place. I didn’t mean to—to interrupt.”
I make a quick assessment. He’s rich. In a polo-playing, vacation at the Hampton’s kind of way. Threat level: close to fucking zero.
“Leave.”
The idiot tries to rise to his feet, but my men push him back down. “Not you,” I growl at him.
The room vacates, leaving me and this quivering kid to occupy it. “You with the Bratnovs?” I snarl.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Who?”
“Then I’ll give you five seconds to explain why you’re trespassing on my property. Then I’ll give you two seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head for waking me up.”
His mouth opens and shuts again.
“Four.”
