18. Cora
Cora
When we leave the dark-paneled lobby and step out into full sunlight, I realize how drunk I am. I’m impressed that Serena’s still walking straight, considering she had at least a bottle more than me. But she gets into her hired car just fine without offering me a ride.
My first thought is to call Brady, to shove it in his face that I’ve gathered my own intel on Seven.
I’m inordinately proud of what I’ve just learned, especially considering that it might not be useful at all.
Regardless, I want to lord it over Brady.
But when I stumble on a flat piece of sidewalk, I realize I’m not exactly credible at the moment.
I need either food or a nap, or better yet both.
I’m tempted to turn toward my favorite falafel place, but it’s Jen’s favorite too, and I choose not to risk it.
It’s still business hours at the clinic, so I sneak through the back alley to my apartment.
After I wobble up the outdoor stairs, it takes me a few tries to unlock the door.
Connor’s sprawled on the sagging couch, watching Netflix with a Sam Adams on the coffee table in front of him. Apparently my little brother, whose ass I saved by getting married, is perfectly happy to spend his day sitting around my apartment drinking beer.
“That subscription better be with your credit card,” I say, slurring more than I intended.
“Are you drunk?” he asks.
“I dunno, are you stupid?” It was one of our go-to comebacks as kids, and I can’t think of anything better at the moment. I stumble to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, while Connor mutes the TV.
“Jesus, Cora. Shouldn’t you be—”
“By the way,” I interrupt. “When were you going to tell me that your whole reason for coming to Chicago was to scheme for an alliance with the fucking Vanleusens?”
“How did you know that?” He’s suddenly cagey, and he pushes himself off the couch to join me in the tiny kitchen.
“Did Brady tell you? Does he know you’re here?
” My brother sounds worried for both me and himself.
His bruises are healing, his face now a mess of green and violet instead of dark purple and black.
“I have my own ways of gathering intel,” I say haughtily. “And does it look like I give a shit if Brady knows my whereabouts?” I slurp down the much-needed water, spilling a bit on my dress.
“You should give a shit.” Connor crosses his arms.
“Too bad, so sad. I don’t.”
“He’s dangerous, Cora.”
“So am I.” To prove my point, I throw my empty glass in the sink, then grin triumphantly at the loud crash. My brother shakes his head at me.
“Jesus fucking Christ, go lie down or something.” He pulls out the trash can and lifts it to the sink, carefully disposing of the glass piece by piece. I feel the teensiest bit bad watching him clean up after me. But hey, I cleaned up after his mess, which was considerably bigger.
“Fine,” I tell him. “But only because I told me to.” I shuffle off to my old bedroom and close the door. I have just enough awareness to kick off my shoes before collapsing onto my old bed and falling asleep.
* * *
Its dark when by the time I wake up. My hangover is thankfully mild, nothing a couple of ibuprofens won’t fix.
When I step out of my room, all the lights are off.
The door to Connor’s room is ajar, and I push it gently open.
He’s sleeping in bed with his mouth wide open, the way he has since he was little. I smile to myself and close the door.
When I check my phone, there’s nothing from Brady, so he must not have returned to the empty penthouse yet. He’d be the type to bombard my phone with texts and calls if he found me gone, then probably end up hunting me down here and breaking down the door.
Keeping quiet for Connor’s sake, I eat a granola bar, brush my teeth, and splash cold water on my face. I’d had the forethought to leave some toiletries and clothes behind, unsure what exactly I’d be using this apartment for once I moved into the penthouse. Boozy lunch recoveries, apparently.
Locking the apartment behind me, I pad quickly down the stairs, my balance fully recovered. The night’s chill is a little strong for my cardigan, but it invigorates me. As I round the corner out onto the street, I catch sight of a shadow moving in the alley behind me.
I raise my guard but don’t panic, a city girl through and through. I prioritize staying on the well-lit sidewalks of busy streets.
At a crosswalk, I pull out my phone as I wait for the light to turn.
I pretend to use the camera to check my hair, then tilt it to get a glimpse of who’s behind me.
Lurking at the back of the small cluster of people is a broad-shouldered man in a dark jacket, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
Fuck.
I zigzag for three blocks, then check again. Still there.
Double fuck.
I consider calling Brady, but the whole point of my outing today was to prove I’m more capable than he is. I’m not a useless weakling that needs protection. I’m a helpful source of intel who can handle her own.
I wait until the traffic light turns red, then dart across the street. Cars honk, but I don’t care, I keep sprinting toward the penthouse. When I’m a few blocks away, I chance it. I slow down to turn around and look.
Gone. The sidewalk behind me is empty, and I regain my breath in relief. I did it.
Shaking my tense arms loose, I return to a brisk walk along the deserted street. As I’m a half block away from the high-rise, I take one last look over my shoulder.
Pain explodes from the side of my head. I stagger, but keep my feet. Righteous anger flares inside me, unleashing my violence. Fists raised, I lower my center of gravity and face my attacker.
He swings his weapon at me again, some blunt object, I can’t tell. When I dodge, it nearly catches me in the nose, and I have to throw myself off-balance to avoid his second swing. I grit my teeth as I fall, catching myself with my hands on the unforgiving sidewalk.
I twist up, and my attacker moves into the streetlight.
He’s wearing a light gray hoodie, no hat on his bald head. Fuck, there must be two of them. Baldie swings back his leg, ready to kick me in the stomach. There’s no time for me to get to my feet, so I push myself to roll out of the way.
My spine erupts with pain. I’ve slammed into a fire hydrant. I’m trapped as Baldie lumbers toward me. I’m in too much pain to move, and all I can do is bare my teeth at him as he leers down at me. He swings back his leg with unsettling glee.
Another man lunges for him, a quick punch to the side of the face. It’s the man in the baseball cap who was following me. Baldie refocuses on the newcomer, and the two exchange blows while I struggle to my feet.
There’s the sickening sound of flesh colliding with flesh, paired with grunts of pain and lots of swearing. Baldie throws a punch that snaps the other man’s face to the side, knocking off his hat.
Finn. Holy shit. It was Brady’s younger brother who followed me from my apartment.
He recovers sloppily from Baldie’s punch, swaying badly.
Baldie’s back is turned to me, but I can sense his leer of victory. He cracks his neck and tosses his weapon aside, eager to finish Finn with his bare hands. As the weapon clatters to the sidewalk, I rush to scoop it up. It’s a shortened nightstick, weighted but easily concealable.
I grip it like a stubby baseball bat and swing for all I’m worth.
Bone cracks as the bat collides with the back of Baldie’s skull. The man’s large frame topples forward and thuds onto the ground face down.
Vaguely I realize my arms are numb from the impact. The small bat slips from my grasp as Finn and I stare at each other over the inert body, both of our chests heaving.
He’s still unsteady on his feet, and I move toward him to help hold him upright. But he flings me off, surprisingly forceful for how wobbly he looks.
“Get inside,” he barks at me. He turns his head to the side and spits blood, then shows me his reddened teeth in a snarl.
Fuck it. I rush up the sidewalk and into the building.
“Whoa,” the guard in the security office says. In my panic, I can’t remember his name, but he must be a trusted O’Sullivan man if he’s guarding the high-rise.
“Finn,” I pant. “Outside. Finn needs help.”
The guard runs out of the building without another word, and I stagger across the lobby. Leaning heavily against the cool marble wall, I pull out my phone to text Connor. My fine motor skills are shot, and my palms are so sweaty that I drop the phone twice.
My brother doesn’t need to know that I was just attacked, he’d worry too much. I’m certainly not going to tell him, but if the O’Sullivans do, I need him to rest assured that I’m safe. My fingers shaking, I send him my message in the hope that he’s still asleep.
Me: Back safely at the penthouse. Sleep tight.
I try to take comfort in having done the right thing. But my breath is still coming in jagged gasps, my pulse still beating in my throat. Trying to swallow down my heartbeat, I open Brady’s contact. His hearing about this is inevitable, but suddenly I don’t want to tell him myself.
The violent anger inside me is still whirling. For it to meet Brady’s anger right now would be catastrophic.