Chapter 32 Vin
Vin
The car I called meets me a few streets up from Sophie’s house. Blood drips from my wrists onto the steering wheel as I floor the gas pedal, weaving through traffic like I’m possessed. Matti’s voice is crackling through the car’s sound system, but every word is fucking sandpaper on my nerves.
“Vin, slow down and listen. This is fucking serious.”
“I don’t have time for this shit.” I blow through a red light, horns blaring behind me. My hands are shaking, from adrenaline or blood loss, I don’t fucking know. All I know is that Rocco is heading to Sophie’s, and she’s vulnerable.
I shove down the fear I can’t deny, and force myself to focus on the road blurring ahead of me.
“The Irish are pressing,” Tommy cuts in, his voice sharp with irritation. “They say you made a promise, Vin. A fucking promise that’s holding up the port deal.”
My jaw clenches as I swerve around a slow-moving sedan in front of me. “What promise?”
“That’s what we’re asking you!” Matti’s frustration bleeds through the phone. “Patrick Donovan is losing his shit. He says the Irish won’t move forward until you deliver on whatever the fuck you told them.”
I slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a car that cuts me off, tires screeching. Patrick Donovan is a politician with ties to the Irish mafia and has been working with Tommy for years on getting this port deal done. “I didn’t promise them anything!”
“Nothing when you were drinking?” Tommy presses. “Come on, Vin. You and Ronan get wasted together, shit gets said—”
“We don’t talk business when we’re drinking,” I snap, cutting him off. “And we never talk details about the port deal. That’s all you.”
“That’s not what they’re saying,” Tommy grumbles. “I’ve got my end handled.”
“You do and you don’t.” I blow through another intersection, ignoring the chaos erupting behind me. “If the Irish don’t agree, Donovan can’t do shit. He’s a fucking politician, Tommy. Not connected. The judges, the cops—they’re in our pockets, not his.”
“He has more power than you think—”
“I don’t give a fuck!” My vision tunnels on the road ahead, on every second ticking that Rocco could be hurting my woman. “Figure it the fuck out. Find out what promise they think I need to keep because I don’t fucking know and I’ve got more important shit to deal with right now.”
“More important than the ports?” Matti’s voice sharpens. “Vin, this is everything we’ve been working toward. If the Irish pull out—”
“You’re my fucking underboss and my consigliere!” I roar into the phone. The car fishtails as I take a corner too fast, tires squealing. “Handle it!”
“Vin—”
I punch the disconnect button and turn hard, passing the Arsenal on my left. My heart sinks. There are no cars in the parking lot, and it doesn’t look open. Because Sophie never came into open the restaurant this morning. Because she’s home waiting for me.
Rocco’s threats echo in my ears. I crush the accelerator, and the engine roars.
I haven’t prayed since I was kid, since before my mom died, but I’m praying now. Praying that she got tired of waiting and got dressed. Praying that she wasn’t in the house when he came looking for her.
Praying she’s not on that table, knees spread, pussy exposed, marker arrows pointing to every place I promised to fuck her. That Rocco is nowhere near my woman.
The prayer shocks me even as I think it. I don’t pray. I don’t fucking ask for anything. I take. But for her—
White-hot rage floods my veins, burning away the pain in my wrists and shoulders. I don’t care about the ports. I don’t care about the Irish or their mysterious fucking promise. I don’t care about Donovan or Tommy’s carefully constructed political alliances.
All I care about is getting to Sophie before Rocco does.
The brownstone buildings of her neighborhood blur past. Two more blocks. One more block.
I slam on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt in front of her building. I’m out before the engine dies, sprinting for her door, hitting it like a battering ram. It doesn’t budge. Locked. That’s a good sign, right? I locked it when I left, and it’s still locked.
“SOPHIE!” My voice cracks as I fumble for my keys with blood-slick fingers, nearly dropping them, jamming them in the lock until it gives.
I burst through the door.