Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
TALLY
I spent a lot of time after St. Patrick’s Day in my suite at the hotel.
Only part of that was because of what happened that night.
Spending the time I did with them was good for my soul, though I suspect most psychologists would argue the case.
Either way, after a few days sleeping, only eating in, and reminiscing their every touch, I was ready to explore the sights of Genoa.
Which is how I spent the rest of the time there.
Genoa’s popularity with tourists meant I could blend in with the crowds.
The likelihood of running into anyone from London was pretty low.
If I chose Ibiza as the destination for my holiday, it might be a different story, but I was safe in north-western Italy.
Although, meeting those two Alphas here, of all places, kind of blew my theory out of the water.
I let my guard down, for a few hours, then hid away for the rest of the time.
Arriving in Ireland, I was well rested and ready for my next assignment.
The meetup with my contact was uneventful, but that’s how those moments are meant to be.
It’s supposed to take no time at all and appear like two strangers meeting.
Our interactions with each other will stay like that, unless the shit hits the fan and I need backup or rescuing.
I did the meet-and-greet with my new contact at the ferry terminal before I said goodbye to Joe.
The dossier he left behind gave me all I needed, a photo and a rundown of safe houses in the area.
Once I had his contact details, and the faces in the photo, committed to memory, I shredded the contents of the envelope, leaving the rubbish in different trash cans in and around the ferry terminal.
My target—four men involved in the Irish Mafia.
All of them are up-and-coming figures in the underworld, each of them involved in some form of extortion and racketeering, drug running, and the murders of several key players.
My job is to gather enough evidence to bring them down, using whatever means possible.
After a teary goodbye with Joe, I distracted myself on the ride over to Dublin with applying for work, waitressing and bar work, mainly.
By the time I found a room and booked it through Airbnb, I’d also managed to get two trial shifts set up for waitressing.
I chose the one at the bar—The Shamrock—and declined the one at a posh restaurant.
Getting from the ferry terminal to my Airbnb was uneventful, as was dinner. I went to bed, not excited, but happy with what I’d done.
I had a plan of how my first morning with my new possible job would go.
At no point did my plan start with me sleeping through my alarm, something I haven’t done for a very long time because I always sleep with it plugged into the wall socket next to me.
Given the very sporadic nature of my job, it’s not unusual to be woken up at any hour during the day or night.
So, when the alarm eventually registers and I have to search through the house to find my phone in the kitchen and not where I left it.
Something isn’t adding up. I do a full sweep of the house, and my mood hadn’t improved because it’s pretty clear someone was here last night, while I was sleeping.
I send a message to the “host,” asking them to give me a call.
The apartment stinks of my frustration and rising stress.
I hate not having answers but figuring what’s going on is going to have to wait unless I want to be late for my first day.
Walking into The Shamrock with a takeout chai latte, I’m relieved I’m not late. I sit at the bar until the manager shows up. It doesn’t take too long for him to come barging in.
Walsh is an Alpha with a wide smile that instantly puts me on edge. His unpleasant scent backs up my first impression, inadvertently also confirming I made the right choice in accepting this job, because he’s exactly the type of shady mofo I need right now.
He obviously knows who I am, his eyes locking my way as soon as he walks through the door, and he booms out, “Madainn mhath.”
His accent is so thick, I honestly have no hope of understanding what he’s saying.
I must look like a deer in the headlights, because he throws his head back and laughs. For way too long, all but confirming the type of person he is.
“Shite, lass, you should see your face.” He speaks without putting on his accent or speaking in Ulster Irish, making it a lot easier to understand.
I stare him down while I walk towards him, only making him laugh harder. “I didn’t realize I needed to speak Irish.”
He half stops laughing. “Codding ya. But it will effing help. You know every person’s going to say something similar, right?”
The small smile on my face is a sufficient response, but I still answer, using my own natural, equally odd accent to garble my words. “Yeah, I get that. But trust me, I think it’s going to be you asking me to repeat myself.”
His eyes flare wide before he belts out another laugh. “What’s the story there?” He nods his head, waving me through the kitchen door and into the staff-only area.
Not in a derogatory way, I slow my speech down and drop the tried-on accent as I reply.
“My unique accent is a byproduct of growing up in Australia, America, and England. Throw in a summer or two in Europe, and the result is way too many tangs, oi’s and rolling r’s.
Supposedly, it makes it hard for some people to get what I’m saying too. But we’ll get there.”
“Ack, we will. Right, come on.” He steps to the side, his arm pointing which way we’re going.
We walk side by side, and he gives me a quick rundown on where all the important things are—the cellar, staff toilets, cleaning closet, while telling me how he likes to manage his staff.
Then he takes a seat at the bar and makes me work the morning and lunch shift without running down anything about the actual job. In fairness, though, I did say I was experienced.
Like he warned, the pub is busy. I work with two others behind the bar, pulling pints, until my arm aches. I make polite conversation with anyone that asks, but it’s also one of those establishments wary of newcomers.
At the end of the shift, Walsh slides over a piece of paper with the hours he wants me to work for the next week.
Walking out into a light drizzle, the misting rain follows me home, along with the unwanted attention of someone. Certainly, when you walk into a new city, and one “owned” by criminals, you expect to fall onto a radar of sorts. Which is all that’s going on now.
Hoping they’ll lose interest, I take my time by grabbing some groceries and then racing across the road to a bookshop where I waste an exorbitant amount of time. Although, you never really waste time inside a bookshop.
After more crisscrossing from one shop to the other, I order takeout before asking to use the back entrance of the noodle shop. Slipping out the alley, I backtrack and wait a few extra minutes to make sure I lost them before heading to my accommodation.
Letting myself into my rental, I feel ready for food, shower, and sleep, but my plans get waylaid when I come face-to-face with a black crystal vase with a single red rose in it and a handwritten note propped against it . Sorry I missed you .
“Are you serious?”
Leaving all my bags on the counter, I’m dialing my host’s phone while I search through the rooms again.
The call goes through to message bank. “So, thanks for dropping by, but next time, don’t let yourself in.
I want to change the access code. I’m not comfortable with you being in my space uninvited.
It’s beyond creepy. It’s inappropriate, at best.”
I hang up before I give myself the opportunity to say how I really feel. Picking up the expensive-looking vase holding the flower, I open the front door and leave it on the doorstep. Shutting the door coincides with a text coming in, from my landlord.
“Couldn’t take my call. Gutless arsehole,” I gripe, before going back out into the night and following the instructions on how to change the PIN code on the electronic lock.
It calms some of my mood. Not by much, though.
After a steaming hot shower, I climb into bed and watch puppy reels while I eat my Chinese takeout. And as my final fuck you to the world, I leave my bowl on the side of my bed to take into the kitchen in the morning.
My brain takes a while to switch off, and there’s a moment when I startle, bolting upright in bed to triple-check where my phone is after last night's escapades. Leaving it on the floor but close enough to grab when my alarm goes off, I roll over onto my side and don’t move a muscle.
When I wake up, I’m alone, and I reach down to my phone, half triumphant to find it exactly where I left it. Turning the alarm off, I flick on the small lamp next to my bed, getting ready to check my socials, but the first thing I notice is my bowl is gone.
I go from half awake to demon rage in the next beat. Palming my service revolver, I burn through every room in the house again, hoping to find my intruder, before ending up back in the kitchen, where the fucking black crystal vase and rose are back with the note propped against it like before.
I don’t even recall walking back into my room to grab my phone or even dial the number. “Look, arsehole, I’m not doing this.”
I hang up, coming back to my senses once the rage dissipates. I pack all my belongings, leaving the front door wide open when I leave. The Uber I ordered comes quickly, and I’m at the pub with my bag parked next to my locker in the staff room before Walsh makes it in.