Chapter 37 Maeve
Maeve
Shittiest night’s sleep ever. I spent half the time talking myself out of sprinting downstairs to check on Kellin.
Yesterday, I declared my fervent desire to never see him again.
After eight hours with zero contact, I realize how wrong I was. That revelation reinforces what I believed to be true last night.
I’m in love with Kellin Brennan, body, mind, and soul.
I text Brody as I plunge both feet into my Hugo Boss pointed-toe pumps, or what I refer to as my wedding-day shoes.
They’re elegant without requiring five-inch heels. If I had to run a marathon in them—which can happen on wedding days—I could.
I text my brother again. Radio silence.
I leave my room for the chaos of the lobby, one of my dad’s men following behind me. Fun.
Somehow, I manage to focus on my work and not on the prisoner in the basement below me.
One and a half hours into helping Lola-Grace and Lenora with last-minute check-ins and juggling minor emergencies, Brody still hasn’t responded.
As soon as Lenora and I can get over the hump of replacing crushed flowers, reordering a case of Cristal that came in shattered, and finding another tux for one of the groomsmen who’s been plastered since he arrived…
As soon as we snuff out all these little fires, I have to go downstairs and lay eyes on Kellin.
I spot one of my father’s new guys looming in the lobby again, which irritates me to no end. I’ve told Brody a hundred times, if they must be here, they should at least blend in.
It’s that damn new guy that replaced Shout.
Shout. I shake my head in disgust and then force thoughts of that creep out of my head.
I hope my brother vetted this weirdo better.
When my phone buzzes in the pocket of my double-breasted dress, I stop everything.
Relief floods through my bones.
Kellin is fine. I’m with him now.
My heart rate doesn’t stabilize for long.
Now, every thought centers on Kellin.
How much pain is he in? Has he eaten? Had anything to drink? Has he slept? Did they unbind his wrists? Punch him again after I left?
I may not like the answers to these questions.
Once I find a moment to step away from the counter, I press my forehead to the cool lobby wall and whisper a promise into the air.
“Kellin, I’ll come and check on you soon.
And if you aren’t okay, I’ll get some EMTs on scene.
” I don’t care if I blow up the Weaver-Deaver wedding or get the authorities involved, what with a badly beaten man zip-tied in my dishware room.
I’ll find him help, and my father will have to deal with the consequences.
So will I. But oh well.
With every passing second, my willingness to risk everything to save Kellin crystalizes a little more.
His behavior still infuriates me. The man has a lot of explaining to do.
But love is love.
I never believed that until today.
I emerge from behind the counter to check in another guest, then pause.
A distant scent invades my nose. Acrid, sour…
“Maeve.” Lenora practically crashes into me. “Do you—”
“I smell it too.”
Our eyes meet, and we breathe the word at the same time.
“Smoke.”
I whirl toward Lola-Grace. “Lola, can you go down to the east wing by the—” The fire alarm wails, muffling my voice. I bend in close to her. “Check for kids in the pool. You know the drill.”
Lola-Grace nods.
There’s no visible smoke, no heat from the fire. Guests in the lobby mutter, but no one appears alarmed as they meander toward the doors.
They must think it’s a drill.
Kellin. I have to get to him.
The fire station generally responds within minutes. The chief will be busting through our doors any second.
“Lenora, I’m going to check that everyone down in the basement went out the lower emergency exit.” After that, I’ll go to Kellin, which I cannot tell her.
“Sounds good. I’ll text you when the chief arrives.”
“Thank you.”
She hustles away while my other employees wrangle the chaos ensuing in the lobby.
Thankfully, the smell of smoke remains faint, but as soon as the guests start to realize this isn’t a drill, panic will ensue.
I need to get downstairs.
I burst into the stairwell, skirting the vaguely anxious guests trying to exit, before descending to the lower level.
A fire extinguisher hangs on the wall, so I grab it, just in case.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I march straight to the prep kitchen.
The space has been evacuated. Chef Moreau knows the drill, so I’d be surprised to find anyone inside the freezer room.
I yank open the heavy door. All clear.
I receive a text from Lenora, informing me that Chief Dansfield and his crew have arrived.
I sniff. No odor in this area, so the fire likely didn’t originate in the basement. Hopefully, the chief and his team are handling whatever’s responsible for that smell.
Exiting into the hallway, I spot bodies heading out the emergency egress. Men in suits drag that slight, weasel-like man my father’s been holding in the penthouse.
I pause, suddenly wary. I don’t…recognize those men.
A sense of urgency builds inside me. Time to grab Kellin—and Brody—and go.
Whirling, I slam into the new guard. Not Bald Tat, but the guy I noticed hovering in the lobby earlier.
“Uh, hi. I’m looking for Brody. Have you seen him?”
He grunts out an affirmative.
Weird. “Where did he go?”
Another “mm-hmm.”
So helpful. I don’t have time for this nonverbal nonsense. “Okay, well, thanks for nothing. Excuse me.”
The guard blocks my path.
“Do you mind?” When I try to swerve around him, he shoves me. My heel skids on the tile floor as he pins me against the wall.
My mind flashes back to Shout, and clammy, horrible nausea floods me.
“Move. Slowly.” A Russian accent.
Well, at least that explains all the grunting and mm-hmm-ing.
The cold, hard metal of a gun barrel pokes into my stomach.
An adrenaline rush spikes my courage, and I pin this guy with a death stare. He chose the wrong day to mess with me.
I’m too amped up on anxiety, anger, and fear for Kellin’s well-being to fret about my own hide. “Are you fucking kidding me? For starters, the building’s on—”
“Say one more word, and I’ll shoot you right here. If you cooperate, Mr. Rostov may let you live.”
As much as I’ve worked to steer clear of family business, my blood freezes at the name drop.
Grigori Rostov leads a power-hungry Russian crime family.
Oh, shit. This man was never one of my father’s.
He’s only familiar because he spent the last few days at the Cypress stalking me.
Recalling the strange men ushering my father’s “guest” through the hotel, I revise my conclusion. I bet this Russian’s with them.
I understand now. There’s no fire, and this man’s not another Port Kings goon.
“Hey, I didn’t see anything.” I raise my hands and try to pretend my heart isn’t racing.
“I’m just searching for my brother. Brody Gallagher.
” As if my brother’s name could spook this guy when he and his pals just broke into the penthouse my father’s been using as a safe house to steal his prized possession.
I didn’t see anything. Famous last words. I shake my head, so disappointed in myself. When push comes to shove, I become a talking cliché.
Brody was right. I should stay abreast of who they hire. If I did, I would’ve realized this guy didn’t belong days ago.
Why the hell is Grigori Rostov after the guy from the penthouse?
The Russian points toward the same emergency exit his men disappeared through. Out of options, I start the slow march.
Kellin. Please be okay.
I stop just shy of the door and pivot to face the Russian. He towers above me, his dark, empty eyes almost daring me to run, the barrel of his gun aiming at my heart.
I don’t break eye contact. I won’t. I refuse to show fear.
If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead.
And a lot has changed since last night.
I am no longer the naive daughter of some mob boss, ducking, dodging, and denying her heritage. No more doe eyes and vapid looks while praying ignorance will save the day and poof all the bad guys and illegal activity away.
If I just keep pretending none of this is real, it’ll fly off in the breeze. That’s how the Maeve from yesterday used to think.
Yesterday, I was the hardworking partner of the Cypress, in love with the man who was going to invest in the hotel and save me from my father.
I played the damsel in distress, thrilled when a man with power strolled into my world to rescue me from “the other man in power” that’d been rubbing me the wrong way for the last three decades. Milking the “helpless female” persona for every last penny. A victim of my ancestry. Poor, silly Maeve.
The Maeve Gallagher of yesterday ran circles on the hamster wheel of life for so long that the ridges were worn flat in most spots.
And yet, she just kept running, as if she could escape the life she was born into by sheer will alone.
Making wish after useless wish and going full steam ahead to absolutely fucking nowhere.
Well, I hopped off that wheel last night once I realized I was in love with Kellin Brennan, a member of the Irish Kings mafia and an enemy of my father. My family.
I accepted my fate with my eyes wide open.
And I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m Maeve Fucking Gallagher, daughter of the Port Kings’ boss. I’ve seen death. I’ve watched people I hate get tortured and those I’ve loved die. My own mafia killed my mother. The death certificate alleges an overdose.
But legal documents lie. Men lie. My father lies.
And I’ve lied to myself about who I am and where I come from for far too long.
I lift my chin high as I stare deep into the blank eyes of this Russian asshole. “If you think you can use me as some kind of bargaining chip with Declan Gallagher, tell Rostov he can think again.”
“Unless you would like your heart to paint these ugly walls red, keep walking.”
“Go ahead.” I hold my ground. “I dare you.”