Chapter 5
GRAYSON
Idon’t like it. The boat is eerie, and the rocking waves churn my empty stomach. I think I’m more of a land person, too.
“This way.” The skinny guard escorts us inside.
He ushers us to a meeting room that looks like it belongs at the top of a skyscraper rather than on water.
Dark mahogany walls gleam under the recessed lighting, catching the polish of the long glass table anchored to the center of the room.
Sleek high-backed leather chairs are bolted to the floor through the thick patterned carpet around the table.
The man gestures to the seats, and I follow Aoife’s lead when she sits. He exits, locking the door behind him. I focus on the click of the lock, while Aoife focuses on spinning in her chair.
“These are nice,” she says.
“Yeah, irreplaceable,” I deadpan. “They locked the door.”
She nods, then stands. “Standard. They can’t afford us creeping around here.
” She pokes along the bar lining the far wall, lifting the crystal stoppers from the decanters one by one and sniffing the liquor inside.
Her fingers trail over several boxes of cigars beside the drinks, pausing long enough to tap the embossed decals before moving on.
There aren’t any windows in here, but Aoife drifts along toward the paneled walls.
Her head tilts as she studies the paintings of ocean scenes framed as if though they were portholes.
Then she abandons them in favor of peeking into a cut-glass bowl brimming with wrapped candy and plucks one, tucking it into her jacket pocket.
I drum my fingers on the glass tabletop, pretending to stare at the paintings while watching her touch and test out of the corner of my eye. It’s disarming, seeing her canvas the room like it was a puzzle laid out for her.
“Nervous?” Aoife whispers in my ear while she moves to sit back down.
“No.”
Muffled footsteps sound outside the door, and it opens.
A man with dark hair cut close to his scalp, with gray flecks at his temples, walks in.
His eyes are a pale gray like mine, and he doesn’t blink.
His gaze lingers over me, then moves to Aoife.
He rubs his beard between his thumb and forefinger.
“What do I owe for the pleasure of the Irish Princess?” His voice is low and unhurried, dripping with an accent. The two guards behind him shut the door and take up guard on either side of it.
“A well-respected Irish Mob man was murdered a few days ago,” Aoife says. She’s calm and stoic, far from the girl who was spinning in a chair and poking around the room a moment before.
“That was not the Albanians!” The man raises his voice, the tattoos on his neck moving with the veins tightening.
“No, it wasn’t, Ervis.”
His shoulders roll when she says his name, but he doesn’t challenge her use of it. How can so much power seep off a woman so delicate, so small?
“Luka Morozov provided some information that said you may have had men in the Boston area a month, or so, ago. Grayson?” Aoife gestures for me, and I pull out my phone, summoning the photo of the John Doe in the morgue. I slide the device across the table.
His face snaps to the phone, then back to Aoife. “What is this?”
“He was murdered,” I say. “The same way a member of the Irish Mob and Yakuza was murdered.”
“Someone is targeting mafia men in Boston. We need any information on him or his whereabouts when he was last seen.”
Ervis pushes my phone back to me. “Artur Berisha. He went to see a woman, for … he was on his own time, not mafia business. He never returned. I assumed he deserted for a piece of ass. He was killed? How?”
“Drugged then beheaded.” I shift in my seat as the man studies me, and I focus on the long gold chain around his neck. “Do you know anyone by the name of Rob Morris?”
“No. Why?”
“He was the first victim, but we can’t find any known crime family ties.” I look at Aoife, who leans back in her chair, chewing her cheeks.
“I want to be made aware of any arrest made,” Ervis says. “The Albanians avenge their own. Besa.”
The two guards by the door repeat it. “Besa”
“So do the Irish,” Aoife says, standing. “That will not be taken from the O’Donnell family.”
Lovely. Just what I need in the middle of my investigation—multiple crime families pining over the same revenge. This man won’t last two minutes in prison, maximum security or otherwise.
Ervis studies Aoife, his gaze moving from examining to appreciative. “You’re a very beautiful girl. We could leave a lasting legacy for both our organizations with a marriage to unite us.”
What. The. Hell.
My brow furrows. Murder and marriage. It gets better every second. I could never live this life.
“I’m sorry. I’m spoken for.”
I seek out her face as she stares into the Albanian’s eyes. She’s not giving an ounce of fear or acceptance. Perhaps that’s how she’s held her own for the past several years. Her dad isn’t here to guide her, so who is?
He points to me. “This man? This man doesn’t know this life.”
“Oh, no. Not him—my bike, Jerry. He gets mad if I ride anyone else.”
My lips twitch, and I turn my head into my shoulder to cover the loud sputter that wants to escape.
“You are crass, Miss O’Donnell.” He steeples his fingers together, leaning forward with wide pupils as he devours her while seemingly entertaining the thought of her as his wife.
I want to punch him in the throat.
“Perhaps if we take revenge on this killer first, it can be an early wedding present. A celebration of the union between the Irish and the Albanians.”
Aoife wrinkles her nose, and her demeanor gets serious. “Like I told you, the Irish avenge their own. Don’t get in my way. It won’t just be the Irish you go to war with.”
He drags out the silence after her words. “You might be the person I need for an introduction to Luka Morozov. I hear he has a daughter more beautiful than her mother.”
“Aye. She’s a bombshell, but Luka would gut you for looking at her and toss you at Marco’s Cosa Nostra for them to play with. I’d stay away from New York, Ervis. Self-preservation and all. Grayson? You ready? I’m hungry.”
My stomach rumbles in time with her words, and I stand, catching my coat from flapping open to expose my two guns and badge.
It isn’t until we’ve left the meeting room and made it down the ramp that I take a full breath.
So much power pretending to be civilized—threatening tones, deals wrapped in casual conversation.
I’d need to go to confession if only to admit I was in the same room as them as they negotiated like they were at Sunday brunch.
Dusk settles over the harbor walk and frost clings to the railings. Holiday lights switch on, and the lampposts scattered in the seaport flicker.
“I hate that this feels like a dead end.” Aoife’s shoulder brushes mine as we walk side by side back to the garage. Her breath materializes like a puff of fog in the air, the cold from the setting sun bleeding through her coat. She shivers.
“We have a name. I’ll go back to the station and check in with Reed. Let him know the updates.”
“And I’ll speak with the Yakuza. Try to get Souta’s movements before he went missing,” Aoife says, striding with her chin tucked into the collar of her leather jacket.
No. I don’t like her talking to these organizations alone, or better yet, getting involved in this investigation at all. “I don’t need you to do that … I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. I’ll take Ronan with me or something. It’ll be fine. I deal with them all the time.” She smiles, her straight white teeth chattering against the cold.
It does something to me I can’t control.
Draws me in when I should be pushing her further away from me.
From this investigation. My hand betrays me, reaching for her arm and allowing my fingers to slide down until they’re tangled in hers.
Warmth sears through that single point of contact before I rip away.
Wanting her is one thing. Inviting corruption into my arms is another.
The second week in December comes quicker than I’d like.
Solving this case before Christmas feels like a giant ass beating.
What’s worse is that an invitation to the Boston Christmas Gala sits on my desk, the date next weekend.
I hate, hate, this event. It’s the one time my parents can’t get out of seeing me, making the event always awkward and depressing.
I toss it in the trash beside my desk as there’s a knock on the door.
“Headed home?” Deputy Bromley leans through the office threshold.
“Think so. Why?”
He glances behind him and lowers his voice. “Chatter on the coms has something going down tonight at the container terminal docks. Rumor has it it’s mob business and they might get a visit from the cartel.”
“So? What does the captain say about it?”
“Nothing. He said to leave it alone.”
“Then why tell me?”
His gaze probes me. “Thought you might be interested. Have a good night, Detective.”
“Night.”
I move around my office, tidying up and reorganizing the investigation board. Reed must’ve messed with it because the details are wrong, but I can’t help Bromley’s parting words nagging my mind.
Mob business. I huff. Boston is crawling with organized crime. The Irish and the Yakuza are the two most prevalent organizations here, but that’s only because the O’Donnells somehow negotiated the Cosa Nostra away. But the Albanians? The cartel? Are we as law enforcement prepared to deal with this?
They aren’t all like the Irish and willing to assist the law.
I shake my head and grab my holster and badge from the top drawer of my desk, moving to the coatrack for my jacket. It’s late, so the station has slowed, but I give a few departing head nods, then move outside.