Don’t look at his ass, idiot. He’s the devil, remember?
I follow Killian down the corridor to the kitchen, admiring his hard, perfect butt despite myself. He walks like a king. Head held high, broad shoulders squared, his effortless swagger conveying total confidence.
He’s the shit, and he knows it.
I’d like to take off my shoe and chuck it at his conceited head to take him down a notch.
But I don’t. I’ve already ruined the man’s guest room. Demolishing décor will have to be enough for one evening.
My feet dragging with fatigue, I hop back onto the counter stool where I sat before, prop my chin in my hands, and watch as the head of the Irish mafia makes me a tuna fish sandwich.
I swear that hipster bartender put something into my drink.
When the sandwich is ready, Killian puts it on a plate and takes a knife from a drawer. From over his shoulder, he says, “Crusts or no crusts?”
Yeah, that’s it. I’m definitely hallucinating. “Crusts are fine, thanks.”
He slices the sandwich in half and turns and presents it to me. Then he folds his big arms over his big, stupid chest and gazes at me from under lowered lids with a smug half smile playing over his lips.
“Don’t smirk,” I say, picking up the sandwich. “It’s unbecoming.”
“It’s not a smirk. That’s just my face.”
Holding his gaze, I bite into the sandwich, pretending it’s the tender space between his forefinger and thumb.
I refuse to like him. He’s a gangster, a killer, a bad guy to the bone. Just because he saved my life and made me a tuna fish sandwich doesn’t change anything. Plus, the jury’s still out on whether or not he’s going to let me go like he said he would.
“I’m really not so bad, once you get to know me.”
I chew for a moment, irritated that he can so easily read my face.
Then he completely flusters me by growling, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s honesty.”
I swallow and clear my throat, feeling blood pulse in my cheeks. “Well. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stares at me in unblinking intensity, studying every nuance of my face, radiating pure masculine sexuality, until I can’t stand it anymore.
“Are you always like this?”
He cocks his head. “Like what?”
I wave my hand at him. “This. You know. Alpha.”
He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Of course.”
Jeez, what was I expecting? Humility?
He watches me chomp in aggravation for a few moments, then smiles. “I feel sorry for that sandwich.”
I don’t have a smart comeback, so I simply chew and swallow until the sandwich is gone.
His cell phone rings. He whips it from his shirt pocket and answers with a curt, “Aye.”
He listens intently. I try to listen, too, but can’t hear whatever the person on the other end is saying. Then he poses a series of rapid-fire questions, his jaw getting harder and harder between each one.
“Just the one? Conscious? Where? Who’s with him? How long have we got?”
He listens, his expression growing darker, until finally he glances up at me.
His dark eyes have turned black.
“I’m on it,” he says, and ends the call.
I push the plate away, a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Let me guess. You have to go out for a while.”
“Aye. I won’t be long. Make yourself comfortable while I’m gone.”
I smile sweetly at him. “Oh, sure, I’ll just be here rifling through your drawers for evidence I can provide to the authorities.”
If I thought that would make him think twice about leaving me alone—and possibly taking me with him, giving me a chance at escape—I was wrong.
“Have at it, lass. My office door’s open. You won’t be able to get into anything without a matching biometric fingerprint, so you’ll be wasting your time, but you’re certainly welcome to try.”
He turns and strides toward the direction of the elevator banks, but stops and turns back around to look at me. His voice comes low and rough. His dark eyes glitter with secrets.
“And the authorities already know exactly what I am.”
The man talks in riddles. There always seems to be layers under layers hidden beneath his words, a sly wink in his tone like he’s the only one in on the joke. It’s intriguing as much as it is irritating.
“I know who you are, too, gangster. Everyone in this town knows who you are.”
“I didn’t say who, lass. I said what.”
I’m getting exasperated with his word games. “What’s the difference?”
He murmurs, “Only everything that matters, little thief.”
Eyes burning, he holds my gaze for a moment longer before turning and heading out.
When the elevator doors slide shut and he’s gone, I shout after him, “What you are is annoying, devil man!”
It doesn’t make me feel better.
Because I was raised to have good manners, I rinse my dish and put it in the dishwasher, then wipe up the crumbs from the counter. Then I go on the hunt for the devil man’s office.
I find it at the opposite end of the corridor from the guest room I trashed. It’s large and masculine, with a big black oak desk and all the requisite macho man décor, bulky leather sofas and the like.
I sit in his ridiculously large captain’s chair and stare at his blank computer screen with pursed lips, thinking. My gaze drops to the keyboard, then to the surface of the desk.
I wish he were here to see my smile.
Shoving away from the desk, I trot out of the office and back down the corridor. When I find the master bedroom—decorated all in gray and black, what a surprise—I rummage through his bathroom drawers until I find what I was looking for.
I head back to his office with the talcum powder bottle in hand.
Seated in his captain’s chair once again, I lightly sprinkle the talc over the edge of the desk near the keyboard. I blow gently, then lean down and take a closer look.
“Hello, there,” I say to the outline of a fingerprint.
It’s easy enough to find the Scotch tape because it’s sitting right out on the blotter.
I press a piece of tape over the talc outline, then gingerly pull it up. Then I stick the tape onto a neon yellow Post-It note.
When that’s complete, I look around, realizing I haven’t seen a biometric fingerprint scanner anywhere. The door to Killian’s office was standing wide open when I came in, and there’s nothing on the desk to indicate secured access to the drawers or computer.
Wherever this blasted biometric thing is, it’s hidden.
I mutter, “Well, hell.”
I toggle the computer’s mouse, but nothing happens. I try a drawer, but it won’t open. I look underneath the desk and chair, but find nothing there.
Then I look at the keyboard.
I don’t know which finger this print I pulled off the desk is from, so I start from left to right. First, I press the Post-It to the A key. Nothing happens. I move to the S key, but nothing happens there, either. I go down the line, trying each key where you set your hands to begin typing, but get no results at all.
Until I try the space bar.
The keyboard lights up. So does the computer screen. So does my face.
Grinning, I say loudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff!”
Then a box appears in the middle of the computer screen informing me that access is denied and all systems are shutting down due to a security breach. The screen and keyboard go dark.
Five seconds later, my cell phone rings.
I pull it from my coat pocket and look at the screen. The ID is blocked.
This is interesting, because the only two people in the world who have the number to this burner phone are Fin and Max. And their numbers are already programmed in.
I have a bad feeling I know who it is.
“Hello?”
“Hullo, lass. Having fun?”
I look up at the ceiling, wondering where the camera is. “Actually, I am. I’m planning on starting a small kitchen fire next.”
“Watch out for the sprinklers. The fire suppression system dispenses about four hundred liters per minute, so I hope you can swim.”
His rich brogue is tinged with laughter. He’s not even a little bit worried, the jerk.
“How did you get this number?”
“I’m me.”
He says it with such casual, supreme self-confidence, I want to throw the phone across the room. Instead, I demand, “No, seriously, how did you get it? I picked this phone up at a kiosk at the airport a week ago. I paid for it in cash. I’ve only used it twice.”
“I know,” he says, his tone indulgent. “And you’ll get a new burner for the next job, and a new one for the job after that. I would’ve called you at your apartment, but you’re not there at the moment.”
Great. He has my unlisted home number, too. Stupid land line. I told Fin we shouldn’t have signed up for that.
“While we’re on the subject, how did you know it was us at the warehouse? Was there another security camera we didn’t know about?”
“You forgot to disable the cameras at the factory across the street.”
I close my eyes, cursing silently. What a stupid, obvious mistake. “And from there? How did you follow us? The cameras at the field where we unloaded the truck and at the drop zone were out. So were the street light cameras all around both places.”
“I hacked an air force satellite.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. He knows how to hack a government satellite? What kind of gangster am I dealing with?
He knows I’m shocked. His chuckle is all kinds of pleased. “You still there, lass?”
“Man, I really can’t stand it when you’re smug.”
“Oh, don’t be sore. Admit it: you’re impressed.”
I am, but I will never, ever, not in a billion years admit it. “Was breaking into machines orbiting the earth something they taught you in mob school?”
“Ach, no. I learned to hack long before I was in the mafia.”
I say flatly, “Really.”
“It’s not like it’s difficult. There aren’t any cybersecurity standards for satellites, so anyone with a basic understanding of computer systems and programming languages can get past the pathetic firewalls government defense departments sets up. I can show you, if you like.”
My tone drips sarcasm. “That would be swell.”
“Might come in handy for one of your future gigs.”
I can tell he’s trying not to laugh, the son of a—
“I’d love to keep chatting, but I’d rather get type-2 diabetes.”
“Admit it, lass. You think I’m charming.”
“You’re as charming as a burning orphanage.”
“You can’t stop thinking about what it’ll be like when I finally kiss you.”
“Isn’t there a bullet somewhere you should be jumping in front of?”
“If you really didn’t like me, you would’ve stabbed me in the taxi when you had the chance. Or shot me with that gun you stole from my guest room nightstand that you stashed under your coat.”
The way he notices every detail is truly unnerving. “I should’ve done both. Your only purpose in life is as an organ donor.”
When he breaks out into gales of laughter, I can’t help but smile. But I keep my voice cool when I say, “Apply ice to that burn. Bye now.”
I hang up, frustrated as hell. Then, because I assume he’s watching through a hidden camera, I twirl around in his macho captain’s chair like I don’t have a care in the world.
Then I text Max that I’m still alive and that she and Fin shouldn’t go home until she hears back from me. If the devil man is right and those guys were after me and not him, the apartment isn’t safe.
In a few minutes, I get a thumbs-up text back from Max, though it doesn’t do much to settle my nerves. The way my luck is going, she probably thinks “don’t go home” is code for “we’re out of toilet paper.”
Then, with a dawning sense of horror, I realize that if Killian has this phone number, it’s possible he’s also monitoring my communications. Worse, he could be monitoring Max and Fin’s phones, too…and using them to track our locations.
If the man knows how to hack a satellite to find us, manipulating a cell phone would be a piece of cake.
I send Max another text. Update: all phones compromised. Destroy asap. Safehouse compromise possible. Dark mode until I message on VM with all-clear.
It takes Max only moments to text back. Please tell me you didn’t insult him again.
I text back DARK MODE MEANS NO TALKING! Then I remove the SIM card from the phone and smash it under my heel.
I put the pieces into my pocket. I don’t want to chance leaving anything in his trash that he could somehow use. Knowing him, he’ll probably make a surveillance device out of the crumbs of my tuna fish sandwich.
I spend about an hour wandering through the penthouse and snooping through his drawers, but find nothing personal, nothing of interest. If he has family, he doesn’t own pictures of them. There’s a huge collection of books in the library, but not a single knickknack on the shelves. There’s not a house plant, not a magazine, not a crumpled receipt from a store. There’s not even any dust. It’s like he lives inside a museum.
Eventually, fatigue overwhelms me. I lie on my back on the sofa in the living room, hoping that he’s one of those super anal neat freaks and will see me in one of his cameras and get annoyed that I didn’t take off my shoes.
I don’t mean to, but I promptly fall asleep.
I wake up in Killian’s arms. He’s carrying me toward the elevator.
“Relax, lass,” he murmurs when I bleat in panic. “I’m taking you home.”
I freeze, my eyes widening. “Home? Really?”
“Aye. Really.”
We enter the elevator and the doors slide shut. We begin to descend.
Looking at his profile, I say, “Um. You could put me down now.”
“I could. I just don’t want to.”
I ponder that for a moment, but decide I’ve got other, more important bones to pick. “Is it safe for me to go home?”
He turns his head and gazes at me through heated, half-lidded eyes. “Can’t stand the thought of being away from me, hmm?”
I resist the urge to smack him on the shoulder. “Please tell me what’s happening. Those men who attacked us—”
“Are all dead,” he interrupts, his gaze going dark. “And I know now who sent them and why. And that person will soon be dead, too.”
His intense gaze clings to mine, making me shiver. A million questions fly through my mind, but I can only manage one. I whisper, “Who sent them?”
When he answers, his voice is chillingly soft. “An enemy of your father’s.”
He knows who I am. My heart stops dead in my chest.
I can’t catch my breath or look away from the deep, dark power of Killian’s gaze. We stare at each other in silence as the elevator descends smoothly, taking us down to who knows where.
I try to keep my voice steady when I speak. “Put me down.”
“Not yet.”
He’s still staring at me with that strange intensity, his eyes locked onto mine. Panic begins to claw its way up my throat.
“You promised you’d never hurt me.”
He inclines his head. I breathe a little easier, because for some insane reason, I believe him. Pretty much, anyway. But this still doesn’t make any sense.
“But you…now you know who my father is?”
His tone is faintly dry. “Aye. And we’re not exactly what you’d call besties.”
Hello, understatement of the century. The only thing my father hates more than overcooked pasta is the Irish mob. They’ve been at war as long as I can remember, and from way before I was even born.
“But you’re not going to use me to your advantage? Get money, concessions, terms?”
“You say that like it’s an impossibility.”
I scoff. “If my father had your daughter, you better believe he’d get something out of it. Something big.”
The minute it leaves my mouth, I regret it. It sounded like a dare. But Killian simply gazes at me with that strange, dark intensity, his gaze never leaving mine.
He murmurs, “I am getting something out of it, lass.”
My mouth goes dry. Oh, shit. Here it comes. Soon I’ll be missing my big toe. I whisper, “What?”
“This.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and now I’m confused. “This…what?”
His big arms give me a gentle squeeze. “This moment. This memory. This time I’ve had with you.”
I stare at him in disbelief with my mouth hanging open.
He’s serious. He’s actually serious.
I blurt, “What kind of gangster are you?”
He turns his head, breaking our gazes and leaving me feeling like I’ve been sprung from jail.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says with a sigh. “Can’t have word getting around that I’m a romantic. As soon as the sharks get a whiff of blood in the water, it all goes to hell.”
The elevator doors slide open to reveal the building’s parking garage. Six men in dark suits await in front of an idling SUV. Killian strides out of the elevator toward the car. One of his suited goons opens the back door for us.
But Killian doesn’t get in with me.
He sets me gently on my feet next to the open door, straightens, then looks at me.
His tone and expression somber, he says, “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Moretti.”
I stare at him, feeling like I’m in an alternate universe and everything is backward. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now.”
“What’s happening is that Declan is going to take you home.”
I look around in confusion. “But…”
“Here’s my number. If you need anything, call me. No matter the time.”
He holds out a small white card. I take it, blinking like an owl. The only thing on the card is a telephone number. No name, no address, no explanation as to why I’m feeling so deflated.
Seeing my expression, Killian’s gaze turns smoldering. He moves closer and leans down to murmur into my ear.
“Whenever you’re ready for that kiss, little thief, I’ll be waiting.”
He turns and strides away without a backward glance. The elevator doors slide shut behind him, and he’s gone.
