I’ve never spent so much time looking at shiny rocks.
The past month has been spent in isolation, distancing myself from “Nick Woodsworth” and becoming “Brayden Walsh, thief extraordinaire” while subsequently learning the ins and outs of rare jewels. I’ve been hiding away in my new apartment smack-dab in the center of Kinland; courtesy of the DEA. The only people I’ve talked to are Cap, Seth, and Desmond Dillam, the top jeweler in the tristate area. I’ve been living and breathing cuts, clarity, colors, and everything in between until my eyes bleed and I dream of sparkles.
When I’m not learning that, I’m drowning in all I can about Farrell Westerly and his influence, although, there isn’t too much I can find out. While Farrell clearly runs the streets of Kinland, the city itself is tight lipped, and the inner workings of their operation are locked up better than Fort Knox. All I have to go on are grainy surveillance photos that prove nothing, and “a hunch.”
Add to the fact that Farrell is apparently a modern-day Robin Hood who shares his wealth with the community, and it makes gaining insight like ripping out a tooth with no Novocain.
He has two living daughters, but it’s clear his older one, Dorothy, is who likes to live in the spotlight. My files have dozens of photos; walking around town, going to brunches with friends, sitting in the cart with her father while they play rounds of golf with his “business associates.”
His other daughter, Eveline, seems to be more reclusive. There are a few photos, but always taken from a distance. I know she’s incredibly intelligent, graduating early as valedictorian of Kinland High at the tender age of sixteen, but the clearest photo we have on file is old. Light-brown hair, dark-brown eyes, and a face that hadn’t lost the roundness that comes with youth. The newer photos are all surveillance.
I tense my fingers while Seth blabbers in my ear. He’s my point of contact—the one I’m assigned to check in with every week. Other than that, there will be no outside interaction with my real life.
“Shame we didn’t go out one last time,” Seth sighs.
“We did,” I reply, closing the old and weathered book in my hand.
It’s a book of poems; the only thing I have left of my mother, and while I can’t stand to so much as think about her these days, for some reason, even when I’m pretending to be someone else, I hold on to it. Maybe because it reminds me of why I do what I do. Some of the only sober moments we had were when she’d lain down in my bed and read these poems until I fell asleep.
“That hardly counts, bro. You didn’t even spend it with me, you prick. Disappeared to get your dick wet instead. What kind of a friend does that?”
Flashes of the feisty blonde and the way she lit my body up from a single look race through my mind. My cock jerks and I shake my head, grinning as I stare down at the high-end chestnut-colored coffee table in my temporary living room.
I should have gotten her number. Or her name.
“Miss me already, buddy?” I ask, trying to clear my brain of things that don’t matter.
He chuckles. “Please. You know how much easier it is to get a woman when I don’t have to compete with your pick-me smile?”
“That’s not very nice.” I stand up and walk over to the wall of windows leading to the deck overlooking downtown. It’s a beautiful city, about half the size of Chicago, but far more grand in appearance. Silhouettes of skyscrapers kiss the stars, thousands of green-tinted windows sparkling even in the moon.
And maybe if I was a sentimental man, I could find the beauty. Instead, I just feel hollow.
“Hey,” I interrupt as Seth continues to ramble. “You’ll check on Rose for me, yeah? While I’m gone?”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds. “Of course. I’ve been going over every couple of days. I’ll keep her safe.”
Nodding, I bite the inside of my cheek. “Good.” The knots in my stomach tighten. “Well, that means there’s only one thing left.”
“What’s that?” Seth asks.
“Tell me you miss my smile.”
He groans. “Fuck off, Nick.”
“Don’t,” I retort, the name ringing in my ears. “Don’t call me that. I don’t want to get confused.”
He hesitates, the silence buzzing in my ear. “You ready for this, man?”
Pressing my knuckles against the glass, I gaze out over the city that’s my new home for the foreseeable future. “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s take these fucks down.”
Two nights later and I’m lounging in the booth at Winkies, the Westerly-owned bar on the eastern side of Kinland. I’ve never been a fan of whiskey, but it’s what I’m swirling as I take in the scene. It’s a nice place, as far as dive bars go, busy enough to pass as legit, but not in an affluent enough part of town to attract too much attention.
They say Farrell opened it up to help the community prosper, but more than likely, he uses it as an easy way to launder money in a protected area untouched by both the feds, and more importantly, the Italians.
The Cantanellis are the stronghold syndicate in Chicago, and they’ve been trying to sink their claws into Kinland territory for the past ten years.
Right now, at three o’clock on a Wednesday, Winkies sits mostly empty, with TVs in the corners blaring the stats of the upcoming football season, and forest-green vinyl-covered booths that house a spattering of heavy drinkers or people taking advantage of an early happy hour.
My back is facing the wall in one of the tables that sits in the far-right corner, and while I won’t show it on my face, my insides wring tight, anxiety causing pops of apprehension to stab at my middle.
These first few moments of undercover work are always the most nerve racking. Make or break, you either set yourself up for success or you fail before you have a chance to fall.
But I’ve never faltered under pressure; I thrive.
Not everyone is meant for this work. Not everyone gets it. Some people are too ingrained in their morals, in their ego, to do what it takes to act the part. You have to live and breathe the job. Become it. Otherwise, you end up with concrete shoes and a bullet in your head.
Or pulled from the middle of an investigation and deemed unfit.
My jaw clenches as I remember my last gig and how it ended. The way I was ripped from the streets, forced to watch as they let the case turn cold.
A little bell jingles from the front door, and I tap my fingers against the rim of my glass, watching as Zeke O’Connor and Dorothy Westerly make their way inside and straight toward me.
My stomach twists.
Showtime.
Zeke is a large man with broad shoulders and long auburn hair that hits his chest, and if I were anyone else, I’d probably be intimidated. He looks like a mix of rough and jolly, like he’d smash you over the head with his pint before helping you up and buying you another round.
“Brayden,” he says when they reach the table. He doesn’t offer his hand so I don’t either, choosing to sit back and bring the tumbler of whiskey to my mouth, my eyes skimming over his giant frame before moving to his companion.
Farrell’s daughter.
My gaze lingers on hers just a little too long to be considered appropriate.
She’s an attractive woman, and in any other situation, she’d be my type.
But she’s a job. A way to glean information and funnel it back to camp.
“You’re the guy we’re meeting?” She licks her bright-red lips.
“That’s right,” I say, placing the glass down before bringing up my hand to rub at my jaw. “Problem with that?”
She tilts her head, making her dark-brown ponytail swing to the side and dip down the front of her shoulder. “You’re just… not what I expected.”
My smirk grows and I lean in until the edge of the table digs into my sternum. “I’m rarely what people expect.”
Zeke chuckles, pointing a thick finger at me. “Don’t fuckin’ hit on her.”
“Why, you got a boyfriend?” I wink and her cheeks blush a bright shade of crimson.
“Maybe,” she replies, smiling as she sits across from me. She reaches out, tapping her red nails on the table. My eyes flick to the small shamrock tattooed on her inner wrist, hidden beneath thin rose-gold bracelets.
Zeke sits next to her, crossing a leg over the opposite knee as he watches me. I don’t take my gaze off Dorothy, but I feel his stare and a sliver of unease worms its way down my sides, wondering if maybe he didn’t flip after all. If this is a setup.
It was stupid to let him see my face before now.
“So, are we doing something here?” I finally say. “Or did you call me just to waste my time?”
Zeke grins, running a palm over his beard. “You should be honored we want to talk to you at all. Skip doesn’t meet with just anyone.”
Skip is short for Skipper, which is what they call Farrell.
I turn my head to the left and then the right before looking back at him and shrugging. “Yet, he’s not here, is he?”
Zeke’s golden eyes darken and he shoots forward in his seat, his fist pressing into the table. “You think this is a game, Brayden? I’m vouchin’ for you as a favor. You want in? You want a piece? This is your chance, I won’t give you one again. So quit bein’ a fuckin’ smart-ass and show some respect.”
Licking my lips, I grab my glass and tip back the last of the whiskey, allowing the burn to sear my throat and warm my chest. When I set it down on the table, I run my finger around the rim and nod. “We go back, Zeke, and I appreciate you reaching out. I do.” I lower my voice. “But don’t think you can speak to me like one of your bitches. You guys don’t want to do business with me? That’s fine. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea. Bigger fish. Ones that come from Sicily and know opportunity when they see it.”
Zeke moves back in his seat, his brows hitting his hairline.
“You feel me?” I finish.
He’s silent as he stares down his nose at me, and I wait, my insides thrumming as blood rushes through my veins.
Finally, a grin breaks across his face. “Yeah, you lousy fuck. I feel you.”
Satisfaction drips through my insides. He played his part well.
Dorothy clears her throat. “Here.” She unclasps her necklace, placing it on the table in front of me. “Tell me about this.”
I look down at the large green emerald. My nerves tighten, making my muscles twitch; this is going exactly how I want. But I make sure to keep my facial features mundane and level.
Sighing, I reach up and scratch the corner of my ear before locking eyes with her again. “What about it?”
She gestures toward the piece of jewelry. “You tell me. That’s what you’re good at, right?”
I pick it up. The thin rose-gold chain feeling cool against my fingers as I inspect the jewel.
“You get this from that boyfriend?” I glance up at her, the left side of my mouth lifting.
She smiles. “From my daddy.”
“That what they’re calling it these days?”
Her eyes narrow. “My father, you fucking pervert.”
Chuckling, I look down at the necklace again before setting it back on the table. “Well, tell your daddy he should get a refund.”
Her face drops, and Zeke sits forward.
“Excuse me?” she sputters, her hand wrapping around the chain and bringing it to her chest.
I shrug. “It’s a nice rock, but it’s not real.”
“Then what is it?” she asks, staring down at the jewel like it’s poison.
“Synthetic? Fuck if I know.”
She scoffs. “I think I’d be able to tell.”
“Just because you think something doesn’t make it true.”
I reach out and grasp her hand in mine, hearing her sharp inhale of breath when I do. Drawing my finger across the surface of the jewel, I bring our palms up so it reflects off the light. “Look. See the way the stone is? It’s got yellow undertones.” I move our hands, allowing the “emerald” to shine. “Real emeralds have pure green or bluish hues. Never yellow.”
“But it looks flawless.” She tilts her head.
“And real emeralds have flaws, sweetheart. Just like the rest of us.”
Zeke coughs. “How do we know you’re tellin’ the truth?”
Peering over at him, I deliberately run my thumb over the back of Dorothy’s hand before dropping it to the table. “You don’t.”
