Chapter 2
AOIFE
What was he doing here? Finn ran out last night on an errand for Lizzy, and he’s slow, but not that slow. When she’d reported he hadn’t been back last night or this morning, I went about calling him. He didn’t answer. Finn always answers.
Finn’s been with the mob for over twenty years.
Started as a young novice wanting to prove himself to my father and grew into one of the most loyal mob men you’ll ever meet.
I worried when my father and Summer decided to travel around Europe for a few years that he’d retire—perhaps settle down, get married, and have those adorable Irish babies he’s always talked about.
Pretty sure Finn was the most vocal about my parents choosing not to have more kids.
But when my father told him that the legacy was mine to claim, he stayed and devoted himself to serving the O’Donnell lineage for years to come. Until … God, Finn.
I shrug off the detective’s arm guiding me away from the body and … his head, and I look behind me. Who killed him? Because hell, when I find out, their ass is mine. And I’ll repay every favor they bestowed on him in his death. I won’t wallow in grief, but I will count their days.
The other detective hangs in the background, his black hair tousled in uneven directions across his head.
Heavy bags line under his gray eyes as he stares off in the distance across the trail.
He looks lost in thought, but when he senses me staring, his gaze snaps to mine, and his jaw hardens as his hand pats his coat pocket.
Both detectives wear suits, badges hung low at their hips, but while the one ushering me back buzzes with energy, the stoic bear of a man behind him looks worn down.
“I want answers.” I turn to the detective holding me.
He presses both lips together, nodding. “Up here, please, Miss O’Donnell.”
“It’s Aoife.”
He smiles, exposing two crooked bottom teeth. “This way, Aoife. We’ll take your statement by the vehicles.”
I follow him, looking behind me once more to see the ME team zipping up a black body bag.
More tears drip down my cheeks, their warmth tingling on my windblown cheeks.
The other detective trudges up the bank toward us, and by the time we reach the cluster of police cars and unmarked sedan, I turn to watch him.
Asshole is moving too slow.
I cross my arms, angry and murderous. Poor choice of words, Aoife, I imagine Summer saying.
Though she’d be equally infuriated by Finn’s death—they shared a bond like brother and sister.
How am I supposed to tell her this? Or my father?
They’ll come home immediately, and I have no answers for them yet.
He’ll want them. He didn’t leave me in charge to lose mob members, to lose family. Shit.
I sort it out in my mind. I’ll wait until I have a clear direction, or answers. Plus, I’m the leader of the mob. He gave it to me, and it’s been years. I can make this call, right? My choice, my terms.
He’ll know. As soon as he and Summer call for our weekly family chat, he’ll know.
If I keep my voice steady, if I distract him—I huff out a breath, uncrossing my arms—the doubt creeps in. Believing I could speak to my father, who knows me better than anyone, and get away without telling him about Finn’s death is a fool’s errand. Wait—do they say that anymore? Whatever.
The detective next to me places a hand on my back and rubs in slow, steady circles.
“Careful, Reed, she may cut off your fingers for touching her. Heard her father did that once.” The dark-haired detective saunters up, like he’s annoyed I exist. His eyes move to his partner’s hand on my back. I step away and give him a look.
“Why stop at the fingers? I’d take the whole hand.” I wink.
“See, Grayson, she’s harmless.” Reed chuckles, and I glance over as they haul Finn’s body into the county coroner’s truck. I hate that he can laugh at a time like this.
Grayson’s expression doesn’t change from the stoic, damn near bored expression as he looks at me. Finally, he says, “I have some questions for you down at the precinct, Miss O’Donnell. Care to follow me?”
“I don’t go into police stations.”
“Chief usually keeps mob talk at O’Brien’s …” Reed chimes in, but Grayson doesn’t break his stare. He only shrugs.
“I’m the lead on this case. She can either come to the station to give a statement and help sort out a timeline, or I can do it alone.”
No. No, I need to know everything, each step of the way. Finn deserves revenge, and my father definitely doesn’t need to think I’m sitting around waiting for answers to fall into my lap.
“I’ll go.” I straighten, rolling my shoulders. Look him in the eye—you’re calling the shots. For Finn, Aoife.
Except when I do look Grayson in the eyes, they’re gray and cold, just like the winter weather smothering us. I shiver. Who spat on his badge today?
“You can follow me,” Reed volunteers.
Grayson circles around us, ignores the rest of the conversation, and starts his car, lighting up a cigarette once inside. Ah, that explains it. Smoker. Aren’t they always grumpy when they need nicotine?
He takes off, and Reed gets in his vehicle while I take one last look around the trail and crime scene.
There’s nothing but a peaceful dusky breeze barely making a sound.
It’s still, and it’s almost like the police presence is intruding.
Bright yellow crime scene tape flutters in the wind against the dark gray backdrop. Who did this to you, Finn?
Stupidly, I wait around, like his ghost might actually whisper in my ear, but it’s calm and nothing comes.
Then, I head to my bike, snap on my helmet, and swing a leg over the seat to settle in like I’ve done a thousand times.
The engine hums beneath me, and I grip the handlebars.
I smile, remembering how slow Finn drives—drove.
Summer used to complain, and then I did.
He never liked my Ducati. Said it was “too fast,” that the Irish Mob couldn’t risk losing their leader without an heir for the O’Donnell line. Truth was, he cared. He wanted me safe.
Salt stings my chewed lips as I take off and let the wind wick away my tears. I twist the grip, and the engine snarls in response. The vibration shoots up my arms and pounds into my chest. I lean into it, weaving through traffic toward downtown Boston.
This is what it feels like to be alive. Too bad Finn isn’t still here to experience it.
The police station in Beacon Hill doesn’t scream police station. It’s tucked between rows of weathered brownstones and iron-fence stoops. The red brick is faded in places, and the cold-stressed ivy clings to cracks in others.
I pull my bike up to the front steps, still slick with ice despite the crusting of salt spread over them. A tarnished green copper plaque with its district number scrubbed away sits half hidden beneath garland draped over the double doors. Matching evergreen wreaths with red bows hang on each one.
I park and pull myself up the steps using the iron railing wrapped in blinking string lights.
Well, at least on my side. The other railing lights are dead.
Pulling open the door, the inside smells like burned coffee and cinnamon potpourri.
A short Christmas tree strung with colored lights sits in the corner of the lobby.
Its ornaments look handmade by kids, and as I step closer, the salt-dough handprints have photos of the officers, their families, and their children pressed into the palms.
I smile. Summer and I made these once. Allie, our housekeeper—may she rest in peace—was so mad we hijacked the oven for most of the day, baking them on the lowest setting. She’d said she had a roast to cook, and we’d stolen her oven.
I’m not sure what prompts me, but I scan the tree for Grayson. Maybe I want to see the woman who’d marry a man like him, or if his children have his eyes. But when I find his ornament, the photo is only of him. He stands in front of his work desk, alone. Huh.
I shake my head and wander in, attracting the attention of deputies and office personnel. They stare unblinking as my boots traipse across the creaking wooden floor. Deputy Bromley looks up from his cubicle in the bullpen and offers me a quick wave. I wink back, and he blushes. Him, I like.
More garland hangs over the doorframes of the private offices and interrogation rooms, curling at the ends.
Someone even stapled a Santa hat over the Most Wanted corkboard above a man charged with armed robbery.
Beside him … another poster. This one with a silhouetted man wanted for multiple murders.
Reed pops his head out of one of the offices, searching, and when his eyes land on me, he gestures with his hand for me to come in. I tuck my helmet under one arm and stride to the office. The brass plaque on the door reads Detectives Grayson Holtz and Reed Carver. Lovely.
I push into their office to find them both standing in front of a wall-sized investigation board. Two desks sit facing each other. One cluttered with paperwork, leftover sugar cookies, and a frame of two men fishing. The other desk has a phone and a notepad. Could he be any more predictable?
I snort, looking at them both. “Cliché much?”
Reed smiles, but I don’t miss the slight curl of his lips as he turns toward the board.
Grayson steps forward, wheeling out his desk chair. He gestures at it.
I shrug and sit, spinning a few times before they both glare at me.
“When can I take Finn’s body?” I ask. We’ll bury him, properly. The Irish way. The mob way.
“Autopsy usually takes forty-eight hours, but I’d be lying if I said we weren’t swamped right now. I’d say in about a week,” Reed answers.
I nod, not wanting to rush it anyway. Lizzy, my aunt, is a loudmouth, and despite her retirement from O’Brien’s and the mob, she’s still a pain in my ass. Checks in with me every day. She and Cormac both.