Chapter 8
Denver
Ten hours and two missed calls from Ranger later, I’m settled into a hotel in New York.
The Rosalia is one of my favorite places to stay.
It’s small, less than fifty rooms, a moody, almost creepy vibe to it, with dark, elaborate wallpaper and carpets.
Lewis also thinks it’s haunted, so it’s fun to watch his eyes widen at every late-night creak.
I spent the entire flight agonizing over my conversation with Ranger.
Despite the pretty and powerful words he used to get me to marry him, the reality is obviously far fucking different.
But instead of talking to me, he stole from me, like he always does.
I thought we were getting better, but maybe hope shielded me from the truth.
Ranger and I will always be toxic in some way, because he won’t change enough to allow anything else.
“So, where are we eating first?” Lewis asks as he slumps onto the burnt orange velvet sofa. “Do I need a better suit than this?”
“I’m actually a little tired. I might order room service and take a bath.”
Lewis tilts his head, examining my face, and I know he wants to ask me more about the conversation with Ranger. But he also knows if I wanted to talk about it, I would.
He stands and gives me a side-on hug. “I’m here when you need me.”
Lewis leaves, and once the first tear has fallen, they don’t stop until I’m in the tub.
Surrounded by bubbles and quiet, I think about all I’ve sacrificed for Ranger.
I think about the endless fights, the lies, the manipulation.
I think about our dance on our wedding day, when he promised not to fuck this up.
We’re not even a year in, and he’s already lying to me again.
Suddenly, I’m suffocating. Trapped. I’m not home, and I’m so alone, and I want to escape.
I climb from the bath, dress quickly, and don’t bother telling Lewis I’m going out. Once I’m on the sidewalk, I take in deep breaths, the tears cooling on my face as I wrap my coat tighter and walk.
The sights, sounds, and smells of a city engulf me. It’s so different here to home. Busier, louder, far colder.
This is where my parents grew up. I wonder where their homes were.
I wonder how they met. My mother was Cara Gallagher, the daughter of the head of one of the smaller Irish families in the city.
My father was Nico DeLuca, a ruthless, powerful man who met her and fell in love.
Maybe they walked where I am now. Maybe they fell in love when the leaves turned, when the summer danced into fall, on this exact sidewalk.
I stop in a square, skyscrapers to my right, traffic to my left, and I close my eyes. I imagine them here, happy, and the knot in my chest eases, even though I know that toward the end, my mom wasn’t happy, and my dad made mistakes.
When I open my eyes again, I freeze in place as a man steps out of a store. A man I know.
Colt Harland is right in front of me.
I blink a few times, wondering if my jet lag is messing with my vision.
I’ve walked so many cities since Wilder killed Ethan and hoped beyond hope that fate would throw me a fucking bone and I’d bump into a Harland brother.
Now it’s happened, and my hand is itching to dip into my coat, to the gun tucked into my jeans, but I don’t.
Because he’s holding a little girl.
She’s about five or six and is sleeping, her cheeks flushed, dark hair in plaited braids down her pink coat. One of his arms is holding her up as she sleeps on his chest, his other hand slowly rubbing her back.
Is Colt a father?
Someone bumps into me and I mumble an apology, still focused on my rival.
I’m being forced to see him in a new light, a light I can’t look away from.
An older woman has joined him, her dark hair tinged with silver, maybe his mom.
She’s smiling softly at the child, and she opens the door to the town car parked in front of them.
She gets in, and Colt leans down, settling the girl into the back seat.
He closes the door, watching the car drive away until it turns at a light and disappears from view.
There’s maybe twenty feet between us. This man who I’ve searched for, scraped the internet to find, wandered the streets to bump into.
The last sighting of him was apparently almost a decade ago—except for backdoor deals made with men so powerful I couldn’t even get close enough to ask for his description.
Not that they’d give it. Anyone who met Colt in person never spoke a word about his appearance, and over my months of searching, it became clear why.
They respect him. The older bosses like him because he follows tradition, and the younger ones do because he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
He’s a new generation of gangster, making waves where he needs to without overly disrupting the men too set in their ways.
He doesn’t soak his hands in blood. He dips them when needed.
I used to think he was hiding. Now, I know the shadows protected him. Empowered him. Made him the man he is today—a ghost. The Ghost.
But right now, he’s a dad who just said goodbye to his sleeping daughter, and he’s standing in the street without a care in the world.
He closes his eyes and tips his head back, his shoulders rising as he breathes in and releases the oxygen from his lungs, a burst of fog erupting from his parted lips.
It’s oddly … picturesque. His handsome features are totally relaxed, a monster among mist, a killer pausing to absorb a few moments of peace. It feels like the seconds between a tiger spotting its kill and leaping forth, and I’m strangely honored to be here. It’s a feeling I don’t quite understand.
He turns and walks away.
I follow.
His head is down, and I think he’s texting as he takes confident strides to wherever he’s going. While people seem to part to allow him through, they bump into me, and I mumble several apologies as I weave in and out of the crowds that seem to have doubled since we started moving.
Why am I following him? I can’t kill him in public.
Can I even kill him at all, knowing he’s a dad?
Does his parental status even matter? My goal has never been to hurt Colt.
Use him to get to Wilder? Absolutely. Kill him if he gets in my way?
If necessary. But I’ve never wanted to take Colt’s life without reason.
He’s not the guilty one; his brother is.
But still, I follow, pausing once I see him go into a restaurant. It’s a nice place, and through the windows I watch him being led to a booth at the back of the room. Alone.
I look down at my jeans, sneakers, gray hoody and dark jacket. There’s no way they’ll let me in looking like this, but I’m not going home to change and risk him leaving.
The waitress at the front of the restaurant smiles brightly when she sees me, but it falters somewhat when she observes what I’m wearing.
“Reservation?” she asks, clearly hoping I’ll say no.
“No, but I’m gonna level with you.” I step close. “My boyfriend just came in here, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to meet another woman. I just want to sit in the back and try to catch the prick before I go home, take the dog, and leave him.”
Her green eyes light up. “I’ve got you.” She spins the computer screen around to show me the list of reservations. This is remarkably easier than in the movies. And a huge security violation, but it works in my favor, so I’ll let it slide. “Point the fucker out.”
I almost laugh but focus on the names instead. Harland, party of four.
“Him,” I say, pointing at the name.
“Party of four? Is this prick double dating with this woman, too? Not on my fucking watch.” Her name badge says Sandy, and I’m going to give her all the cash in my wallet for being so invested so fast. “Come with me.”
I follow her closely as she walks me through the restaurant. Colt is on his phone, still alone in the booth.
Who is he meeting? Wilder? And who else? And if Wilder sits at that table, what exactly is my plan? Kill him right here? Colt would step in and probably die, too.
“Here.” Sandy places a menu down at a small table by the kitchen. I can just about see into Colt’s booth, his long fingers tapping on the table as he reads his phone. When he looks up and nods at the door, I almost sprain my neck to see who he’s looking at.
Holy fuck, it’s Finn McEwan.
The unofficial King of New York just walked into this restaurant.
He’s tall, cut seemingly from stone, a broad, domineering man even from a distance.
His dark hair is peppered with gray, and he strides through the restaurant, pointing at the far side of the room to a man.
Finn nods at the door, and the man goes to stand at it.
His security was already here, and I didn’t even notice.
“Hello, sir,” Sandy purrs, half leaning close to me. “If your boyfriend is cheating with him, I get it.”
I stare, open mouthed, as Colt stands to greet Finn. I expect a handshake, a cursory nod, but they hug. Finn says something that makes Colt laugh, and they sit on opposite sides of the booth.
The heads of the two most powerful families in New York having dinner out in the open. This is not how we do things back home.
And how close is Colt to the McEwans to be having this kind of open friendship? Hugging in public? What the fuck is going on? Didn’t Wilder burn McEwan routes last year? How are they even still on speaking terms, let alone eating together?
“I’m gonna get the gossip,” Sandy whispers.
“Wait, Sandy—”
She’s already making her way over and gives me a subtle thumbs up as she approaches the booth. She hisses something at another waitress, I assume stealing the table for herself.
Sandy beams prettily and, judging by her body language, talks to Finn and Colt like she’s known them for years. Finn is glancing at the menu, but something Sandy says makes him smile, and he lifts his gaze to her.