Chapter 7
Trinity
I try to stay calm as Brody hauls me along the chaotic streets of Koreatown. Mothers and children with shiny backpacks wait at bus stops while creepers lean against corners and grandparents sit in folding chairs playing chess.
Brody grips my hand, towing me around the way a peeved-off parent pulls a toddler, with his jacket covering our shackled wrists. He yanks me one way and another, all while I trail behind in frozen, furious silence. I’m appalled by my own mental paralysis.
Instead of tapping into the knowledge that should accompany my field of study, I feel like a cosplaying kid in a Party City Batman getup. I worry that brain power alone won’t be enough to extract myself from this situation alive.
But after everything this man has done, after everything he’s exposed me to and saved me from, adrenaline and cortisol keep pumping through my blood. To quiet my racing heart and unraveling mind, I need to control my body’s oxygen and carbon dioxide levels. According to Professor Aldridge anyway.
Unfortunately, during her many lectures on adrenaline and other hormones, she never once covered how to regulate oneself under pressure like this. When I’m a prisoner, and every moment of Brody’s captivity an invasion.
The warmth of his palm folded around mine, the heady scent of sweat and blood wafting off his skin… I yearn to feel more of him, and my body gravitates closer.
My mind revolts, because what the hell am I thinking? He’s a criminal. Worse, he works for a rival off-shoot of my own family.
He snatched me off the street. Literally.
Hidden beneath his jacket sleeve, these handcuffs serve as more than just restraints. The silver steel cutting into my wrist serves as a brand, a constant reminder that this man thinks I’m his property. Or Declan’s. And until I escape, he’s right.
I’m in real trouble here.
By sheer force of will, I inhale and exhale steady breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth. Like the asshole showed me.
The tactic works, easing my panic so I can stay calm and find out where we’re headed. That’s the most immediate way to ground myself. Figure out what’s happening right now, in this present moment.
I attempt to feign innocence. “Where are we going?”
Brody’s too focused on the street ahead to answer, moving us forward with purposeful strides.
“Hello?”
At an intersection, he yanks us left, not even acknowledging my prompt.
Irritation itches like hives under my collar. “Hey, you. Murderer.”
A muscle in his neck twitches, but he still refuses to spare me even an ounce of undivided attention.
Fine. I concede. Brody has obviously mastered the art of ignoring me.
To anyone who’s watching us, we must come across as a couple of young tourists.
After what I saw him do, I should scream.
Except that will likely just get me shot.
He might kill me if I piss him off too much.
Then again…maybe not. He did defend me, after all, and not just from his own man’s attack. He also talked me through a panic attack he could have easily left me to suffer through. Sure, a calm captive probably beats a hyperventilating one, but he could’ve simply knocked me out.
So what’s the truth about Brody? Is he a monster or a maverick? A killer or a savior?
And how am I supposed to deal with either one?
That doesn’t matter now. Even if Brody’s not an immediate threat, those men—Russians, maybe?—are probably tracking us down.
My stomach knots when I think about that construction site. Whoever they were, I doubt they’ll take kindly to how Brody destroyed their advance team. They’ll come for revenge.
My death seems more inevitable by the second.
Those mercenaries harbored no concern for my safety whatsoever, so Finn definitely didn’t send them. Like Brody, they were hunting me.
If they’re after me, this must be about Dad, Finn, and the Irish Kings of New York City. Nothing else makes sense.
All those years ago with Angelica, those men had intended to nab me to get to Shane. Now my father’s dead, but Finn’s stepped up, so the playbook still works.
If that’s true, then they targeted the right girl this time. Which means…Brody may be my best defense.
I realize he didn’t protect me because he cares, but at least he wants me safe. More importantly, he’s good enough at what he does that we both escaped with our lives.
Whether I like it or not, he’s my temporary savior.
I just need to untangle myself from this mess before Mr. Sexy Murderer brings me to Declan.
If I can contact Finn—contact any of my Gallaghers—I’ll be fine. My family has plenty of experience at extracting people from tougher scrapes than this, and despite current tensions, I should rank pretty high on the priority list.
No matter what, I’m still Finn’s baby sister. Still Shane’s daughter.
Even as grief once again seizes my heart over the loss of my father, the realization paradoxically calms me.
By nature, I’m both a thinker and a planner. Having a plan—no matter how small, loose, or crazy—brings a modicum of control. I don’t want to be a helpless liability or the frozen, terrified woman from half an hour ago.
Instead, I need to puzzle this out. Become a detective and deduce what’s going through Brody’s head while simultaneously finding my way out of this precarious situation.
How do I contend with a ruthless, trained killer whose probably only known pain, suffering, and violence in his life?
Psychological warfare, of course.
A breathy laugh of relief spurts from my lips at the thought, too quiet to draw Brody’s attention. Time to see if the past four and a half years of study can earn the price of admission.
The key to psychological warfare is using another person’s momentum against them, almost like jujutsu for the brain. Whatever Brody already thinks, feels, or believes, I have to tap into those things to mess him up.
He’s expecting my resistance, so my cooperation will throw him off, hopefully enough for him to drop his guard so I can get away.
As I form my plan, my surroundings fade away.
Brody works for Declan Gallagher. I don’t know much about the man other than the fact that the Irish Kings in New York exiled his grandfather over a botched business deal.
I picture Declan as the kind of old-school mafia man who believes women are the weaker sex.
Sexist. Brash. Arrogant. Shortsighted in many of the ways that matter.
Brody’s obviously loyal to him. My captor probably matured lapping up every morsel of Declan’s power and personality. They’re probably essentially the same.
At the end of the day, the majority of them are.
Not so much my brother and his band of merry men anymore, now that they all have women in their lives to whip them into shape apparently, but they’re the outliers.
The stereotypical misogynistic mafioso remains the norm for a reason, and those types always underestimate the women around them.
That threat the guy currently shackled to my wrist issued in that alley? Please. I didn’t spend four and a half years studying psych and beating off college boys just to be oblivious when a man’s lusting after me.
Brody might have been trying to frighten me into submission, but the signs of genuine attraction don’t lie. His pupils dilated when he looked at me, and he licked his lips and started breathing faster.
He’s at least sexually interested in me. I recognized the signs easily enough, especially since I felt drawn to him too.
But I maintain the advantage because I won’t succumb to my body’s desires. I’m sure a man like Brody—handsome and rich and spoiled—has never once worried about properly courting a woman. A guy like this is used to them falling at his feet, so I’ll use that against him.
I can humor him. Then, once he drops his guard, I’ll act. I’ll get the hell out of here and run as far and as fast as I can.
Brody’s severe strides finally slow in front of the entrance to the Wilshire-Vermont subway station. He tows me toward the doors, but I plant my feet, forcing him to stop or reveal our handcuffed wrists to all the pedestrians swarming around us.
“Come on.” His harsh tone grates my ears.
I lift my chin. “Where are we headed?”
He studies my expression before huffing an annoyed sigh. “Santa Monica.”
I frown and let him tug me into the station.
What’s in Santa Monica?