Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
ELLA
As I stepped outside the hair salon, I glanced around the vacant street, gripping the cell phone. My father’s driver dropped me off and promised to return at five o’clock. The stupid benefactors’ dinner started at seven, and it was unlike Thomas to leave me hanging.
Where the fuck is he?
I considered calling him for a ride and dismissed the thought. I lived five blocks away and could use the little bit of freedom. It wasn’t that often I had alone time. My father was overprotective and always had his men watch over me.
I understood it came with the territory. I was the only daughter of an Irish Mob boss, and my family had a lot of enemies. We could never be too careful. Still, it sucked not having a life, always having to watch my back.
I didn’t want to end up like my mother.
That night still haunted me.
Those men.
What they did to her.
I closed my eyes and blocked out the bad memories, allowing my mind to wander back to a better time. The protective detail was for the best. It was a good thing my father cared enough to keep me alive.
Breathe.
Let go.
Forget.
I repeated this process several times before I opened my eyes, staring at the shops across the street. It was Saturday, and most stores in Beacon Bay were closed by dinnertime. Only bars, restaurants, and one gas station were open at night.
A chill blew off the bay and sent a shiver down my arms. The wind smacked my freshly styled hair in my face, a few strands sticking to my lipstick. I peeled the hair from my lips and tucked it behind my ears, not wanting to ruin my new look.
I could never replicate what my stylist did to my hair. Stella was like a magician and always worked her magic with my hair. But once I got home and washed it, that was it. My hair looked flat and lifeless because I had no idea what I was doing.
I checked again for a missed call or text from Thomas. And since he was still not here and hadn’t reached out, I walked down Market Street. My dad was probably keeping him busy. He would ride by me on the way home and feel horrible I walked alone.
But I didn’t mind.
It was a nice change of pace.
I plucked the wireless earbuds from my purse and synced the Bluetooth with my phone. Tucking the bag under my arm, I headed down Market Street, passing the deli. The owner flipped the CLOSED sign on the glass door, holding my gaze.
I waved.
He snarled and turned away.
Most of the people in Beacon Bay were afraid of my father. They either owed him money, or they’d seen his power firsthand.
It was hard to make friends when your dad was the most notorious crime boss in the area.
As I approached my neighborhood, the sun disappeared beneath the thick canopy of maple trees. And with each step, I swore someone was behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, anxiety pricking my skin with tiny bumps.
No one was there.
Stop being paranoid.
Since my mother’s brutal death last year, I hadn’t been the same, wondering if I was next. My three older brothers could handle themselves. They were all in their twenties but still lived with Dad and me at the house. They were always there, hovering over me, ensuring I was not the next victim.
Once again, I felt a presence behind me—the unmistakable pounding of feet on the pavement. I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out to still my nerves. This wasn’t the first time someone followed me home, hence the security.
I should have called Thomas. A year of looking over my shoulder should have taught me a lesson.
But I was a thrill-seeker.
I liked the chase.
It got the blood pumping through my veins. Fear made me feel alive and reminded me that I was still here. So I ran down the hill with two more blocks to go, using the decline to gain momentum.
Thankfully, I wasn’t wearing heels and opted for a pair of Chloé ballet flats my mother bought the week of her death. The thin soles were not ideal for a run, and my feet burned as they slapped the pavement.
I couldn’t stop.
I didn’t want to end up like my mother.
At the bottom of the hill, I bolted down the street. The man’s shoes hit the ground hard behind me. Fueled by adrenaline, I hauled ass across Mr. Bannister’s lawn. The old man hated it when people touched his property.
Oh, well.
I’ll apologize later.
He picked up his pace, following me between the houses. My family’s mansion was gated and guarded. If I could make it there, I would be safe. This asshole would be shot on sight, no questions asked.
I glanced over my shoulder to get a look at him. Tall and with short, dark brown hair, he didn’t look familiar. He was bulky in the arms and chest, which I could see beneath his suit jacket.
I was forced to turn in the opposite direction of my house before the man latched onto my arm. A car plowed down the street, slamming on the brakes as he crossed, giving me a lead.
“Hey, asshole,” a man shouted out the window at my attacker.
“Help!” I screamed, hoping the driver would call for the police, but knowing I couldn’t stop without him catching me.
He was so close.
On my tail.
I turned right at the corner of Blakely Drive, praying someone would be outside. It was dinnertime, and Saturdays were typically quiet in my subdivision. Even if my neighbors watched this from their porch, I doubted they would help me.
I was Cian Doyle’s daughter.
They would let me die.
The man reached for my arm, his fingers sliding down my skin. I shoved him away from me, desperate to gain an advantage.
“Help,” I yelled, hoping someone would hear me.
I shouted at the top of my lungs, repeating my plea until I was breathless. My throat burned from the fire spreading through my chest. Knowing the town like the back of my hand gave me a slight advantage. So I cut through the Masons’ backyard and hopped the fence.
“I can do this all day,” the man bellowed in a deep, throaty voice. “Keep running, Ella. I’m not even tired.”
As I swung one leg over the fence, he tugged the other foot, trying to pull me back down to him. Struggling to break free, I kicked him in the face.
“Bitch,” he groaned.
I hopped over the fence and didn’t look back, even though I knew he was not far behind. He was ruthless in his pursuit. So were the men who killed my mother. They took until there was nothing left of her.
“You’re not getting away, you little bitch,” the man said, not far behind me.
My body was beaten to hell and felt weighed down by sand. Fuck, I needed to start working out. No more burgers and fries if I got away from this asshole in one piece.
From a distance, I could see my creepy-ass house. The old Victorian mansion loomed over my street like a creature conjured from someone’s nightmares.
So close.
Almost there.
The man caught up to me and clawed at my clothing, trying to pull me backward. I was small but scrappy. Having three older brothers had come in handy. They taught me to fight, so I swung my fists at his face.
“Someone help me!” I screamed loud enough to catch the attention of the men standing guard outside my house.
I hit him with everything I had left. But the jerk clutched my wrists, maintaining a firm grip, breathing the scent of cigarettes in my face. He was somewhere in his thirties. And now that we were up close, I could see a scar running down the length of his neck.
Before I started to lose oxygen, two shadowy figures approached. One of them hit the man on the head. The other kicked him in the balls, bringing him to his knees.
I blinked a few times… and everything went black.