Chapter 3
THREE
declan
I grit my teeth and rub the spot where Marlowe sank her teeth into my palm. She didn’t hurt me but fuck, it sent sparks straight to my cock. What the fuck was that?
Marlowe Briggs had me arrested. Her da was there when they brought me in—he claimed I’d tried to assault his daughter, heavy on the innuendo, and robbed her of some jewels and cash.
Like she some matriarch on Fifth Avenue wearing all her gaudy fucking heirloom baubles and carrying a safe’s worth of money.
But I didn’t blame him.
I blamed her.
One look at the man and it was clear he doted on his brat of a daughter. Gave her everything her spoiled little heart wanted.
Marlowe got her hot ass in a twist because she saw me with her friend, Emily. We weren’t even dating, for fuck’s sake.
I rub my eyes. Shit, I didn’t know Marlowe would be at the club that night. Whatever she thought she saw happen between us was in her head. My dealings with Emily were business, pure and simple.
Didn’t matter, though. I got arrested three days later. Princess’s revenge. Cal had to pull a number of strings to get me out, and it burned. Even a few years later, having to be bailed out over a fucking lass still burns.
All over some girl I never even banged.
Now her father’s missing. I try to sort through memories for anything that rings a bell about Briggs and his company. But nothing comes to mind.
I’d remember a missing asshole who tried to use his money to have me locked away on bogus charges on behalf of his spoiled daughter.
Not even anything unsavory with the business jumps up. Nothing outside the usual shady shit that big companies are involved in.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone, punch in a number, put it on speaker, and wait.
It doesn’t take long before vintage Irish punk fills my car. “Dec!”
I cut O’Shay off. “What the fuck?”
“Come join! I’m having some great craic!” He’s drunk.
“Not fucking interested in having fun right now.”
Even with the music blaring, he should register my dark and dangerous tone.
I might not be my brothers. I’m certainly not Callahan, who’s the deadliest, hardest motherfucker out there.
Except when it comes to his Lucie, his almost two-year-old son, Rafferty or Raff, and his baby girl, Tallula, aka Tally.
And I’m no assassin like Torin or even an emotionless enforcer like Seamus.
But I hold my own.
And I’ve learned to use my reckless streak. Well, control it. Mostly.
“Don’t make me come and rearrange your face,” I say. “You’re not that pretty to start with. When I’m done...”
Like cold water in the face, I can almost see him snap to it. “What happened? The drugs are there at the truckyard, Dec. My contact said they’re there. He intercepted the dude who had them, the one who planned to sell them to the Cinco Cartel—“
“Right.”
I ball my free hand into a tight fist. The Cinco fucking Cartel.
The drugs I sold were pure. We scored them from a rival we took out a while back. I figured I’d sell them on my own and make some money for the family.
Except the “money” I got from the buyer was a roll of blank pieces of paper with a few hundred-dollar bills over the top, not the million it should have been. I took it and became the world’s biggest gullible asshole.
Again.
My problem. One I need to sort. “Would the Cinco Cartel have arranged the buy since they deal in that part of Queens?”
Maybe even at the truckyard. Those who do business in that spot don’t mind the danger of playing by no-man’s-land rules.
If something’s found there, it’s yours.
If you can get out alive.
But the Murphy family is too big, and we have too many delicately aligned relationships to be messing around in that shithole. If we were caught there, it’d look like we were trying to claim the territory. Which, to everyone else, would mean war.
It’s a lucrative patch of land. Police generally keep away, so it’s easy to do slow or fast business there.
But those who do are always small.
Fucking unwritten rules.
New York is bound by them.
Cinco... Obviously I’ve heard of them, but they weren’t who stiffed me. I went through an intermediary who I thought had ties to a cartel operating in Columbia, but not here.
“O’Shay?” I ask. “Are you fucking with me?”
“I don’t know,” O’Shay says. The music begins fading a bit as he clearly moves somewhere quieter. “The intel I got you was good, Dec. I’m loyal to the Murphys.”
Possibly, although he’s still not a regular on our payroll. We only use him on a freelance basis. But we… I… always considered him a Murphy by proxy.
And maybe he is.
I know better than most how easy it is to screw up, and I also know how plans change.
Or maybe whoever wanted the drugs knew about the conflict going down at the truckyard and switched the time of the exchange to later.
I don’t let O’Shay off the hook, though, because something is still not clicking.
“What’s your contact’s name?” I ask.
He hesitates a split second. “Mario.”
Not a very cartel-sounding name.
The Marcello family truck jumps to mind. But the truck doesn’t mean shit. It could have just ended up there when it died.
He blabbers on about how Mario heard I was out a shipment of pure white snow, one he’d ‘stumbled over’, but I just hang up without another word. I know where to find O’Shay when I need him.
I tuck the name Mario away, alongside the Cinco Cartel. The dead cop and Marlowe I leave out because I’m not sure where they fit into this puzzle yet.
If it was a sting, there wouldn’t be just one cop at the truckyard. That cop had to be acting alone.
And Marlowe...?
The fuck if I know. I listened to her story, I just didn’t buy it.
Gritting my teeth, I call Cal.
“Where the fuck are you, Dec?” he asks, a baby crying somewhere faintly in the background. A door slams and I hear the click of a lighter. “We have a family meeting.”
“Clawzilla’s my proxy.”
“That fucking cat’s sleeping on top of Arnold,” Torin says.
I grin. “One of the others, then. Bruiser?”
“Running around the halls with Raff,” Seamus says about the world’s prettiest dalmatian cat. Well, she only has five black spots on her, but that makes Bruiser a dalmatian cat in my books.
“And before you ask,” Torin adds, “the fucking dog’s doing wheelies with them.”
I fist bump the air. Petal’s wheels make her a speed demon, and honestly, he might just be two, but Raff’s a little chubby and can use the workout.
“Anyway…”
“Enough.” Cal says. “I just need to know where everyone is, make sure all money’s been collected, the right kneecaps broken, and all protections are in place.”
Things fall apart otherwise.
I squirm a little in my seat. Because that’s a truth sitting a little too close to home.
“Just got some loose ends to take care of,” I say to the quiet question from Cal about where I am and what I’m doing.
“Like fucking what?” Seamus asks.
I glare up at Marlowe’s building. I could have driven around the block or found another spot.
The SUV is like every other one in this neighborhood, big, clean, shiny, and black.
It’s not quite eleven, but I’m not opposed to sitting here all night.
I don’t need to be anywhere until tomorrow—in Staten Island, to see a man about a payment he owes.
“Like,” I say, matching his tone, “following through on something.”
The phone goes from speaker to not as Cal’s voice rumbles into my ear. “Do not go chasing those fucking drugs, Dec.”
“It’s my problem.”
“Leave that mess alone.” It’s his “order Declan around” tone. One I’ve known since probably before I was born.
“Cal, I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t act like one,” he mutters. “And get the hell home.”
I’m guessing now’s not the time to ask what he knows about the Cinco Cartel. Or someone named Mario. Or the Marcello truck. Or a dead cop. Or the shootout in Queens. So I do the mature thing.
“What… that?” I say, pretending my call’s dropping out. “... Cal? I… can’t… hello?”
“For fuck’s sake. I’ll make you babysit if you don’t grow up…”
I hang up, then turn off my phone.
I glance at the building again, waiting in the shadows.
Marlowe hasn’t shown up yet, but something tells me she might.
While I sit, I doom scroll for news on the shoot-out.
But all I can find is something about a car crash.
And then I see another post, one on some neighborhood watch about gunshots.
But the person only heard the shots in the distance, along with ambulances.
I frown at that. Surely someone saw something by the truckyard.
But maybe not.
People tend not to want to get involved in that part of New York.
I ditch the phone again and look up with a sigh. There she is, now wearing a dark jacket. Marlowe hurries down the street before hopping into a cab. I start the SUV’s engine and follow the cab.
Marlowe gets out at the Lowline Club.
I follow.
Inside, the club’s dark and loud, so loud my feet vibrate with every step deeper into the place. Electronica beats grinds with hard rock, making the atmosphere oppressive.
I scan the place. Marlowe’s fiery hair makes her easy enough to spot. I let my gaze wander down to the emerald green dress that hugs her in the right places. It shows enough of what I want to taste, but not enough to be distasteful.
Someone bumps into me and I move a little more to the side. Marlowe leans in close to a dark-haired guy covered in tats.
She looks upset. Scared.
Although I can’t make out what they’re saying, I know enough people reading to see it’s not good news. Whatever it is he’s talking about, Marlowe’s upset by it.
The guy reaches out to comfort her, and she pulls away.
Then she heads toward the restrooms in the back.
I start to follow when some lass grabs my hand. “Want to dance?”
“Not interested,” I say, pulling my hand free.