Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
TALLY
W hoever thought of having a VIP-exclusive area at an event where people in the criminal underworld are invited needs to have their head examined.
I could have told them the concept was doomed to fail from the start, considering criminals aren’t known for being humble.
In fact, I did. Walsh listened, then laughed in my face.
I’m not a bitch enough to laugh at him to prove a point, but I should, considering I made a point of warning him. I’d barely polished the glasses and shuffled the cheap liquor out of view before the security guard manning the entry to the VIP section was shot dead for refusing an Alpha entry.
At least the organizers were sensible enough to bust a nut, working as fast as they could to get rid of the body and the golden ropes designating the VIP area.
The floors were scrubbed clean while another group of workers pushed the VIP lounges into the rest of the room, opening up the space.
A few other adjustments were made, so by the time the warehouse was half full, you wouldn’t know blood had been spilt earlier.
The death of the security guard sits like a weight on my shoulders. I could literally smell his blood in the air, and even though I did what I could to preempt it from happening, I still feel shit about it. Although, I think I’m the only one. Everyone else acts like it never happened.
“Tally, you ’right? You need a hand or a break?” Walsh stands behind me, talking quietly as I pour a round of Guinness.
He’s been overly attentive ever since the guard incident. Probably worried I’d run off, like one of the other girls nearly did.
“If I can go to the loo soon, I’ll be fine for the rest of the night.”
Walsh answers by taking the order of the next person in line. I’m back to serving drinks within minutes.
He stays to help until there’s no one waiting to be served.
Instead of leaving, he does a slow sweep, making sure no one is watching before he digs something out of his pocket.
He has the good grace to show me the baggy of white powder he retrieves.
His beady eyes do another check before he turns into one of the corners, piles up a sizable hit on the back of his hand, and snorts it away.
I get busy unpacking the portable dishwasher. Walsh can do whatever he wants. Every time I turn a blind eye, it only gives him more reason to trust me. Not that I’m expecting big things from him. At the same time, men like him always slip up and spill things they shouldn’t.
While a lot of my focus is on him, for obvious reasons, there are also things happening behind me. The air gets heavy like it does before a thunderstorm, and the room quiets.
Walsh takes another big step, and I’m forced to move out of the bar area to avoid him. When his eyes move off me for a split second, he does the most obvious one-eighty I’ve seen a person accomplish. He rushes past me, straightening his clothes out and running his hand over his hair along the way.
With him away, I slide back into the safety of the bar, and like every other person in the warehouse, I watch the newcomers arrive.
I know enough of the players to be able to identify a few from the group that just walked in.
Being here tonight, in this crowd, is what I’ve been waiting for.
These men are all “foot soldiers,” not responsible for much besides clout, and most definitely not the ones who make decisions, but they bring a dangerous edge to the event.
Considering the party is being hosted on the opposite side of the river well, and further from O’Connor heartland, it’s an easy assumption that the majority of people attending would be aligned to the Kelly gang.
It’s interesting to watch the guests already here moving towards them like they’re desperate for a second of their attention.
But some people are always drawn to danger, like moths to a flame.
Women want to tame the bad boys; men aspire to be them.
And the newest arrivals love the attention, judging by the swell of laughter and conversation.
The music gets turned back on, and the stage fills with naked women dancing.
Around the gyrating women, stage hands carry in equipment while a large screen lowers at the back of the stage.
Before the first song is finished, and the dance done, the screen displays a clip of the next lot of items included in an auction, which explains why we’re here.
In the real world, the collection would have people horrified, but this isn’t the real world, so as the clip of cars, weapons, women, and jewelry plays like a music video in the background, the crowd cheers.
My bar area is empty, and the lull in customers waiting for a drink is an opportunity waiting to happen.
Grabbing a tray, I weave through the groups of men, picking up empty glasses and bottles.
On my first few trips, I pick up only small talk.
After serving a couple of customers, I take another walk around the room, and it coincides with the emcee starting the auction.
He does a sales pitch, which is probably quite different to the way Sotheby’s does theirs. He gives this crowd what they’re after, though—a rundown on how much time has passed since the item was stolen, where it was taken from, and the estimated street value.
The bidding for a Kawasaki Ninja superbike is fast and furious, and it’s the only lot that piques my interest. Clearly, there’s an untapped market for stolen Porsches, because they also sell quickly.
It’s almost amusing the way the energy of the crowd dips as the auctioneer introduces the artwork being offered.
Only one person bids on two bronze statues, snapping them up at a bargain price.
I would have, too, if I was into possessing stolen goods, but they’re clearly the most valuable offering so far.
When the auction moves on to stolen jewelry, it’s like being at the races as an electrifying buzz settles over the crowd.
Getting bored watching them hustle over cheap diamonds and gold, I grab my tray again and go deeper into the crowd, hoping to hear something, anything.
This time, I overhear talk of who the people being held in the back are, people loyal to the O’Connors.
It sounds like they’re not even involved in the mafia world, which is wrong on so many levels.
I clean another table, and the group of men with loose lips keep spilling secrets.
In addition to it being nothing more than a spiteful gesture—killing innocent people, I mean—I also overhear there’s a small child included.
I miss if she’s meant to be sold or killed off, because the group drops that pertinent piece of information before they start catcalling and laughing about a Kelly’s ex being up as a lot tonight.
Although I was only meant to be gathering intel, as soon as I saw the people being held in the back room, a plan started formulating. Hearing a tiny bit more about the people only confirms I need to do something.
The emcee announces a break, and the dancers from earlier return to the stage. Instead of a dance routine, they sit on the stage in pairs or groups of threes and entertain the crowd in the different ways they can, using their bodies.
There’s a rush of people wanting drinks, so my idea of slipping out to the back while everyone was watching the live sex show gets tanked. But with each person I serve, I see firsthand how many guests are also off their faces, under the influence of whatever party drug is being shared around.
I turn a blind eye to the egos and shitty attitudes and the open drug taking.
Why anyone would let themselves lose their full wits here tonight blows my mind, but they do.
Walsh included, though he was wasted the last time I saw him.
Now he’s messy, and his eyes are locked on me like I’m a prize he’s been waiting for.
It’s either stay in here or run. I don’t like the thought of running, considering the crowd. It’s likely to appeal to their primal urges. Being protected by the bar area is my only option.
I make it blatantly obvious I don’t want Walsh anywhere near me by shooing him off like a pesky fly. The stupid git is high off his head and is incapable of reading my disinterest. He picks up speed as he dodges people, and I haul arse, shuffling boxes of spirit bottles to form a wall.
There’s still plenty of time for me to grab a few more, but coming in hotter than Walsh on drugs is something else entirely unexpected. So much so that I start heaving. Air rushes past my lips in a loud whoosh like I’ve had a punch to the chest.
The first hit comes from dark chocolate with a twist or two of freshly cracked pepper. Strange combination, but it works wonders together. I get caught up in the moment completely, shutting my eyes and tasting the air.
That scent by itself should be outlawed, but surrounding it is another equally criminally enticing scent. It’s as sweet and definable as chocolate and pepper—cinnamon and sugar. Exactly like the first scent combination, this one has my mouth falling open, desperate for a taste of the sweetness.
The last scent is so much fainter. But perhaps because I already know who owns it, and he’s been haunting me ever since I got a sniff, the lemon verbena isn’t subtle like a Beta’s scent usually is. Honestly, his perfume is so obvious, it’s as though Tynan has his neck pressed up to my face.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. My personal dessert menu just arrived, and instantly, I’m panting like a bitch in heat.
Walsh gets temporarily forgotten as I swing around, wildly searching for the reason I’m so giddy and out of sorts.
Oh my god.
It’s the Genoa Alphas and the Beta I jacked off with.
They better not be together; there’s no way any panties on earth could hold how slick that would make me.
Now that I’m not sloshed on Jameson, not only are the Genoa Alphas’ scents like cupid arrows for my Omega to catch, they’re also really, really, really fucking good-looking. Obnoxiously so.
They aren’t here for fun, despite the cheeky grins I get from each of them. The Alpha who threw me over his shoulder in Genoa winks at me, then his whole demeanor changes as he turns back to the crowd.
They don’t say a word as they walk through the attendees, firing off shots, targeting several people.
In a few seconds, they bring a whole new kind of chaos to the night. And maybe my life.
I do what every other person does—run.
Although, I take a handful of steps before I realize I left the money in the till. It’s not about the actual dollars; it’s about proving my loyalty to Walsh. Using an empty box, I unload the till into it before closing it up as best I can while I race away.
Behind me, people are screaming. There’s the occasional shot going off and lots of yelling. I don’t need to turn around to watch to know people are dying.
The back part of the warehouse is practically deserted. I don’t even pass any security guards. They’ve either done a runner, like me, or they’re chasing the action. The room with the bound people is exactly how it was when I saw it the first time I walked through.
Dragging the heaviest thing I can find, I block the door and then jam the old lock, hopefully giving myself enough time to help these people and get out of here. And while I am not saying the people being held in the room are truly innocent, I also think they deserve a fighting chance.
Whoever left them in here didn’t check what was left behind or what could be used for tools. I find a gold mine on the workbench. The scissors are rusted and basically useless, but they come apart after a few tries, giving me two blades.
“Stay down.” I squat behind the first person I choose, who is my only concern, if I’m honest.
Going off the scent of her fear alone, the girl is younger than I first assumed. Cutting her hands free, I drop my hands onto her shoulders. “Stay there. I’m going to free the others, and then we’ll go together.”
Her broken little sob comes out like a pained squeak. She tries to stop from making a noise.
“Stay as quiet as you can. I’m still here,” I whisper against her ear.
The other people are quiet, not moving or drawing attention to themselves. I bypass the ex-wife in her expensive dress. I’ll free her last, in case she’s still loyal to her ex, because sometimes that’s how it goes. I won’t take the risk of freeing her before the others because of it.
“Don’t move too much,” I offer quietly to the person next to me, but talk loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m going to cut you free, but leave the bag on your head.”
They stay still, and then I do the same to the next, until I’ve worked through the room. “You need to run. Let me take the girl first.” I speak to the room, appealing to their compassion, and everyone but the ex does what I ask.
She starts to pull the bag off her head at the same time she’s screaming for help. It only confirms what a crappy person she is by being so selfish. I dart forward and punch her once, catching her slumping form and leaving her lying on the floor.
“On my signal, count to ten, then take off the bags and hustle. Everything is happening out the front, but I don’t know what waits out these doors.”
I get a handful of whispered thanks. Scooping up the money box from the ground, I pull off the bag over the little girl's head. Bright red curls spill out, and she’s pushing them out of her face, but I grab her hand and put my finger on my lips, telling her to be quiet.
There’s lots of noise coming from the main room again.
I signal for her to stand up, and then I turn so she can climb onto my back, piggyback style.
I doubt she’d be able to run, considering how long she’s been on the cold concrete.
She gets the idea straight away, her arms tightening around my neck, her legs around my waist. I hand her the money box for her to hold as we take off.
She’s trying to be as quiet as possible, but every now and then, I hear her breathing hitch as she tries to not burst into tears.
We edge closer to the door, and I whisper back for the others to start counting.
“Shut your eyes,” I snap at the last minute to the girl I’m carrying, as I remember all the cute pets in the next room. I don’t have time to free them—I wish I did—but we need to go, and we need to go now.