CHAPTER 28
Luna
“We’re going into the city?” I repeat back to Quinn who’s just found me in the kennel to inform me of the news. I put Marlon down carefully. He trots off with a pep in his step I’m envious of.
“Unless you’d rather keep sleuthing pointlessly around the grounds,” he says. His face is unreadable but his voice seems light.
Collin is going to be fine.
The whole house celebrated the news this morning, cheering for the doctor when he took a seat next to Quinn at the table during breakfast. The kitchen offered the usual meal plus special cinnamon rolls Shae only makes for special occasions.
A fact Sheila, tired but as sunshiny as ever, informed me when she insisted I cut the line and eat first this morning. As if she didn’t stay up working too.
“Is this a reward for cleaning the floors?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes and sneers, “Sure. It’s not because I have to go to the office and I’d rather keep an eye on you than leave you here.”
“Why is that, when you keep claiming there’s nothing here for me to find?” I bat my lashes at him.
He sighs, annoyed. Maybe he’s not in a great mood after all. He says quickly, “I’m going to the city for the afternoon and evening. If you want your Insta phone thing, come.”
“Holy hell,” I laugh, “You really are a hundred years old. It’s Instagram. Insta-gram.” He starts to walk away. “And it’s an I-phone,” I tease, over-pronouncing the phrase. “I-ph-one.” I run to catch up with him. “Why do you need to go to the office?”
He doesn’t look at me or slow his long steps. “Why do you keep asking questions you know I won’t answer?”
I huff out a little sigh. Good question. Why do I engage with this asshole at all? He’s repeatedly rejected me, ignored me and insulted me. He’s strange and smug and irritating as hell.
But last night.
After sparring with his own men, he led his own raid.
My father would never. A leader plots and plans, teaches, trains.
He oversees. Meet a fellow billionaire in some gentleman’s club?
Sure. Show up and finish off some enemy who’s already hog tied and near death?
Of course. Interrogate a rat? Occasionally.
But most of the dirty work in our world is handled by soldiers and underbosses. Not the dons themselves.
“I just need to change real quick,” I say when we reach the house.
“Why? That’s fine.” He quickly glances down at my clothes. I chose fighting clothes again this morning, hoping I’d get a chance to spar at some point today.
“It’ll just take a second,” I say but he’s already turned away. Meanwhile, I have to drag my eyes away from him before hurrying into the house.
I can’t stop looking at him. He’s…
He blasted out of that car last night, screaming and gripping his fallen man to his chest. I saw the display because I was up waiting at the window, tracking arrivals.
I couldn’t believe he was running, holding Collin like he weighed nothing.
Collin is a Quinn. A junior version of my husband, but large compared to an average Joe off the street.
I ran down the stairs, watching his team in action.
Two men moved furniture out of the way so Quinn and the others could walk through the entry.
One guy pulled a whole ass armoire out of that room, the blue room.
The guy who left to get the doctor was literally sprinting.
Shae and Sheila were a bit panicked but they did their jobs.
And at the heart of it all was Quinn, calm and steady. Concerned but confident. All eyes were watching the doctor and Collin but mostly they were looking to him. Their leader, their don. And damn if I didn’t too. And have been ever since.
His thick dark hair, black eyes, stunning symmetrical face. He’s actually brutally handsome under the scar across the top half of his features.
And when he smiles? What scar? What psycho skull crusher? I can’t see either.
He just simply cannot be the madman the rumors have made him out to be.
So, then, who is he?
Maybe I’ll be able to find out some answers today.
“Vix, you little Russian genius, you better be right about this.” I whisper as I open the bottom of one of the pretty black bird bookends she sent.
They’re huge and solid, some kind of marble.
She drilled a hole and buried the tiny USB device deep.
I grab it, and, as she instructed, take off my pants.
“Things are about to get weird,” I mutter to Marlon before ducking into the bathroom.
She explained—via code in a handwritten note that came with this “wedding gift”—that because of possible sensors, I need to tuck the little mechanism, already sealed in a tiny ziplock bag, into my underwear.
Either that or actually insert it into my body. I’m a spy but even I have my limits.
Once it’s secure in my panties, I pull on my favorite black jeans.
I wear a black lace cami under a thin sweater and a leather bomber jacket.
Boots, ponytail, mascara. Quinn doesn’t care all that much what I look like, it seems, so I’m done fussing.
Strategizing about my appearance—wearing the right thing in order to make a specific impression on a set target I was hoping to get information from, or on a target my father wanted to use me for—has been part of my daily life since I was a tween.
It feels good to abandon the habit.
I don’t know what Quinn meant by evening but if I need to for some reason, I can loose the sweater and change my look for a club. I grab my eyeliner and lipstick and stick them in my jacket pocket. Might as well.
“Ready,” I say to myself. I hustle out of the room and down the front hall and staircase. “Ready!” I repeat when I reach the front steps.
Quinn opens the back car door for me. I get in and he climbs in after. I have to force myself not to look at him. I can still smell him though, unfortunately. He smells good. Not like cologne, though. More like a spicy deodorant and leather and just…him.
“When we get to the city you’ll get your phone and access to the cafe wifi,” Quinn starts beside me. I let myself look over, “But obviously we’re monitoring everything you say and do, wife.”
“Obviously,” I mimic him.
But he doesn’t smile or even smirk. Or roll his eyes.
“Luna,” He says, serious.
“Quinn,” I try again to annoy him.
His eyes flash to the driver in front then back to me.
His voice is low, but not quiet. “Do I need to remind you what I do to spies?” My playfulness dies a quick death at the darkness in his eyes.
Smug Quinn, the smirking, beloved leader?
He’s gone. “Check in with your family. Reply to emails. Post your selfies and do your online shopping or whatever else and do not. Fuck. Around.”
I narrow my eyes, wanting to take back every admirable or even slightly positive thought I ever had about this monster. He’s so fucking condescending. “If I do, then you get to kill me, then this torture will be over, right?”
“You think you’d simply be killed? Death is a gift. Traitors get no gifts, no mercy.”
I keep my gaze steady and try not to tremble as I shrug one shoulder. “So, you torture me then. What’s a little torture to Skulls Quinn?” I say, my voice weaker than the bravery it took to even talk back to him.
“I told you. I don’t enjoy hurting women.”
“Well then I’ll be sure not to get caught.” I say before looking away.
“Mo shaol a mhilleadh!” He scolds through gritted teeth. But somehow, the frustration, it makes him softer, more human. Like the real Quinn is back. He grabs his forehead and rants on, “Woman! Why do you keep pushing? You think I take lightly to threats?”
“Non sei l'unico che sa imprecare in un'altra lingua, sei un grosso, confuso, splendido stronzo!” I fire back, telling him he is not the only one who can curse in another language. Idiot. I go on, “And which is it, I need to watch myself or little me is no threat to big bad Quinn?”
He dips his chin and lowers his eyebrows as if to say we both know it’s both. He hardly sees me as a threat and he sure as hell will hurt me if he has to.
He’s calm after our little storm, watching me. His nostrils are still flared but his breathing is slow, his stance relaxed and perfectly still.
Meanwhile, I’m shaking.
I look away.
You will not cry right now Luna Mancini! You will not!
I don’t let myself sniff as I look out the window. I’m afraid, sure, but deep down, I’m angry. Angry that he sees me as a little gnat flying about, not a credible threat, but a nuisance. Angry that I’m not, in fact, much of a threat.
All my power is gone, my name, my notoriety, vanished. And the kicker is, I’m still a virgin after all that plotting and planning! I thought I’d use my body to rule them all, yet I have a husband who doesn’t want me, a clan who doesn’t respect me, and I rule no one.
Whatever happened with Quinn last night, the moment of camaraderie we had cleaning together, the olive branch he offered when he stood behind me, wiping the nasty floor. It’s over. I can’t let myself get emotional. Get interested or attached.
I have one bullet left in my metaphorical gun.
As Mac wordlessly hands me a bag with my phone and laptop inside a few minutes later, I say a silent prayer that Vix Volotov has armed me well.
I pass by Quinn as I enter a generic coffee shop on the edge of some suburb.
He grabs my wrist, glares down at me, a warning, then lets me go.
I use all my training to fake brave indifference.
I roll my eyes and don’t look back after I enter the cafe.
Mac and another guard are with me. I ignore them and head straight for the ladies room.
Inside, I make quick work of getting the baggy out of my underwear.
My hands are trembling so much I have trouble getting the device out of the tiny bag.
But I do. I inhale and exhale, calming my racing heart.
I pull up my jeans, tuck the little black rectangle in my back pocket and flush the toilet (because I am positive any guard worth his salt is listening to hear an actual toilet flush when a suspected spy goes to the bathroom.)
I grab the plain black laptop bag I was given, pull out my MacBook, and quickly pop the little chip into the USB port.
You can barely see it’s there since it’s so tiny, almost flush with the edge of my computer.
I shove the laptop back down and wait a beat, then bust out of the bathroom like I’m annoyed.
The cover of irritation explains my flustered state. Hopefully. Now that my plan is in motion, I start to sweat. Vix better know what the hell she’s doing. She’s a hacker, do hackers even know the hardware stuff?
Plus, she’s a Russian, she could’ve sent me an empty piece of plastic just to fuck me over. I don’t think she would, honor among thieves and all that, and, like, girl code, right?
Right.
Fuck!
I sit at the table and pull out my phone first. Not that I can use it to send or receive anything interesting. I turn it on for appearances.
Should I get a coffee?
No. The guards don’t care if I get a coffee. They know I’m here for the internet.
Okay, calm, Luna. Open this thing and you have three minutes.
My phone lights up and—
Ping!
Ping! Ping! Ping!
“Fuck!” I yell. Loudly. The whole coffee shop pauses, suddenly silent, everyone looking at me. “Sorry,” I offer a fake smile, “Too much caffeine.”
Get. It. Together!
I put my phone on silent and then look for a clock somewhere. I can’t use the timer on my phone in case they’re actively watching what apps I’m using.
Right, there’s a clock on the laptop itself. I mean, normally there is.
Here we fucking go.
I open the laptop.
It’s off. I press the power button and try to ignore my leg bouncing violently under the table like I’m having a seizure. I fight the urge to bite my nail or look around. I’m a normal person simply waiting on their MacBook to boot up.
It takes years to start. Decades. Then the little tone sounds and I hold my breath. Will the screen look different? Will some kind of notification pop up? If Quinn’s people are surveilling me, will an alarm go off the second this thing turns on?
Vix didn’t tell me what to expect when I turn it on.
Shit shit shit!
Oh.
Looks normal. Okay. Browser. I go to a new incognito window, just in case. After that I sneak a glance at Mac. He’s not looking at me. The other guy is in line for a coffee, his back to me. Neither of them get a notification on their phones or any kind of message in an ear piece or any of that.
Thank God.
I bring up one of my favorite tools, a property assessor website for the state of Massachusetts. I usually use Florida but they’re all similar. I navigate to the search function I want and type in what I saw on Quinn’s truck, “SQ Holdings.”
I hold my breath and look at my phone. Two minutes.
Mac! He’s taking out his phone.
Fuck! I’m dead. I’m so dead!
He looks at his phone. Looks at me.
God! I don’t want to die! I’ll go back to mass, I promise! Fuck! Shit, sorry for cussing in a prayer!
Mac looks at me again as he types. I gulp. He puts his phone away.
I exhale. He’s not coming over here. The other guy is still in line. I’m good.
Okay, focus! Quick!
The site has brought up a few properties. Bingo.
Five listed in the state, one not in Boston. I’m going to assume that’s the estate. I need to write the others.
I get out my phone and start pretending to text with shaking hands. I open the notes app. I use a code I made up in high school for my diary, in case Quinn’s got my phone mirrored somewhere.
455 Neponset Blvd, Boston is now 2255 Xeifxget Rykd
One minute! Damn it, Luna type faster!
I type out the other few properties. Then close the county assessor app. My computer freezes.
What! No.
Force Quit!
Force Quit!
Finally. it quits and then I freeze. Because am I supposed to remove the device? What if the men see me remove it? I can’t leave it in, I bet any spyware they have on here will send an alert that a device is connected after the three minutes.
I’m going to die because of a piece of metal the size of my thumbnail!
I look at Mac, he catches me. I give him a smile and an eye roll, what I would’ve done to my guards back home. He shrugs. I look away and hope that he does too. I move my laptop like I’m adjusting it on the table and while adjusting, I pull the miniature USB drive out.
I slip it into my back pocket, looking down at my lap for a second to breathe. Done. I made it. I shift in my seat, then notice the cafe’s gone quiet again. I look up.
Quinn.
Is here.
Towering over my tiny table.
“Wife,” he says, serious again. “I think we need to have a little chat.”