9. Maeve
MAEVE
Dusting the snow from my hair, I glare into the darkness of the Wharf.
The scent of old booze and sewer burns my nose. In the far back, a decrepit fireplace holds a failing flame; the pale orange light devouring the blue-slate tiles. My boot slips on something wet, and I breathe through my mouth, trying not to taste the smell.
This has been our storehouse my entire life. Old, with cobwebs in the corners and something brown growing in the bathroom, it’s a bar on the edge of polite society. Backing up to the harbor where we dump the occasional body, it’s a place cops avoid. Which is good.
In the back room, there are crates of liquor and guns. And, due to my involvement with De Luca, pink pills that are waiting to be distributed by my runners, too.
It’s not a great place. But it’s my men’s safe spot.
This is where runners start their nights for their drops and deliveries.
It’s where they end their nights, looking for a nightcap or to tend to wounds.
This is where I used to nurse my injuries and build a rapport with the men.
They knew me as Ferguson’s kid—just someone who tagged along.
But I grew in rank. I made the deliveries; I took the hits. I got into the trenches with them, and I like to think that earned me their loyalty. Pops never did it.
Leaning over the bar, I don’t touch the sticky black top. Killian hovers at my back, and I fight my irritation at his proximity.
I tried to leave him at the house—but he stood in front of my car, a gun leveled at my face.
Do I think he’d pull it? In his shoes, I would.
Life was easier when he was gone.
A head pops around the back door, Meg’s dark eyes peering over a splash of freckles. She’s around my age, short and stout like the blood that runs in our veins. We haven’t been on good terms—not since she tried to teach my sister to shoot.
I made a deal with Pops—I’d take his God-awful decree with Michael if he never touched my siblings.
He had one stipulation—if they tried to involve themselves in the business, like say, by learning to fight, shoot guns, or anything else deemed outside of a woman’s understanding, they could be used. Like me.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t have kept his word. He smacked Sloane around when she wouldn’t submit, and he broke Collins’s mind. And Briar? He ran my baby brother off because he thought he was weak. Only I kept my word until it was too late.
Another thing I failed at.
Women can’t lead.
“You came.”
Dryly, I nod. “I came. Where is he?” I ask, voice cracking. I’m too tired—too restless, but this is my job.
She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Currently trying to break into the storeroom.”
Of course he is.
“Still have the gun?”
She winks, grabbing the old hunting rifle from behind the bar. It’s ancient but packs a punch. “Never let it out of my sight.”
“Good.” Casually, I walk to the few tables of my men. After Pops died, I made a few changes. The men were required to wear business clothes—no more ratty, stained shirts or holey sneakers. Pops might not have cared about appearances, but I do.
I want people to see my men and think of power. Danger. Not sewer rats who would scurry away at the slightest change in temperature.
For those who couldn’t afford clothes, I bought them. Those who didn’t follow procedure ended up in the basement. Most didn’t make it out alive.
The guys stop what they’re doing and look up. Some are drunk, eyes glazed over, cheeks red. The rest peer at my legs peeking out from my long woolen coat with barely controlled hunger.
I’m used to it. I might be a leader—but I’m still a woman. And women barely have respect in this life.
Killian steps close to my side, twirling his blade over his knuckles, and they look down. No one wants the Reaper’s wrath, and I shouldn’t find safety in his rage—but I do.
“Two take the back door,” I command softly, and two men stand from the back corner. “The rest barricade the front and watch Meg’s back.”
That leaves four out here. More than enough.
Turning on my heel, I strip the coat from my shoulders, my thigh-high pleather boots glinting against the flames. Three knives are wrapped around my leg, unhidden. There are six more concealed throughout my person.
Killian whistles, taking my coat without being asked. “All this for Bruno? I’m jealous.”
Rolling my eyes, I tuck my gun under the back of my red blouse. “Be more jealous you don’t get to touch it.”
He slithers close, smirking. “I’ve already touched it. Or did you forget?”
I wish I could. At this point, my body doesn’t let me forget.
Slipping through the bar, we stalk the long, shadowed hallway.
It’s more of a passageway, with little room to move, and Killian takes my back.
The walls curve around us, the far end bathed in the yellow light of a single bulb.
The creaking of the floors sways with each step, a constant dig into my skull as I ignore the searing heat of the Reaper behind me.
At the end, there are two doors. One leads to Pops’ office—my office—that is never used. It’s full of fake documents in case of a raid, a broken chair, and a decrepit desk. Half the police force is in my pocket, but you can never be too careful.
Pops never thought that far ahead.
The other door leads to the storeroom. Stopping short, I glance around, and Killian peers into the office. Our shoulders brush, and the hall goes silent. Nothing moves—nothing stirs. The air freezes, lost in time.
Bruno isn’t here. He can’t exactly hide.
The hallway seems to push us closer together. The zipper of his jacket rubs against my silken top, drawing heat to my cheeks. Swallowing, I look up, and he tilts his head down. “Where is he?”
There’s a click that rings loudly around us, and I still.
Killian slides his hand behind my head, throwing me forward and away from the door.
Hands slam into the wall, grimy and damp, before his body falls against mine.
Warm breath blows my hair as he tucks his chin against my shoulder, our bodies aligning perfectly.
It all happens in mere seconds before the trigger is pulled. Bullets pummel the wooden door, black paint and splinters breaking off. The repeated firing dulls to a buzz, and I dig my nails into the plaster. Dust covers me, and the air thickens with gunpowder as the bullets don’t stop.
My body tenses. I can’t stay like this.
“Don’t,” he mumbles into my ear, reading my thoughts.
He presses closer, his scent of mint and death settling my nerves. Bullets cut into the wall, ricocheting at the corners, but it doesn’t worry me. Not with Killian here.
And that pisses me off. I still trust him—still rely on him. I shouldn’t.
The walls break apart, and I hear shouts further down the way. Meg alerts the men to take up their positions. At least she’s good for something.
Everything abruptly stops, and Bruno swears, “Fuck.” The repeated click means his gun is jammed—shitty quality.
Killian places a hand on my head. “Stay,” he growls before turning to the carnage. The door is nothing but a piece of broken plywood, and the wall crumbles into chunks.
His gun is pulled, inked finger hovering over the trigger.
He’s joking.
Withdrawing my firearm, a brushed chrome Desert Eagle Mark given to me, the weight is a steady comfort. It’s always been me, my gun, and my knives against the world. I can trust this—I can trust myself.
At the door, I peer in as Killian’s fist connects with Bruno Junior’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.
He’s still covered in bruises and old cuts—Collins did a hell of a job on him when she snapped after we got Hayes back—and I smirk.
He deserved way worse, but it’s nice to see her handle business every so often.
The Reaper grabs his collar, throwing him into the far wall before glaring at me.
“I told you to stay.”
“And out of the two of us, who’s in charge?” I saunter into the room, looking at the damage. Glass and debris cover the tacky black floors, and my boots crunch with each step. He hit out the lights, and my eyes take a moment to adjust.
Aren’t you so pretty?
Swallowing, I push those dark thoughts away—the ones that only appear in the shadows.
“Just you, Bruno?”
He spits, and Killian pistol-whips him across the cheek. Blood sprays across the wall, blending into the paint. I grin, enjoying his pain.
But a question bugs me. How did he get into this room alone?
Touching the edge, I scan the crates. Most are undamaged, but Bruno was able to break into three of them. One belongs to De Luca. Shit. I’ll have to talk to my brother-in-law about this, and I’m not looking forward to it.
Lex isn’t unpleasant. He’s just… a reminder of hard times, and talking to him always seems to bring them up. He also thinks he’s God’s gift to women, which irritates the fuck out of me. I can’t kill him—Sloane would never forgive me, and neither would Nico—so I limit our interactions.
“This couldn’t have been your plan.” Glancing around, I look to the far back. “How did you get in?”
He grunts in response. My eyes snag the crack in the back door, the sliver of light highlighting more damage. Jesus. He broke in?
Pinching my brow, I sigh. Everyone knows where the others’ storehouses are—but the families and my clan operate on an unspoken honor not to touch them. If you did, it meant war.
Where’s the respect? Glaring at the man, at his thin build, ropey muscles, and gleaming black hair, the mental picture of his head mounted on my wall causes my lips to twitch. He’d look good there. Less damage. I’m sure Hayes would approve.
“What exactly did you think would happen?” His bloodshot eyes narrow. “That you’d be able to steal from me? Take my holdings? Destroy my investments?”
He’s silent, which is completely unlike Junior. He loves to run his mouth. And me? I’m his favorite target.
Shrugging, I check the magazine. “Pity. I guess there’s no use for you.”
“Wait.” His teeth grind.