I wake when it’s still dark out. My first instinct is to go to the window, but I take a shower and eat breakfast instead.
Then I sit at the kitchen table and do something I rarely allow myself to do.
I think about my father.
My mother was twenty-five when she married him. The same age I am now. He was already notorious, the youngest of four sons and by far the most ambitious. And the most violent. According to the stories, when my grandfather wanted to send a message to a rival family that wouldn’t be ignored, it was Antonio he’d send to do the job.
My grandfather was a mafioso, too. Capo dei capi, boss of all bosses. Just like my father.
This shit runs in my veins.
When the bomb meant for my father took my mother instead, I was twelve years old. I had just gotten my first period. I had no friends outside of the family, no female I could talk to who wasn’t a cousin or aunt. My grandmother was still alive—my father’s mother—but she was a dour old woman, frighteningly religious, always dressed in black even in the deadening heat of summer. The only two pleasures in her life were cooking and god.
Intensely introverted, I lived my life inside the safety of books. The trifecta of homeschooling, security training, and the closed circle of my family made me extraordinarily distrustful of strangers and awkward to the extreme. I had no idea how to operate in the “real” world.
Then my mother was killed, and the real world came knocking on my door. I was sent away to a boarding school in another state.
At the time, my father explained that it was for my own safety. Now, I think that with my mother gone, he simply didn’t know what to do with me. His only child. A pre-teen girl.
So off I went to a private school for rich kids in Vermont.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I met Fin and Max and had friends for the first time in my life.
My mother didn’t have any friends. She wasn’t allowed to have them. Originally from California, she met my father during a vacation to Manhattan. After knowing him only a week, she gave up her entire life to go live in New York with him. That’s how in love she was.
Or how lonely.
If she didn’t know what he was before she moved there, she certainly found out fast.
He was a king. Wealthy. Proud. Charismatic. Both feared and respected, and known by all for his commitment to his honor but especially for his thirst for violence.
Exactly like Liam Black.
“Killian,” I say aloud, correcting myself.
Killian. Not a nickname, not a middle name, not a name he’s called by anyone else. It makes no sense that he would demand I call him that. It irks me.
What irks me more is that I haven’t told Fin and Max about it. I’ve always been good at keeping secrets, but not from them. This name thing, though…I’m still working it out. There’s something important there. A clue. But to what, I don’t know.
The last time I spoke to my father was seven years ago. I’d been arrested for shoplifting. It was the only time I’d seen the inside of a police station, before or since. The bail was only five hundred dollars, but I had no money of my own. I didn’t have a job. My father paid for everything. It was the day after graduation, and I was scheduled to return to New York within the week.
But that phone call with my father changed everything.
In the mafia, a thief is the lowest form of garbage aside from a snitch. Made men will happily profit from the spoils of stolen goods, but they would never themselves stoop to the actual procuring of it. Their “honor” won’t allow it. They have associates who do that sort of thing instead—people not allowed in the mafia ranks. Non-Italians, those of poor reputation, etcetera. So when I had to call my father to wire bail money, and he discovered that I’d dishonored the family name by stealing, he flew into a rage. He screamed at me. He called me names.
He said I was stupid, my mother’s daughter to the core.
And something inside me snapped.
I was done. Done with all of it. Especially done with him.
I hung up the phone in the middle of his tirade.
I told the arresting officer I’d stay in jail until the arraignment. He looked at me strangely, then said he’d talk to the judge. I seemed like a nice girl, he said. And it was my first offense. He had a daughter about my age, and it didn’t make much sense to have me in jail with the sex offenders and drug dealers for stealing a ten-dollar lipstick from a department store.
The judge decided to be lenient. I was released after twelve hours sitting alone in a cell, thinking. It was the first time I’d truly been alone in my life.
I loved it. There were bars on the door and window, but I’d never felt as free.
I knew my father would come for me, even though he was furious. I belonged to the family. I was chattel. I had value as a bride for a favored ally or payment for a debt: it was unthinkable to simply let me go.
I disappeared instead.
I moved to Boston with Fin and Max. Fin knew someone who knew someone who got me a fake ID. I got a job working in the mailroom of a local paper.
I was terrible at it, but I learned.
From the mailroom, I was quickly promoted to the advertising department, and from there to an assistant position for one of the staff writers in the features department. Hank had aspirations to grandeur: he wanted to win a Pulitzer for reporting. He was dogged in his pursuit of “real news” and taught me how to do data mining on the internet for research, how to piece together seemingly unrelated tidbits of information, and, most importantly, how to verify facts.
I became adept at all those things. In my spare time, I used those skills to find our marks.
Criminals—the “good” ones, at least—are also skilled, especially at hiding their criminal activities. When I saw the news report about Liam Black’s arrest and almost immediate release, I decided to find out more about him.
But for a man with such a huge reputation, there was curiously little to find. No verifiable address, no history of arrest before the recent one, no social media presence, no photographs. It was as if he existed by word of mouth alone. As if he were a ghost, a Bogeyman parents used to frighten their misbehaving kids.
My interest grew.
I kept digging until I found something: in the Massachusetts Secretary of State’s corporate licensing database, there was a listing for Black Irish Enterprises, Inc. The name jumped out at me. The corporate headquarters address was a post office box. All the officer positions were listed under the name Mail Kcalb.
A name that made absolutely no sense, until you spelled it backward.
After more digging, I discovered that Mr. Kcalb was the owner of ninety-five other companies, most of them in foreign countries and operating under DBAs. The majority of them were shell corporations. Meaning they had no employees, no active business operations, and no significant assets.
Suggesting they were formed only for the purposes of money laundering and tax evasion.
I played the clip of Liam Black being led into the federal building by FBI agents over and over again, memorizing his face, making note of the tattoos on the knuckles of his left hand. He left an indelible impression on me. I’d never seen a criminal as beautiful as that one, or half as smug.
The combination was infuriating.
By that time, I’d lived in Boston for over a decade. It was long enough to have heard the stories about the Irish mafia and its ruthless leader. Remembering how my father had screamed that I was stupid, I decided there was another arrogant mobster who needed to be shown he wasn’t actually king of the universe. That there was someone out there who wasn’t afraid of him.
That being a girl—younger, smaller, powerless—didn’t mean I couldn’t beat him at his own game.
Max was right, though. I did stew about it for months. Months and months and still more months, until almost a year had gone by before I finally pulled the trigger on the job.
In all that time, I never once asked myself why I was stalling.
Now, sitting here at my kitchen table, grappling with the past, I have to admit Max was right about something else. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him that the formidable Mr. Black was lightning, and I was a lightning rod.
Made to attract his strike.
I say darkly to the empty kitchen, “Okay, gangster. You want to play this game? Let’s play.”
But I’m in it to win.
The coffee steams in the cool morning air, sending up perfect white whorls like in a commercial. Approaching the SUV with a mug in each hand, I’m careful not to spill any on the front of my pretty white dress.
When I’m twenty steps away, Killian bursts from the passenger seat as if the car spat him out.
He stands stock still as I approach. Staring at me. Eating me up with his eyes.
I stop in front of him and look up into his burning gaze. Holding out one of the mugs, I say pleasantly, “Good morning.”
He accepts the mug without looking away from my face. “Good morning.”
“You look like shit.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“The front seat of your macho truck isn’t good for that sort of thing, hmm?”
He licks his lips. Drinks his coffee. Licks his lips again.
I say, “Have you considered that you hanging out here on the street with your goombahs will bring a certain amount of attention? Considering you’re trying to keep me safe, it might not be the best strategy.” I look him up and down. “You’re not exactly incognito.”
“I’m not trying to be incognito. That’s the point.”
We stare at each other. We drink our coffee. A slight breeze rustles the leaves on the trees.
He says, “In Irish, a goombah is called a comhlach.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to clear your throat.”
His lips lift into a wry smile. “Aye. Much of Irish sounds like that.”
I tilt my head and consider him. “It’s not called Gaelic?”
“It is, but at home we call it Irish. As opposed to Scottish Gaelic, which is a completely different thing.”
I’m hyper aware that the cool morning air has caused my nipples to harden, and also that Killian has noticed it, too. We both pretend we haven’t.
“Say the same word in Irish and in Scottish Gaelic.”
He thinks for a moment. “Áilleacht. Brèagha.”
“Those are the same words?”
“Aye.”
“What do they mean?”
His voice turns husky. His gaze turns intense. “Beauty.”
I drink more coffee, willing my cheeks not to turn red.
He says, “Brèagha was what my father always called my mother. She was Scottish. He wanted to say it in her language, so I grew up thinking it was an Irish word. It wasn’t until long after they were both dead that I learned it wasn’t.”
This personal family anecdote is unexpected. He isn’t the kind of man I imagine as ever being a boy or having parents. He seems like he arrived on this planet a fully formed adult, kicking ass and incinerating panties.
“So you’re half and half.”
“Aye.”
“In the Italian mafia, you can’t be a made man unless you’re full-blooded Italian.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not aspiring to the Italian mafia, then.”
“I’m half and half, too. My mother’s family was British.”
He nods. “From Leeds, in the north.” When I simply stare at him in shock, he adds, “Beautiful part of the country.”
I take a moment to gather my wits, then say, “That background check was pretty extensive, huh?”
His gaze softens, and so does his voice. “It didn’t tell me everything.”
“No? Well, ask away. I’ll be happy to fill you in. What would you like to know? My shoe size? Favorite color? How I like my eggs?”
“Eight-and-a-half. Violet blue. Scrambled, with a side of bacon.”
Oh, I thought I was so smart. I thought I’d have it all under control, didn’t I? And here he is, throwing me for loops within two minutes of the start of the conversation.
He smiles at the expression on my face, then says gently, “There are some things I don’t know about you.”
I say tartly, “Like what? Which utensil I’d most like to gouge out your eyes with?”
He stares straight into my eyes. “Like how you sound when you come.”
In a wave, heat rushes up my neck to flood my face.
“Or how you laugh when you’re truly happy instead of bitter. Or sarcastic. Or angry.”
I open my mouth but shut it again, not knowing what to say.
His voice drops an octave. “Or how long you’re going to punish me for reminding you of your father.”
My cheeks flame hotter. My heart jumps into my throat. I hate it that he can push my buttons like this. That he knows things about me, all kinds of painful, personal things he shouldn’t.
I hate it, and I hate him.
“Forever,” I say hotly. “And you don’t only remind me of him. You are him. Just in a different body.”
“I’m not, lass. I’m really not.”
A faint trace of melancholy colors his tone. Melancholy, longing, and regret. We gaze at each other in crackling loud silence for so long it becomes unbearable. I look away, struggling for breath.
He says softly, “You wore that dress to punish me, too, didn’t you? That dress with no bra underneath so I can see exactly what I can’t have. What you know I want but you’re unwilling to give me.”
I close my eyes. My hands are beginning to shake. “Stop it.”
He continues, his voice still that gentle caress. “I know you did. And I’ll take it. Whatever punishment you need to dispense, I’ll take all of it, lass. Because I know that once we get past the anger and you give me all of you, it will have been worth every pint of blood you needed to extract.”
I open my eyes and look at him, fury lighting up every nerve ending and flooding through my veins. “You conceited, insufferable, stuck-up ass.”
“Guilty. But right.”
I’m so angry, I want to spit. I want to hit something. I can feel the rage coming off me in superheated waves. I step closer to him, my hand curled so hard around the coffee mug I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
My voice shaking, I say, “You will never have me. Never. I’d rather die than give myself to you. I’d rather be thrown naked from a cliff into a pool of starving piranha. I’d rather have all my skin peeled off and be rolled in salt, then tarred and feathered. I’d rather—”
He drops his mug, knocks mine from my hand, grabs my face, and kisses me.
