Page 29 of Shattered Hearts
I hit the bricks and head south toward Chinatown, where I dropped off Riley at her apartment last night. Which is located right above a flower shop like she’s some kind of fairy princess.
I hoped my thoughts would leave Riley alone this morning. Exercise usually filters the bullshit from my brain, but not today. My mind doesn’t clear for one second as I close the distance between us one stride at a time.
A breeze brushes my face as I round a crowded street corner. Pedestrians part around me, a perk of this gruff pirate face I have. My gaze snags on a billboard glaring down on us. Acoming soonadvertisement for a television show calledTraitor. I cringe inside, remembering the wounded gleam I put in Riley’s eyes.
And then I squash my remorse into a pulp in my head. I’m not the kind of man who can afford to care if I hurt a woman’s feelings.
Life isn’t fair. It’s ugly. And Riley’s no saint.
We all know who she is. At least, all the people who’ve lived in and around the Gallagher estate in the last decade do. She’s an infamous cautionary tale.
Three years ago, Riley turned fickle and jilted the heir of the Red Hill Mafia, one of our nearest allies, throwing the Kings into chaos in the process. Dad still sometimes gripes about the revenue and expansion we lost in the botched deal, to say nothing of our damaged relationship with Red Hill.
In the fallout, Riley left the family in disgrace of her own volition—she’s the only person I know of to have accomplished such a feat—and she’s been out ever since. No one knows the particulars of why she betrayed the family, save Dad and Thomas, I imagine. But as someone who’s currently dying to get out of his own marriage predicament, I can’t fault her for having had similar feelings back then.
The difference between us is that I would never betray the family.
I have my own life. I have a job.Her words wallpaper my mind.
Few people get out of the mob alive. So when I really stop to think about the fact that she did, and at only twenty, it gives me pause. She built a life for herself, presumably from nothing. Thomas Brennan isn’t the kind of doting father who’d support a fallen child, and I doubt he’d allow his wife to either.
Riley’s priorities are opaque to me. Even if I had her tied up in the Interrogation Unit beneath the estate, I don’t know where I’d begin trying to crack open her mind. And why does the mental picture of her mesmerizing, combative eyes and bound wrists send a coil of heat straight to my cock?
More importantly, she told me herself she and Harper weren’t close anymore, so why jeopardize her freedom by pretending to be my wife? She escaped the criminal underworld we live in with her life intact. Why risk everything by reintegrating herself now, albeit temporarily?
If she cared so much about pleasing her father or protecting her sister, she wouldn’t have excommunicated herself in the first place.
A horn blares, and I shake my head. This walk was supposed to clear my head, not present the perfect opportunity to obsess about Riley. For the next half hour or so, I try to think of anything and everything else. When I glance up, Mandarin and Cantonese subtitle the names of every store in sight.
A heavenly scent tickles my nose, luring me in. Fresh donuts. Across the street is a pastry shop. Won’t hurt to pick up a peace offering.
Quarter of an hour later, donuts in hand, I double-check the address I pulled from the pin I dropped on my phone last night and head left down an alley between two six-story buildings to avoid the crowds. Dumpsters line the wall to my right. Grimy cement extends like the world’s ugliest hallway runner to the parallel street.
As soon as a thick, disfigured head appears from behind a dumpster ahead of me, my senses kick into overdrive. Sudden running footsteps at my flank prompt me to turn my back to the wall and glance over, only to catch a fist to the face?—
Theslamof my body pitching against a cluster of trash cans echoes off the bricks. The donut box flies from my hands, but I regain my balance before it hits the ground. I spit blood, mind on hyperdrive.
It takes me less than a second to clock and analyze them all.
Four total. Dressed in dark tones to mask blood stains. Toned, practiced muscles under breathable clothing. Lesserskilled enforcer types. Definitely mafia. Run-of-the-mill foot soldiers.
Muggers would have picked a much easier target. They’ve been following me. They waited until I rounded this corner so no one would see them attacking me. They’re coordinated. Organized. And if they’ve been following me, then they have a plan. Which means I’m being targeted.By who?
“You sure this is the one?” The one who punched me stands to my left, sniffing. He’s quick, slender, and needs a damn manicure. Those talons could cut a cornea. Easy. He flips out a knife even though he doesn’t need one with those claws.
The two in front of me look like a comedy duo. A giant guy with a bald, scarred scalp tucked under a cap standing next to his total opposite. A guy my height, who’s thin, wiry, and a little distracted. I’ll kill him first. He keeps throwing glances at the guy to my right.
He’s thick and tall with short brown hair and a scraggly goatee. His blue eyes are backlit with crazy. He reminds me of Darren… If Darren looked like a kid who grabbed a brown marker and scribbled hair onto his jaw.
“Do I know you boys?” I crack my knuckles, almost glad I don’t have my guns with me. The stress buildup in my muscles is several weeks deep, and I can use this opportunity to blow off steam.
Besides, whipping out guns in the middle of the day in New York City is just asking for trouble…even for a guy like me.
The wiry one sneers. “You will.”
Cute.“If you don’t mind, I’ve got somewhere to be. Can we make this quick?”
My attackers bristle but don’t move. They’re waiting for something. The go-ahead. I glance sidelong at Goatee. My gut tells me he’s the leader. The others are following orders. He’s…gathering information.