Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Cian
I fought to open my eyes through a haze of pain and nausea.
My stomach rolled, and I gagged. Then I slowly cracked my eyes open and blinked into the dim light to assess my surroundings.
I was sitting on the concrete floor of an unfinished basement.
There were no windows, just an old fluorescent strip light dangling from a few precarious wires on the ceiling.
My arms were tied around a support pole at my back, and a strip of cloth was knotted around my head to gag me.
Nearby, two men sat on a ratty old couch, watching TV at a low volume.
And to my right, lying on a bare mattress with his back to me, was Devlin’s motionless form. My heart seized in my chest.
I must have moved my legs or made a sound, because one of the men suddenly looked up and smacked the other. “O'Shea’s awake.”
The smaller of the two men rose from the couch and walked toward me, coming to a stop directly under the fluorescent light.
A chill washed over me when I immediately recognized him—Mick Saltner, Devlin’s former manager for his East Coast operations.
I’d met him a few times, but we had never been formally introduced.
He wore an old pair of boots, faded jeans, and a leather jacket over a T-shirt.
He moved carefully, and I spotted a gun tucked into his waistband.
He stood close to me, but not too close, and stuck his hands into his jacket pockets as he studied me.
I had always thought of Mick as intelligent.
Shrewd. He’d always made us feel like he was doing us a favor.
I’d never liked him. But then again, I never liked anyone in this business.
The other man I didn’t recognize. He was much bigger, and he lumbered toward me with a mean glint in his eyes that let me know he used his size to intimidate.
He tried to step past the smaller man, but he put his hand up to stop him. “Hold on.”
“Let me pound on him.”
“That’s not your call or your job.”
I glared, but I felt like an idiot with my mouth gagged. My chest was on fire, and every muscle in my body ached like I’d tumbled in a dryer.
“I remember you.” Mick stroked the stubble on his chin. “Didn’t know you were O'Shea’s kid. How’re things going without the old man?”
A groan sounded from my right, and I whipped my head around to see Devlin twitching. Without another glance in my direction, Mick went to crouch at Devlin’s side. I immediately began to test the bindings around my wrists. If he hurt Dev…
“Hey, Walsh.” He placed hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “You good?”
What the hell? The difference in our treatments was obvious.
Devlin groaned. Rolled onto his back. Then he spoke in a gravelly voice. “Mick?”
“Yeah, boss. It’s me.” Mick had his back to me, but I could hear the grin in his voice. Motherfucker.
Devlin sat up quickly, and his gaze ping-ponged around the basement until he made eye contact with me. I couldn’t say anything with the gag in my mouth, but he could clearly see the predicament I was in. He’d tell Mick to untie me any second now, and then I’d kill these assholes—
Devlin’s gaze skittered away from me with barely a flicker of recognition, and I felt like my chest had caved in.
He looked at Mick, expression carefully controlled. “What’s going on?”
Mick sat beside him on the mattress. “Can’t believe you’re alive.
We all thought Soto killed you and dumped you in the river.
” Devlin’s jaw ticked. “But then the Russos told us they saw you at that warehouse during the hit on the O'Shea boss. We can get everything back now. I mean, it’ll take a while. But you did it before, and you can do it again.”
Devlin’s stare was so chilly, a shiver traveled down my spine.
Mick must have felt it too. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, and his fingers trembled.
“So it’s easy, really. Paolo Bianchi wants him.
” He pointed to me. “So we bring him in together. Once Paolo sees you’re loyal to him, and with your reputation, he’ll give you a small crew right away.
We work for him for a while, and eventually, we push him out like we did back in Detroit.
I know the East Coast, and you know how to do business.
It’s a win-win for both of us.” He talked some more, stumbling his way through apologies and excuses for why he had no choice but to flee Detroit when everything went south.
Apparently, he’d hooked up with some of his East Coast contacts and found a place on Bianchi’s crew.
“But I’m not family, or Italian. He barely trusts me, so I’ll never get far.
” He gestured to the big guy who still stood over me.
“Remember Ryan? He took bets at your fights.”
Devlin didn’t spare Ryan one glance. He rose to his feet, Mick beside him, and he swayed a moment, looking pale, so he had to brace himself on the other man’s arm. I was going to rip Mick’s arm clean off once I was untied.
Devlin frowned. “You had to taser and drug me?”
“We didn’t want to take any chances. O'Shea is huge, and it was easier to take out both of you. Why were you running with him anyway? He’s low level.”
I didn’t care about the insult. He wasn’t wrong. But I did care about Devlin’s response, which was to ignore the question. “So what’s the plan?”
My heart rate sped up, and I curled my hands into fists behind the pole. My stomach rolled, and for a terrible moment, I thought I’d throw up, only to choke on my own vomit because I was gagged.
Look at me, I wanted to yell. Look at me, Dev.
But he turned his back to me completely and walked alongside Mick to a table near the couch as Mick kept talking.
“We take O'Shea to Paolo. He’ll probably ask you to pledge your loyalty to him, but delivering O'Shea at his feet will go a long way. You’re good at lying. He’ll bring you in, and we’ll start our plan.
Might be a five-year plan. Or a ten-year plan. That’s up to you, boss.”
“What does he want with him?” Devlin didn’t even say my name, just jerked his thumb over his shoulder at me.
“He wanted him dead on a clean hit. But then Paolo heard about what happened with the Russos, and he thinks O'Shea’s behind it. So he has some… questions.” He said questions with a smirk that meant I’d probably be losing some teeth and a few fingers.
A few knives and handguns lay on the table—a buffet of weapons. All Devlin had to do was grab a gun. I’d seen his aim. He’d drop both these losers in under ten seconds. Instead, he picked up a slim knife and slipped it into the side of his high-top sneaker. “How far away are we?”
Mick was nearly vibrating with happiness. “You’re in, right?”
Devlin straightened from hiding the knife in his sneaker and stared at Mick with dead eyes. “I’m in.”
I was definitely going to throw up. Did Devlin have amnesia?
Could a taser and some chloroform give him memory loss?
Because this was insane. Twelve hours ago, he was telling me he’d never leave my side.
He’d told me that I made him happy. He’d admitted he was mine.
He’d made the orca and the shark kiss, complete with smooching sounds.
As he stood in this filthy basement, he still wore that stupid fucking yellow shirt that read Feeling Fin-Tastic.
He still had my cum inside of him, for fuck’s sake, because I’d woken him up this morning with my dick plugging his hole.
My breath sawed out through the gag. My heartbeat thundered in my ears so loudly, that I could barely hear them talking.
Panic. I was having a panic attack, and I couldn’t have a panic attack right now.
I couldn’t afford to. I forced myself to breathe deeply, and I clung to what I knew was true.
And what I knew, despite whatever was happening in this godforsaken basement, was that Devlin was mine. And I was his.
I’m yours, Cian.
You can’t take this away, Cian.
I won’t let go either.
I forced myself to stay calm. I counted down from ten, then started all over again.
I watched as Devlin tucked a gun into his waistband and another knife in his pocket.
I didn’t know what he was doing, but I had to trust him.
The alternative would shatter my heart. Whatever Bianchi did to me would pale in comparison to the pain of Devlin’s betrayal.
I had to trust the words he’d said to me, the feel of his tongue on my palm as he’d eaten from my hands, and the tightness of his arms as he clung to me in his sleep.
If I was wrong, and he planned to step on me to get back on his criminal throne, then shame on me. Shame on fucking me. And I deserved whatever happened next for being so damn stupid.
Devlin turned to Mick, his gaze never finding mine, even when I tried to search it out. “Can we leave now?”
Mick scratched the back of his head. “I mean. Yeah, sure. Do you wanna change or…?” He gestured to Devlin’s ridiculous shirt.
Dev stared right at Mick, but his hand came up and his fingers brushed across the printed cartoon shark.
His eyes flickered, just once, nearly imperceptible to anyone else.
But I caught it. For a half second, I saw the Devlin from the beach, the one who couldn’t swim, ate half a pizza, and wanted to feed the seagulls. My heart thudded.
And then he was gone, and the Detroit Devil was back. He looked at Mick and said, “No need. I’m ready to get my future back on track.”
I want the mundane shit with you.
I could really go for some mundane right about now.
Devlin
I couldn’t look at him.
If I did, this would be all over. I’d have a bullet in Mick’s brain and another in Ryan’s before either of them knew who killed them.