Chapter 4
AOIFE
“Turn right up here.”
Grayson side-eyes me. “I know.” He turns right toward the marina.
“Next two lights, turn left.”
“I know.”
I hold up two hands, then pull my legs up to cross them, or as much as I can without spearing myself.
I’d much have preferred to stay in my leggings, throw on a hoodie and fur boots and call it good, but I have a job to do.
So, I put on my black leather pants, and over my tank top I pulled on my forest-green military-style jacket.
Instead of my desired boots, I slipped into the razor-sharp stilettos my dad hates but Summer likes to borrow and marched with my head high across the slushy sidewalk to Grayson’s sedan.
His car is plain. Dark gray with a rattling vent doing its best to pump heat into the chilled car.
The smell is heavy on the coffee, a little on the cigarette smoke, and …
snow-soaked wool lingering after a winter storm.
I’m not sure why, but I take a long breath, kind of loving the mix of all three.
Luka’s intel places a meager group of Albanians staying on a boat in the Boston Harbor. I hate that they’re here, and I hate that I didn’t know about it. My dad would. He’d know they were here, and he’d orchestrate a way to run them off.
Grayson makes the left turn after the light, and I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “Don’t. I know the way.”
“You grow up in Boston?”
“No. Cambridge.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Fancy. My biological mom went to school at Harvard.”
He snorts. “Didn’t want to follow in her footsteps instead of your father’s?”
I turn away to look out the window as we approach the harbor’s parking garage. I glance at the aquarium and frown. “No. She left me two days after I was born. I’ve only ever seen one photo of her. Hers isn’t a legacy I want to pass on.”
I glance at Grayson. He’s staring at me. His throat works a swallow, and he pinches his lips together.
“Plus,” I add. “Summer is the best mom. She’s always taken me under her wing.”
Grayson pulls through the garage entrance and takes a ticket from the automatic dispenser. He climbs several levels before finding a spot. When he parks, he shuts off the car and lets out a sigh. “My family lives in Cambridge.”
My mouth parts, a soft “oh” forming silently as I nod. “Do you head across the river a lot then?”
“No.”
Okay?
Grayson leans over the center console, his forearm stretching toward the glove box.
The sleeve of his black coat slides up to expose the ink wrapped around his wrist and extending along his forearm.
Several veins run taut, corded beneath his skin, and his muscles flex as he pops open the compartment and pulls out a Glock.
The gun and his hand brush my thigh as he retracts, and I shift in my seat, clearing my throat.
“I can’t give you this, but I’m adding it to my holster with my weapon.
If we end up in trouble, I won’t leave you out to dry,” he says, checking the magazine and loading the chamber.
He lifts his hips, the badge and other gun on his waistband appearing, and I chew my bottom lip as he holsters the backup.
Flip. “I, uh—That’s okay. I got my own.”
He whips his head in my direction and scans my body, slow enough that goose bumps prick the back of my neck.
“It’s on me. That’s all you need to know,” I say.
He gives me a curt nod, then scrambles out his door.
I let out a shaky breath and open mine, stepping out onto the oil-stained garage concrete. Grayson’s halfway to the steps.
“Elevator’s this way,” I yell, my words echoing in the garage.
He doesn’t turn to acknowledge me. “Not my fault you wore heels.” Then he disappears down the first flight.
“Damn it.” I scurry after him. When I finally catch up, we’ve got two more flights to go. “I can walk in heels just fine, but all this concrete will ruin the leather.”
“You should buy cheaper shoes.” He runs a hand through his hair, and a breeze through the stairwell tugs a piece loose. It falls over his eyes.
My foot slips. One second I’m stepping down, the next there’s nothing.
A sickening rush causes my arms to flail, and then …
an arm locks around my waist, and another hand braces across my back.
I’m pulled up, and my feet find the step I’d missed.
My breath hitches when I look over to find his gray eyes scrutinizing my face.
He eases away, but his fingers brush over my ribs, and despite this thick jacket, I feel his touch all the same.
“Walk in heels just fine, huh?” He releases me, and I tug my jacket down.
“Yeah, well, you can’t truly appreciate the effort it takes unless you try it.” I grin, hoping to trick my thundering heartbeat.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I roll my eyes and follow, taking extra care to watch each step and pay attention to where I’m walking.
As we near the harbor, I take in the Harbor Hotel’s towering Christmas tree, glowing with golden lights and red-ball ornaments, while festive green wreaths frame the facade and entrance.
Closer to the marina, several vendors serve mulled cider, the spices filling the air along with the salty harbor breeze.
“Know where to start?” Grayson asks.
“The marina on the North End. Yacht Haven will be the place bigger vessels and mega-yachts stay. It’s where my dad always had his.”
“Not there anymore?”
“He and Summer are in Europe for a few years. He asked if I wanted to keep it, but I’m more of an on-land person.” I shrug. “Didn’t feel right to keep it without him here, so he sold it.”
“That’s sad.”
“Not really. I love they’re off just the two of them without the pressures of mob life. Enjoying each other and exploring in ways Summer never got to while growing up. Besides it’s just a boat.”
Grayson cracks a lopsided smile. “Obviously.”
We walk, the wind near the water merciless and wet, carrying the sting of salt. The water itself is dark and almost sullen, like a mirror of the sky, and … Grayson’s eyes. Why I think that I’m not sure, only there’s something in them that makes me sad.
A few seagulls cry in the ghosting of the docks, and Grayson points to a yacht out in the water. “That one has a helo on it.” He says it with genuine surprise and awe; I can’t help but find it endearing.
We search until one yacht in particular looks out of place. There’s a man on the upper deck, his movement rather methodical, like he’s keeping watch. I elbow Grayson. “They aren’t going to be friendly toward you. Follow my lead.”
“And what makes you think they’ll be friendly toward you?”
I bat my lashes. “I don’t.”
I move forward, ready for answers, for Finn, but Grayson snags my arm. “Do we need backup?”
“You’ll be fine.”
He holds my gaze. “What about you?”
“Aw. Worried about me?” I ask.
He lets go of my arm but doesn’t say anything further.
I turn and approach the side ramp. Light lines the railings of the yacht, colder and more sterile than party-like.
I listen for voices, but the only sound is the soft slap of waves against the hull.
My heels click up the ramp, and I palm the gun in my waistband.
I make it halfway up with Grayson behind me when two guards break forward—black jeans, black jackets, hands twitching at their own waistbands.
“This is private property, and you haven’t been invited,” one says, accent thick.
I pause, one foot on the gangway and lift my chin. “Not sure I need an invitation.”
The taller one reaches for his radio, and I take another step. The heat of Grayson’s body hovering so close to mine is distracting, yet the comfort of it seeps into my words. “I’m here to talk to your boss. You can tell him the Irish don’t knock.”
The taller guard steps away, speaks into his radio, and then returns seconds later. “Welcome aboard, Miss O’Donnell.”