3. Dave
3
Dave
T he roar of my motorcycle echoes off the concrete walls of the empty warehouse as I roll in, parking beside my brothers’ bikes. My leather jacket creaks as I swing my leg over the seat. After hours on the road, the tightness of my jeans against my thighs becomes uncomfortable. My gun digs into my back, tucked securely in the waist of my jeans, a familiar weight. As I pull it free, my fingers graze the worn grip, the cold metal grounding me in the chaos.
We’ve spent the last twelve hours chasing dead ends, tracking down every lead we could find on Alina, Alexia’s nanny. The second I step closer to where my brothers stand, the truth of the situation hits me like a punch to the gut.
We are too fucking late.
The warehouse is bathed in harsh fluorescent light that casts a cold glow over everything. Exposed rafters form a skeletal grid above. The resin-coated floor is spotless, reflecting the lights overhead. The brightness stings my eyes, making the air feel sharp, suffocating, as if there’s no place to escape from the glare.
I look up, the rafters looming high above, their steel beams cutting through the light like cold, hard lines. The sheer openness of the space makes me feel small, exposed. There’s nowhere to hide, nothing hidden in shadows. Everything is too bright, too bare. My jaw tightens, my pulse quickens. The place is wrong—too clean for what just happened, too stark for the violence that hangs in the air.
The metallic, sharp stench of death hits me. Sweet old Alina is dead.
Her naked body sways gently from a hook in the rafters. Her hands are tied above her head, her feet dangle above the ground. Blood drips in thick, sticky pools beneath her, the glistening trail of countless stab wounds still fresh. Igor’s signature brutality is on full display. Her death was undignified. Slow. Prolonged. Excruciating.
My stomach churns, and my fists clench at my sides, the sleeves of my jacket pulling tight across my forearms. Rage simmers just below the surface, begging for release, but I grit my teeth until my jaw hurts to keep my emotions in check. Every part of me screams to break something—anything—but I know that won’t bring her back. Alina is gone, just another innocent crushed under Igor’s boot in his twisted game.
Besides, I have to consider my position as leader of the Boyle family, the Irish Brotherhood, and the Syndicate. I can’t come off as unhinged as I feel.
I turn to face Tommy, who stands a few feet away, his tall frame rigid, arms crossed over his broad chest. His jacket is similar to mine but darker, more worn, and stretches over his muscles like a second skin. His face is set in a hard mask, blue eyes glinting with icy fury. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. We’re all thinking the same thing: Igor is a step ahead. Again.
Shelby steps beside me, his stance unmistakably military. He’s still got the build of a Marine—tall and lean, his body always ready for action. His army-green shirt is rolled up, revealing muscular forearms and a faded tattoo from his days in service. His jaw is clenched, the tension clear in every line of his face as his blue eyes scan the blood-soaked scene before him. “He’s not stopping until he has everything,” he mutters, his voice low and controlled, but I can see the same fury bubbling beneath the surface. “Alina… She was just… She didn’t deserve this.”
“None of them do. Igor’s a soulless devil,” I say, my voice tight, struggling to keep my emotions from spilling out. “We’re too late for her, but not for Alexia. She’s next on Igor’s list.” I stop talking to draw a deep breath. As I exhale, I manage to get my temper under control enough to express my wayward thoughts. “Alexia didn’t have a chance to tell me much when she called and asked for help. She only mentioned that she and her daughter Rose were in danger. We have to find out what’s going on.”
Tommy nods grimly. His thick arms uncross and his fists tighten at his sides, the worn leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. “We need to be quicker. Smarter. Igor’s playing chess while we’re still catching up.”
“He’s too many moves ahead of us,” Shelby says. When he crosses his arms, the muscles in his forearms flex, and his tension becomes clear in every line of his body.
I stare up at Alina’s body again, at the bloodied mess of her, and tighten my grip on the handle of my gun. “This is a deadly game we can’t afford to lose,” I say, turning to face my brothers. “We can’t let this happen again.”
Tommy pulls out his phone, already scrolling through his contacts with practiced ease. His fingers move quickly over the screen. “I’ll call our allies in the Syndicate. Someone always knows something.”
Shelby nods and heads toward his bike, his steps heavy, his hand gripping the keys tightly. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Shelby, before you go, call our men. I want Alina’s body removed and taken care of. I want a proper burial with the respect and honor she deserves.”
My brother salutes me. “On it, boss.”
I nod in acknowledgment and turn to leave.
I can’t stay here, not with Alina’s body strung above me as a gruesome warning. My chest is tight, my thoughts too loud. I need to move. To act.
When I get to my motorcycle, I glance at my brothers over my shoulder and with a clenched jaw I say, “You handle this part of the plan. I’ll cover my end. Let me know what you find.”
I kick my bike into gear and tear out of the warehouse. The image of Alina’s mutilated body is burned into the back of my mind. Every mile I cover, the need for vengeance claws at me. I can feel the weight of this fight pressing down on me—Rose’s and Alexia’s fates are tangled in this mess.
I won’t let Igor take anything more from me.
T he door to Alexia’s room creaks as I open it, shattering the early morning silence. I enter cautiously, aware that my staff is still asleep. The soft sunlight filtering through the windows casts long shadows on the walls, making me hesitate for a moment in the doorway. But then I see her. She paces back and forth for the length of the untouched bed, which means she didn’t use it last night. Her bare feet move silently across the carpet. She’s pacing in nothing but my shirt, her movements tight, like a caged animal.
Seeing her in my shirt stirs something deep inside me—something I’ve buried for too long. My focus should be on the mission, not on the past, not on her. I push it down, but it lingers, nagging at me.
Now isn’t the time. It can’t be.
This isn’t about me and my feelings.
She stops in her tracks when she hears the door. Her head snaps up and she turns to face me, her hazel eyes wide. For a split second, relief flashes across her features before it is replaced by apprehension and wariness. There’s something different about her now—an uncertainty and fragility that I’ve never seen before. It’s a far cry from the fierce, defiant woman she used to be. Then, she had a fire that burned through every wall I’d put up. Now, she’s defensive, fearful. What happened to her to cause this transformation? I don’t believe motherhood alone would do this.
Her body tenses as if she’s considering running away, but then she steadies herself and stands tall, shoulders stiff. There’s something in her posture, an edge of fragility beneath the surface, like she’s holding herself together by the sheer power of her will. Then again, she was always a strong-willed girl growing up.
“Alexia,” I murmur, forcing myself to step inside, then shutting the door behind me. “We need to talk.” The room feels too small, too charged with the weight of everything we never told each other.
I take another step forward, forcing my face into the cold, controlled mask I wear too damn well. But then I catch her gaze, those familiar hazel eyes filled with a fire that’s somehow dulled, and a beat too long passes before I look away. My hand twitches, almost reaching for her—an unconscious pull I barely restrain. I clench my fist at my side instead, nails digging in, forcing myself to remember who I am now—who she made me become when she left. I can’t afford to let her see how much she still affects me.
A muscle pulses in her cheek as she sets her jaw tightly. She struggles to steady her breath as she demands, “I want to see Rose. Why am I still locked in here?”
Despite admiring her courage, I need to establish rules and boundaries for our new relationship. I move closer, with slow and deliberate footsteps, my eyes never leaving hers. “Watch your tone, Alexia. Nobody orders me around.” She blinks a couple of times and I can almost hear the gears grinding in her head. When she doesn’t back down, I add in a flat tone, “Moira’s already explained to you why you were kept here. I’ll take you to Rose myself today.”
She lowers her chin a fraction as an audible sigh escapes her. “Where are my clothes?”
“We had to scan you and your phone for tracking devices. I had your clothes burned. I didn’t want to take any chances—there’s new technology in fabrics that can’t be easily detected.”
Frustration flashes in her eyes as she presses her lips together in a thin line. “I’m not your prisoner, Dave.”
I step closer until I’m just a foot away from her and towering over her small frame. “You’re not?” I snicker, arching an eyebrow and tilting my head to the right. “Then what the hell are you, Sandy ?” I taunt, using my old nickname for her. Her sharp intake of breath tells me I hit a nerve. “Because from my view point, you’re right back in my life, under my roof, playing by my rules.”
Her cheeks flush but there’s a defiant fierceness in her eyes that tells me she won’t let me intimidate her. Or that she’s contemplating calling my bluff. She had me wrapped around her finger before. Now, she clenches her hands at her sides, but they stay steady. Although she’s afraid, her fear won’t stop her from standing her ground. “You don’t have to do it like this. I didn’t ask for?—”
“For what, my help?” I interrupt, my pent-up anger erupting after all those years. “What the fuck do you think you did when you called me? You begged me. So don’t act like you didn’t want this.”
There’s a spark of terror in her gaze that breaks my already fragile resolve. I reach for her cheek, still intending to stay detached. The warmth of her skin catches me off guard, a shock to the coldness I’d forced into my heart. My thumb brushes over her cheek in an unintended, lingering motion—a softness I can’t afford, yet can’t resist either.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “What’s going on?” I force calm into my words, pretending I hadn’t just broken my own rules.
An unbearable silence hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken words and ancient feelings. When she breaks it, her voice trembles while fear creases her expression. “Everyone knows Igor is a violent, cruel man.” Her eyes dart around before returning to mine. “I’m afraid of what he might do to Rose.”
“Cruelty takes many forms, Alexia. What exactly do you mean?” I scan her face for clues.
She drops her head to escape me.
I tuck a finger under her chin to lift it.
“Igor’s slapped Rose a few too many times over the years,” she explains in a small voice.
Disgust sours my gut.
“She’s a four-and-a-half-year-old girl!” I fume, before realizing the obvious. “And he struck you when you tried to protect Rose?”
Alexia nods.
“Son of a bitch!” My heart plummets at the thought.
I have to remind myself: Alexia isn’t mine to protect anymore. The memory of when I last saw her with Igor does it. Two weeks ago, we were at a charity dinner. Her hand was draped over his arm as she made the rounds. She was radiant. She always seems to thrive in these social events.
I refocus on the present. This situation with Rose is horrible. Yet I don’t believe she’d ask for my help over this.
“Why did you say Rose was in danger? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m afraid he might snap and hurt her badly. She’s so fragile,” she offers, too quickly.
I catch a dark glimpse in her eyes. “What else?”
“Nothing.”
I can’t shake off the suspicion there’s more to this story. I run my fingers through my hair, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Alexia, don’t insult my intelligence. We’re going around in circles. I know you’re lying. Now, spill it!”
“Igor…” She hesitates, wringing her hands, before finally confessing, “He’s involved in human trafficking.”
That explains her fear for her own safety.
“He knows you’ve found out.”
She nods a couple of times.
“Why didn’t you tell me this at that fucking dinner?” I demand, my eyes narrowing as I search her face for any hint of manipulation.
“I was scared…” she murmurs, barely lifting her gaze.
My instincts scream that Alexia could be playing me. But the memory of the fear in her voice on the phone returns with full force. That desperation—I’d never heard anything like that from her. It was real. She’d have to be an award-winning actress to pull off that kind of deceit.
“We need to put an end to his operation,” I say firmly. “Bring justice to those victims of Igor’s greed.” My heart crumbles s at the thought of Alexia being in danger. I grasp her hand in mine. The weight of her trembling fingers remind me of what we once had—and lost. “I promise you. I won’t let that monster lay a finger on you or your child.”
“Thank you, Dave.” Tears well up in her eyes.
Conflicting emotions war within me—fear for their safety, anger toward Igor, but the determination to protect Alexia and Rose wins.
“We’ll figure out a plan to keep you hidden until we can take down Igor and his allies,” I reassure her, squeezing her hand tightly. “I won’t rest until it’s done.”
She slowly withdraws her hand from mine, her gaze dropping to the floor again for a second, before she looks back up at me, fire returning behind her eyes. “You said you’re taking me to Rose today, right?” she presses, her voice rising with fear and urgency. “I need to see her. I need to know she’s safe.”
“ Rose is safe,” I reply, my tone hard because there’s the topic of Alina’s disturbing death that I still need to bring up.
“She is?” she sighs but narrows her eyes, catching the emphasis I gave her daughter’s name. “What do you mean? What else happened?”
I rake my fingers through my hair as I fight the gruesome memories of the scene inside the warehouse. “Look, I hate to be the one to tell you this. Something did happen last night and Alina’s dead. I’m so sorry.”
Her breath hitches and she staggers backward. Her eyes widen, filling with primal grief. A sob claws its way out, ragged and uncontrolled.
I clench my fists at my sides, fighting the overwhelming need to hold her. She’s not mine to comfort, no matter how badly I want to pull her close.
“What… what happened to her?” she chokes out.
I hesitate, knowing the truth would shatter her further. “Igor’s men got to her before my brothers and I could.”
She stares at me, lips trembling as she tries to process what I’ve just told her. The weight of it all is crashing down on her; I can see the cracks. She’s no longer the fierce, defiant woman I once knew. She’s scared, vulnerable, and for a heartbeat, I feel a flicker of something—something I can’t afford to feel.
“She didn’t deserve that,” Alexia whispers, her voice barely audible.
“No,” I agree, my voice rough. “She didn’t.”
The room falls into an uncomfortable silence, with the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. I step back, putting distance between us. “I’ll have Moira bring you some clothes I bought for you yesterday. Get ready. We’re leaving in an hour to go to Rose.”
I turn and head for the door, shutting it behind me, though every instinct demands I stay by her side. Outside, I brace myself against the wall, pressing a hand to the cool plaster, grounding myself. My pulse still races, and I close my eyes briefly, willing away the memory of her scent, her touch, lingering on my skin like an ache I don’t want to feel.
I can’t afford to lose control. Not now when so much hangs in the balance.