Chapter 9
AOIFE
Istare at the email from Sasha on the screen.
Then, grossly, and one hundred percent unprofessionally mimic her voice the entire time I read it.
My dad said he was able to track down the cartel members who took your shipment.
He’s had them dealt with. You should be getting your shipment in the new year.
He said he’s going to deliver them personally.
Great.
That’s all I need, Luka Morozov in my city because I failed to receive the order he procured for me. How am I going to explain that to my dad? Granted, Sasha probably believes I’ve told my father about the container terminal last week. She’d be wrong.
In fact, the last conversation I had with my dad, he and Summer were asking what I wanted for Christmas while they were in Paris the next week and a half. They said they’d be back in Boston on Christmas Eve, which is …
Ugh. I need to sort out Finn’s affairs. He’s sitting frozen because I haven’t told my dad he’s dead yet—go me—and because the Irish were his only family, we’ll be the ones to put together his funeral.
I finally told Lizzy and Cormac two nights ago, to which Lizzy full-on reprimanded me for not telling my dad.
I had to silence my aunt with threats, and I hate myself for it.
It’s not me.
If I could just find his killer. I don’t care about the Yakuza, the Albanians, or Rob Morris; I only care about the Irish. It’d figure Grayson hasn’t updated me once with any information since I kicked him out of my apartment. He got too close to revealing my husk of a self, and I balked.
My temples throb, and I knead them. The screen’s glow burns my eyes as if it knows every thought I’ve let fester today sequestered in my office.
I need to churn out a response. Instead, I snap my laptop shut harder than I should, cutting off the Christmas music.
For a minute, I sit, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing Sasha’s voice to fade.
Finn’s ghost lurks in the corner, my father’s shadow at my back, and Luka Morozov’s name like a damn curse.
Sitting here isn’t going to help. My office air is stale, and the glitter bomb of Christmas annoys me after Grayson’s accusation.
Of course, it’s the only room I decorated.
This is where I live, breathe, and scheme. Right? That’s the only reason.
Grabbing my coat from the loveseat, I head for the door. If the answers won’t come staring at my email, at least I can get some fresh air and find a sliver of quiet. I bulldoze past my men, the evening waitstaff, and the restaurant full of patrons, needing out.
Puffy flakes drift down from the night sky as I exit O’Brien’s and pull my coat up around my ears. After glancing along the sidewalk and seeing no one, I tilt my head back, open wide, and stick out my tongue. The cold pinprick hits, then dissolves instantly until another follows right behind it.
These giant snowflakes were always my favorite growing up. Allie, Summer, and I would stand by the firepit, mouths open to enjoy the winter snow for hours. To the point my dad would run out and toss mini marshmallows into them instead.
A car door slams shut, and I jump, retracting my tongue and pretending to reach for my phone.
“I saw that.”
My head snaps at his voice. Grayson’s voice.
He strides toward me, and I blink, taken off guard by his lack of a suit.
The trench coat is still there, but his pants have been replaced with dark-wash jeans tapering down into gray boots, and his suit jacket upended for a gray turtleneck sweater.
No badge hangs at his hip, and while I’m sure his Glock is on his body somewhere, it’s not visible this evening.
I look down at my yoga pants and oversized sweater as if I’m a walking billboard for his observation the other day. He doesn’t think I can lead the Irish either, does he?
The snowflakes kiss his combed-over hair, and I find I want to lick those, too. Oh, damn it, Aoife.
“Saw what?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Nothing.”
I cross my arms, the bulge of my coat not doing me any favors. The door to O’Brien’s opens, and Ronan pokes his head out. I roll my eyes. Can’t have five minutes of dang peace. “I’m fine,” I tell him, then pin Grayson with a look. “What are you doing here?”
He joins me on the sidewalk and leans against a lamppost wrapped in white Christmas lights. “Two things: First, your hunch about Mrs. Morris was right. After some interrogation, she confirmed her family ties.”
I slowly nod. I wouldn’t want to admit I was part of the Cosa Nostra either.
“So, we’ve confirmed it does seem like the killer is going after mob men, but we’ve hit a dead end. The lack of evidence is astounding, which further supports the idea that perhaps it is someone in one of the crime families.”
“Or law enforcement.” I retort. “They’d have the know-how to cover their tracks, right?”
He swallows, and that’s the second time I’ve mentioned this theory, and he’s gone quiet. Is he so caught up with his own profession that he doesn’t think there can be bad apples there, too? Maybe right under his nose?
Finally, he relents. “Or law enforcement.”
“And second?”
Grayson straightens, his eyes softening on me. “And second, I want you to come somewhere with me.”
I stare at him, then let a burst of laughter fly from my mouth. “Go somewhere? With you? After you just admitted law enforcement could be behind these murders.”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
I throw up my hands into the void space beside me. “Well, when you’ve seen what I’ve seen, nothing is impossible.”
“I don’t envy you, Aoife.” His face stalls out on a serious expression. “I can’t imagine what you go through every day.”
I step back, stunned. Part of me would like to dismiss his words and stew a bit longer. The other part of me, the curious part, wants to know where he’s going. “Do I need to change?”
He offers me a once-over. “No. You’re perfect.”
I step back once more and spin on my heels as my face heats. Why does his praise affect me?
Ronan’s still standing there, and when I catch him regarding me, he frowns. “Who would you like to escort you, Miss O’Donnell?”
Grayson hovers close.
“I’ll be fine, Ronan.”
Ronan considers for a moment, bringing a finger up to play with the gauge in his right earlobe. “Fine. I’ll escort you. Let me get the keys for the wagon.”
I groan and rub my temple, but nod nevertheless. I hate the escorts, the bodyguards—my father did, too. However, I recognize, perhaps more so than he did, the necessity for them.
“We’ll wait in the car. Ready?” Grayson asks.
“I only have my phone. I don’t have anything else.”
“You don’t need it.”
I tilt my head, trying to read his expression. Is he excited about taking me somewhere? Is this based on regret from his words the other night?
Grayson gestures toward his car, and I follow behind him.
The snow falls in thick pillow-like tufts, swallowing the city’s remaining color.
Christmas lights flicker in the blur, and red and green ribbons snap in the wind between the flurries.
I can’t help the fluttery sensation humming in my stomach along with the faint Christmas music spilling from O’Brien’s.
Grayson opens the passenger-side door for me, and I slide in, only to watch him jog around the front and hop in himself.
He cranks the car, the windshield wipers hustling to clear the accumulated blanket of snow already sticking.
When we settle into the rough seats of Grayson’s sedan, he turns the heat up.
“Feel some sort of way about Ronan tagging along?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.” He grabs for the pack of cigarettes, only to spin them twice between his thumb and forefinger and set them back down. “Figured it was part of the deal.”
I chew the inside of my cheek.
He studies me with rapt attention, leaning forward, like he’s waiting for more.
“I’m the only heir to the O’Donnell bloodline.
If I die, I don’t have siblings to take over for me.
Sure, my father would step back in, but the O’Donnell line would fade away.
In order for the Irish to survive, thrive, another family name would need to step into leadership, and I can’t do that to my dad’s legacy.
So, while it’s uncomfortable and a hassle, I understand it. Respect it.”
Grayson smiles, glancing in the rearview as Ronan pulls the SUV up behind us. He checks the side mirrors and pulls out onto the road.
“Why do you smile?” I ask, sitting on my chilled hands.
“You know that makes you a good leader, right? It’s not that you throw yourself at each piece of danger that makes you untouchable. It’s that you understand you’re not.”
“One could argue that’s fear,” I say, twisting and shifting in my seat at his insight.
“No. It’s not. You don’t gamble with yourself because you know people rely on you. That’s a heavy weight to carry at such a young age. Anyone can be reckless, but you … you step up without needing to prove how brave you are.”
I snort and turn toward him, noting his departure from the downtown streets and onto the road out of Boston.
“What?” he asks. His eyes dart between me and the road.
“That’s the thing, though. Proving myself is all I can think about.” I whisper the words; I don’t want to admit them. I don’t have anyone I can utter those words out loud to, but of all people, Grayson is the one person I can tell. He’s not one of us.
The corner of his lips curve slightly. “I know. But not with me, Aoife. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”
A sting jabs at me behind my eyes, and I sigh.
That must be it. Why I’m comfortable with Grayson.
He doesn’t favor crime families, particularly those who are given a free pass by law enforcement.
With him, I’m not concerned with trying to prove anything.
What started as indifference has morphed into comfort, resting in the fact that I don’t need to.
I tug on my lower lip, relaxing into the seat. Snow falls outside the window while the heavy steel of Boston falls behind us. As it drifts down, I relish the comfortable silence loitering between us.