Chapter 3
RONAN
Three hours later, I'm standing in the back room of the Way Out—an old Irish dive where we’re known to conduct our business.
It’s where I’d like my wake to be held, when that day comes around, although we picked somewhere nicer for Siobhan’s.
If I’d held her wake here, I’d have been haunted for sure.
My crew is gathered around the table: Finn Donovan, my right hand and the closest thing to a best friend I've ever had; Owen Byrne, who handles weapon stock and trains our new recruits; Danny Malley, who handles intelligence and has contacts throughout the Boston PD; and six others, each handpicked for this operation.
"What do we know?" I ask, settling into the chair at the head of the table. My father isn’t here, unsurprisingly, and I’m glad.
He said it would undermine me to have him heading up this operation, to have him be a part of vengeance for my wife and a stand against De Luca for my grip on Boston’s Irish territory, and I agree with him on that.
Tristan had wanted to be here, but I told him to go back to Miami.
His wife is on bed rest for her pregnancy, and the last thing I want is my brother in danger, by my side, and distracted.
I’d rather know he’s safe back in Miami.
He was pissed about it, but ultimately, I outrank him. I rarely remind him of that, but tonight I did, and I don’t feel bad about it.
Danny opens a manila folder and spreads photographs across the scarred wood. "De Luca's got a meeting tonight at eleven. Warehouse near the Navy Yard. Word is he's finalizing some kind of deal with buyers from New York."
I take in the photographs—layouts of the docks, a floor plan of the interior of the warehouse. "What kind of deal?"
“The kind we didn’t want any part of.” Danny's voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the disgust underneath. "Young girls, teens to early twenties. There’s a ship due to come in under a furniture import manifest. Some might be local, too. I don’t know if there will be any girls there when they meet, unless he’s letting them sample…
" Danny clears his throat. “The merchandise. But De Luca will be there, and that’s what matters.” He looks at me cautiously.
“We’re not running a rescue operation here, boss.
This is a revenge mission. Get in, pop Rocco and as many of his men as we need to in order to make a statement, and get out.
We gotta remember that, no matter what else is going on.
There’s some shit we don’t need to involve ourselves in. ”
Some bosses wouldn’t take kindly to being spoken to so frankly, but I don’t mind it, and my trusted men know that. My father feels differently, but it’s one of the ways in which we differ. I don’t think being a monolith makes me a better leader, or a more capable one.
A cold knot forms in my stomach. “If we take Rocco out, maybe there won’t be any need for rescues anyway.
Maybe the deal will fall apart without him.
He doesn’t have an heir. There will be a power vacuum after he’s dead.
By the time the Sicilians sort it out, whatever business dealings Rocco had will have moved on. ”
"How many men will he have with him?" Finn asks.
"At least ten, maybe more. Plus whatever security the warehouse normally runs." Danny slides another photograph across the table—a grainy surveillance shot of Rocco entering a black SUV. "He's been paranoid since the hit on Siobhan. Knows we'll be coming for him."
"Good." I study the warehouse layout, memorizing entrances and exits, sight lines, and cover. "Let him be paranoid. Paranoid men make mistakes."
Owen leans forward, his scarred hands folded on the table. "What's the play here, Ronan? We going in loud or quiet?"
It's a good question. A quiet approach would be smarter—slip in, take out the guards, corner Rocco, and finish him off. Loud means more chance for him to escape, more opportunity for something to go wrong. The chaos might alert him, might give him a chance to slip out while we’re taking out his men.
But there’s something restless in my blood, something that pushes me past the idea of what’s smart. I know better. I’ve proved myself again and again over the years, but I’m not in my father’s good graces right now, and fucking anything up tonight will only make that worse.
I'm not in the mood to be smart tonight. I want Rocco dead.
"Loud," I say flatly. "He wants to send messages? Let's send one back. I want everyone in Boston to know what happens when you cross the O'Malleys. We go in hard and fast, and we wipe him and his men out. No questions, no survivors.”
Finn nods approvingly. He's always preferred the direct approach, and he’s never shied away from violence. "What about witnesses?"
"Depends on what we find when we get there." I meet each man's eyes in turn. "Anyone who's not involved, we let walk. Anyone who is..." I shrug. "Collateral damage."
"And De Luca himself?" Danny asks, drumming his fingers against the table.
I think about Siobhan's body in the morgue, about our son or daughter who will never take their first breath, about the way Rocco took advantage of the fault lines in my marriage to send me a message that couldn’t be misinterpreted.
My jaw tightens, and my blood runs hot with the desire to spill it.
"He's mine."
—
At just before eleven p.m., we’re positioned around the warehouse, black SUVs parked strategically in nearby alleyways, waiting for us to make our escape when this is done.
The men have fanned out—Finn and two others are with me, Owen took men with him to cover the back entrance, and Danny has the rest watching the side.
I'm crouched behind a shipping container near the front with Finn at my shoulder, watching Rocco's black Escalade pull up to the loading dock.
He steps out looking every inch a don—expensive suit, gold watch catching the streetlight, moving with the confidence of a man who thinks he's untouchable. Four bodyguards fan out around him, automatic weapons barely concealed under their jackets.
I frown. The rest of his crew must already be in the warehouse. Four bodyguards aren’t enough, not with the mark he knows is on him after he killed my wife. I have a feeling he’s hoping, if we’re watching, that we’ll see him go in with only four men and get sloppy.
I press the transmitter clipped to my wrist, my gun held ready in my other hand. "Radio check."
There’s a slight crackle. "Owen, good."
"Danny, in position."
"Move in sixty seconds," I say, keeping my voice low. "Remember—De Luca is mine."
I count down from sixty, watching as Rocco and his men disappear into the warehouse. At zero, Finn and I move.
The front door isn't locked, and we slip inside to find ourselves in a maze of shipping containers and industrial equipment.
The warehouse is bigger than it looked from outside, and it would be easy to get turned around in here.
I hold up a hand for us to pause, waiting to hear something that will indicate in which direction we should go.
Voices carry from deeper in the building, speaking in rapid Italian. I can't make out the words, but the tone is tense, urgent. It’s possible that something’s gone wrong with their deal—which might work in our favor—or that they’re negotiating.
Either way, they’re occupied, and it’s time to move.
With Finn and our other two men backing us up, I move toward the voices, using the shipping containers as cover.
My hand is wrapped tightly around my pistol, another gun holstered on my side for backup, and I slide a hunting knife free with my left hand.
I breathe shallowly as we move—despite the cold outside, the warehouse smells musty, with the scents of rust and old metal thick and acrid in the air.
The first guard never sees me coming. I come up on him from behind, one hand over his mouth and the blade between his ribs, lowering his body quietly to the concrete floor.
The second is turning when I put two rounds in his chest, the silencer reducing the gunshots to a hollow, soft sound that’s unlikely to carry far in the echoing space.
And then there’s a crackle from the transmitter. Owen’s voice comes through, as I hear gunshots go off from the other side of the warehouse. “Heavy guard over here!” he shouts. “Danny, I need backup! They’re on us—”
I move toward the sound of automatic weapons fire, keeping low, using every piece of cover I can find.
More voices now, shouting orders in English and Italian, the distinctive crackle of semi-automatic guns mixing with the sharper reports of handguns.
I’m entirely focused on finding Rocco, and Finn and the other two men fan out around me, looking around corners and watching my back.
I round a corner after Finn clears it, looking into a room that might have been an office once, but now is filled with something that makes my blood run cold.
Cages. Actual fucking cages, lined up against the far wall, each one just large enough for a person to sit or lie down.
Most of them are empty, but not all.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe, raising my weapon as footsteps echo from the far end of the hall.
Three of Rocco's men come around the corner at a dead run, probably fleeing from Danny and Owen. Finn and the man next to him put them down before they can raise their weapons, but the damage is done—our position is compromised, and I can hear more footsteps coming.
I need to move. Need to find Rocco before this whole operation goes sideways, but I can’t stop staring at what’s in the only not-empty cage.
A young woman, curled on her side, clearly unconscious.
There’s no telling how long she’s been there—she looks filthy.
Her hair is a brownish shade that might be auburn when it’s clean, and she looks too pale.
She's not moving.
I came here for Rocco. Danny’s words echo in my mind: This isn’t a rescue mission. But my feet feel frozen to the concrete floor.
I don’t know how I can walk away from her. If we kill everyone here tonight, what will happen to her? And what will happen if we don’t?
My resolve to walk out of here with the mission completed and nothing more withers as I look at her. If I leave her here, what does that make me?
I’m a criminal and a killer, but I’ve never been a monster. The thought of walking away and leaving her in that cage makes me feel like one.
"Fuck." I speak into the transmitter. "We’ve got a problem."
"Ronan, we need to go!" Owen's voice is strained, punctuated by gunfire. "Rocco’s got backup coming. Two more SUVs just pulled in. We need to retreat. Make a new plan—”
"Two minutes!" I repeat, moving toward the cages.
Shooting the lock is too risky—the bullet could ricochet through the bars and hit her. I slam the butt end of my gun against it instead, several times in quick succession, until it breaks. I yank it off, pulling the door open and holstering my weapons as I reach for the woman inside.
“Cover me!” I bark at Finn, and I see him and the other two men fanning out around the door out of the corner of my eye, doing exactly that.
She feels almost weightless in my arms, and she looks young.
Early twenties at best. She’s unconscious but breathing, dressed in a tank top and loose joggers that look like men’s clothing she was given to wear, both filthy.
I can see injection marks in the curve of her arm—she was drugged to keep her unconscious.
I see a yellowed bruise on her jaw and around her left eye.
She’s been a prisoner for a week or so, then, or someone hit her before that.
“Ronan.” Finn’s voice cuts sharply through my assessment of the woman in my arms. “We have to go now.”
"Ronan!" Owen's voice follows, crackling over the radio. "Rocco's running! North exit! There are too many! We need to get out!"
I twist toward the direction he specified, then look down at the unconscious woman in my arms. Rocco is getting away.
The man who killed my wife and child is slipping through my fingers, and I should be chasing him down.
I should be telling Owen to call for backup of our own, to get to the SUVs and give chase.
Instead, I heft her carefully in my arms, and nod to Finn and the others to cover me as we start moving toward the exit we came in through.
“Tell them to get to the SUVs and load up, meet us at the exit,” I tell Finn sharply. “Tell them we’ve got one of the girls. Tell them to light the place up. They’ll have to find a new spot to deal in, and it’ll send a message for tonight.”
He nods, his attention sharp on the warehouse around us as he speaks into the transmitter.
When we burst out into the frigid night air, Danny has one of the SUVs running and waiting for us.
Owen and the men are busy getting the place ready to set alight, and I crawl into the back of the SUV with the girl still in my arms as I see the first licking flames starting to burn.
“Call emergency services once we’ve put some distance,” I tell Finn.
“We don’t want to take the whole shipyard out. Just this one.”
Rocco will know it was us. It will be a message, though not the one I wanted to send tonight.
But it's a start.
“Get us back to the mansion,” I tell Danny. “And call the doc. She’ll need medical attention.”
"What about Rocco?" Finn asks from the passenger seat.
“We’ll deal with him,” I say flatly, watching as the flames outside start to spread. “But another night. Let him worry about what we’ll do next.”
Finn nods, picking up his phone as we pull out onto the highway. I feel the woman in my arms stir, and for the briefest moment, her eyes flicker open, letting me see their color: green. A pale green, the color of raw emeralds—and for some reason, I find it entrancing.
“You’re safe,” I say quietly, as she makes a sound very like a low moan, a sound that prickles over my skin. It’s a sound of pain right now, but it could be something else, and my body responds to it despite the inappropriate moment.
It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a woman I wanted, or been touched by someone who wanted me in return.
She parts her lips as if she wants to say something, and her eyes flutter closed again. “I’m Ronan,” I murmur, fighting the urge to brush her hair out of her face.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her cracked lower lip before her eyes open again, for just a second.
“Leila,” she whispers, before she falls back into unconsciousness again.