Chapter 7
SEVEN
declan
We have a cousin who is involved in our business. Most of Da’s family are in the business in one way or other.
Roark Murphy’s closer to Cal in age, but I remember him well.
Haven’t seen him since I went home with Lucie that one time, when she needed to heal after she and Cal fell out, and her lug of a husband, my hero and brother, Cal, had to work out what he needed in his life and realized it was her.
He had to figure out how to show her his love and devotion and prove that he was actually worthy of her.
He did that. He’s still doing that.
All my brothers have amazing wives. And my brothers are all working to prove their lasses chose right day after day.
With Ava…she does the same right back to Seamus. I know some crazy shit went down between them, but Seamus needs someone like her to challenge and poke and fight with—and love just as fiercely. And I think she needs someone who’ll have her back always.
I snicker.
My newest sister-in-law definitely got more than she bargained for when she married Seamus. She got the lot of us.
I pull my phone from the backpack and send a text to Roark, fill him in on what I need, and who I’m looking for.
Last I spoke with him, he was setting up a series of pubs in Ireland, England, Germany, here somewhere. All over the place.
All seemingly legit.
And all not what they seem.
He can both disappear someone or find them.
It’s a skill any mafia man needs. When you don’t want your interests in something or someone known, or have them traced back, then Roark’s your man.
They all have their skills, my cousins and their handpicked people, but Roark’s equally a master of finding the disappeared—and disappearing them when necessary.
He charges a crap ton for it, too.
So far Cal’s never needed to call on his services. But we’ve all been in trouble together. Fought for our lives together. Family is family.
I sit on the bench with the double cat backpack that has a small side for Bruiser and a larger space for a disgruntled Clawzilla.
“Look, I know you didn’t get your pound of wild flesh there tonight, or assert your dominance as top cat…”
Arnold looks up at me and whines while Petal sits on her hotrod wheels between his protective paws.
“But,” I say, “between us, you’re cat king of the house. Lola’s a streetwise fighter, though. I wouldn’t pick fights with him.”
My sweat-drenched shirt sticks to me, because as workouts go, this was a big run with a lot of animals.
I had a lot of…energy to work off.
“She’s a pain in the ass, guys,” I say, “but we click. There’s some good hate sex coming, and it’s clear whoever’s been taking care of her has been doing a piss-poor job. The girl’s fucking thirsty for cock.”
I don’t need to like her to want her. If she was with this dickhead Leon, he wasn’t doing it right at all. And Marlowe isn’t a girl who passes herself around.
Of course, this is me we’re talking about. And I’m pretty fucking great. I know how into me she was. And still is.
Hate me all you want, but you’re gonna still lust after me.
The only reason why I didn’t screw her in the club that one time years ago was because I knew she wasn’t experienced.
But now that I’m thinking about fucking her as my fake wife, my cock jerks.
Shit. I push those images to the far corners of my mind.
I don’t want to go on another long-ass run. I pushed myself enough already.
I pick up my phone when it buzzes with a New York area code.
“Declan?” Roark says. “What the fuck are you involved in?”
This is tricky because Cal doesn’t know everything, but to get what I need, I want the best. And that’s Roark.
I outline it all. From the ill-judged drug deal to the Queens truck graveyard and the shoot-out. The dead cop. Heston Briggs’s disappearance. The Cinco Cartel. Someone named Leon.
He listens. Then says one word. “Callahan?”
“Knows some, not all.”
“He doesn’t know about the graveyard, does he? You stupid eejit. Not a place for a Murphy.” Like I don’t know that. “But I’ll check it out. And the gun—”
“I’ll get rid of it.”
“Not yet.” And he laughs. “I might want to check it out.”
“The guy was a cop, the gun was police-issue, and I saw a badge—”
“A cop. By himself. In that shithole?”
Fair question. “You think he might have been something else?”
“I don’t know, Dec. Hold on to the gun. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
I frown. He’s in town. My brothers will want to see him. And Cal, if he doesn’t know already, definitely will want to know—I stop, and what he’s saying hits me. “You can’t go there.”
“I’m a Murphy,” he says, “but I’m not one of the Murphys. Besides, no one will ever know I was there. I’m sure the body’ll be gone, but I’m still intrigued.”
“Tomorrow.” Suddenly I grin. “Hey, Roark, want to come to a fake wedding?”
Lola’s wild yowls wake me from a restless sleep on the sofa in the living room. I almost fall ass first onto the floor, and Bruiser and Clawzilla both hiss as they leap off me.
Lola sits in the doorway, evil yellow eyes blinking. He looks at me, yawns, then turns and stalks off with a swish of his tail.
Christ, I need a drink.
As I head to the kitchen, I almost run into Seamus, who has a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in his hand. His pants are unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.
“My innocent eyes are being burned out by you,” I say. I go to swipe the whiskey but he moves it, and himself, out of my way. “Fine.”
I stomp over to the bottles in the pantry. I don’t know if someone’s cooking with Red Brest, or this is where extra bottles are now being kept, but I grab one, pull off the lid, and take a swallow.
“Why do we have a menagerie in this house?” Seamus asks, leaning on the island. “And unless your fucking little plaything likes to talk like a filthy sailor, why do we have a fucking bird?”
“She’s not—” I glare at my brother. “It’s a job, she’s nothing but a job, and her mother sent all the pets here. We’ll find somewhere to go, okay?”
“We?”
“Marlowe? My job? So yes, we.” He just looks at me, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “As in her and me.”
“I see.”
“No,” I say, taking another swig of liquor, “you don’t.”
“That I do, Dec. You’re up to something, I don’t know what, but I bet it started with those drugs, and is going to end with us all in hot water.”
“Anything that goes on is my issue, not yours.”
He rolls his eyes. “Family, fucking eejit. And you never think things through.”
“What’s your problem?” I ask, irritated because he’s right. But also wrong, too. “Don’t you have a wife to get back to?”
He grins. “That I do, young Declan, that I do.”
“I take risks sometimes,” I mutter. “That’s all.”
“Not with a lass you don’t. Think it through.” He takes off up the stairs on the opposite side of the foyer, into the newer part of our mansion.
Think it through? I am. But sometimes a situation calls for instinct, split-second thoughts.
There’s something else going on here. And I’m not sure what.
But if I do this right, keep Marlowe safe, find the da and catch her stalker, the main reason for this fake marriage, then maybe Cal can find a way to sit down and talk with the Marcello family.
If Cloris knows Milo, her owing me a favor is worth something.
Even if I stole her dog. Temporarily.
The folder of notes and cards are on the coffee table, and I go through them.
Not the ones that Marlowe’s seen. But the ones her mother intercepted.
It seems Cloris likes to micromanage her daughter.
Probably her husband and the company, too.
Which makes it weirder to me she hasn’t tried harder to get him back.
Something might be preventing her. She said she’s tried to find him, but she also said not all debts are money related.
Is she hiding something?
Probably, but I’ll work on that later. Right now, the stalker bothers me, because the notes she kept hidden are creepy as fuck. Things like how he wants to anoint Marlowe, make her his. Carve his name into her.
They go on.
Creepy and threatening and sounding like the workings of a truly fucked-up mind.
It’s the same handwriting as the notes Marlowe has seen.
Sounding like. I come back to that. I buy the line of threat, but the next-level psycho?
A darker thought builds.
What if the missing da, whatever debts Cloris is dealing with, and the threats against Marlowe are all related?
I don’t know. But the sooner I move on this, publicly claim Molly, the safer things will be. The faster events will unfold.
The sooner I find this stalker and flush him out, the sooner I can focus on her father. And then…then I’ll be glad to see her gone.
Very glad.
It’s a wild morning with cats and dogs and a cranky parrot. Raff is, of course, utterly charmed by Pepper.
Lucie is not, as Raff’s now running around squealing some of Pepper’s choicer phrases. Like…
“Show dus your tids!” Raff screams.
“No,” Lucie says, holding the baby who’s staring at me with big, blue eyes, her hair already dark. “We don’t say that, Raffy.”
He skids to a stop in front of his mammy. “Zudus?”
“What the fuck are Zudus?” I mutter.
And then I hear Pepper. “Zulus! Help! Murder!” He stops. “Show us your tits.”
“Oh my,” Harry says, fanning herself as she comes into the living room. “Who is that naughty bird?”
Then everything in me stills.
I know the moment Marlowe enters the room. I don’t say a word as she skirts the edges, making her way to the front door, bag in hand. “Molly.”
She stops. Everyone else is talking, and cats chase dogs, and at the top of the steps both Fiona and Monarch peer down. And I totally fail in feeling guilty over the soft dognapping last night.
Marlowe’s almost vibrating in her focus on me, and everyone and everything melts away. I didn’t speak loud, but she heard me and I nod to the foyer. She has a loaded day of rehearsal, and tonight…it’s gonna be one hell of a night.
I walk to her and open the door. “Shall we?”